For a picnic it was an ideal place: close to the water, sheltered from the wind, with plenty of room to sit round, and an expanse of delightful heath and wood behind and on either side.
It was on this heath, the legend went, that one of the most furious battles in the Wars of the Roses was fought, and the Camp Hill marked the place where Earl Warwick's standard waved during the engagement.
The Bottom was popularly supposed to have been hollowed out by some monks, as a burial place for the slain; but their benevolent intention had been thwarted by the swoop of a band of marauders, who preferred robbing the slain to burying them, and left most of the monks dead in their own grave.
There is little sign now of this tragic story about the quiet grass- grown hollow, with its fringe of overhanging bushes and carpet of mossy velvet.
Just at present, however, as we made our way to the spot, we had something more important on our minds than Earl Warwick and the unlucky monks.

What if the Bottom was already bagged by a crowd of common holidaymakers, and all our carefully planned picnic was to be spoiled by their unwelcome intrusion?
It was too true.

As we advanced we could hear sounds of revelry and laughter, interspersed with singing and cheers.

Who could it be?
The voices sounded suspiciously youthful.

Suppose--just suppose that the-- Yes! It was too true! As we reached the edge and looked down on the coveted dell the first sight which greeted our eyes was a party of Low Heathens, sporting the day boys' colours spread out luxuriously on one of the sloping banks, solacing themselves with provender and songs and leap-frog! I never saw twenty Philosophers look more blank than we did when slowly we realised the horror of the situation.