So you may pass from village to village; now crossing green meads, now cornfields, over brooks, past woods, through farmyard and rick 'barken.' But such tracks are not mapped, and a stranger misses them altogether unless under the guidance of an old inhabitant.
At Sarsen the dusty road enters the more modern part of the village at once, where the broad signs hang from the taverns at the cross-ways and where the loafers steadily gaze at the new comer.

The Lower Path, after stile and hedge and elm, and grass that glows with golden buttercups, quietly leaves the side of the double mounds and goes straight through the orchards.

There are fewer flowers under the trees, and the grass grows so long and rank that it has already fallen aslant of its own weight.

It is choked, too, by masses of clog-weed, that springs up profusely over the site of old foundations; so that here ancient masonry may be hidden under the earth.

Indeed, these orchards are a survival from the days when the monks laboured in vineyard and garden, and mayhap even of earlier times.