Over a long ridge of moorland I took my road, skirting the side of a high hill which the herd had called Cairnsmore of Fleet.

Nesting curlews and plovers were crying everywhere, and the links of green pasture by the streams were dotted with young lambs.
All the slackness of the past months was slipping from my bones, and I stepped out like a four-year-old.

By-and-by I came to a swell of moorland which dipped to the vale of a little river, and a mile away in the heather I saw the smoke of a train.
The station, when I reached it, proved to be ideal for my purpose.

The moor surged up around it and left room only for the single line, the slender siding, a waiting-room, an office, the station-master's cottage, and a tiny yard of gooseberries and sweet-william.

There seemed no road to it from anywhere, and to increase the desolation the waves of a tarn lapped on their grey granite beach half a mile away.