When by way of a parting caress and benediction (given and received) I dipped my hands in Branscombe's clear streamlet it was with a feeling of tender regret that was almost a pain.

For who does not make a little inward moan, an Eve's Lamentation, an unworded, "Must I leave thee, Paradise ?" on quitting any such sweet restful spot, however brief his stay in it may have been?
But when I had climbed to the summit of the great down on the east side of the valley and looked on the wide land and wider sea flashed with the early sunlight I rejoiced full of glory at my freedom.

For invariably when the peculiar character and charm of a place steals over and takes possession of me I begin to fear it, knowing from long experience that it will be a painful wrench to get away and that get away sooner or later I must.

Now I was free once more, a wanderer with no ties, no business to transact in any town, no worries to make me miserable like others, nothing to gain and nothing to lose.
Pausing on the summit to consider which way I should go, inland, towards Axminister, or along the coast by Beer, Seton, Axmouth, and so on to Lyme Regis, I turned to have a last look and say a last good-bye to Branscombe and could hardly help waving my hand to it.
Why, I asked myself, am I not a poet, or verse-maker, so as to say my farewell in numbers?
My answer was, Because I am too much occupied in seeing.

There is no room and time for 'tranquillity,' since I want to go on to see something else.