My dear Three C’s,—The way from Southgate to
Colney Hatch thro’ the unfrequentedest Blackberry paths that ever concealed
their coy bunches from a truant Citizen, we have accidentally fallen upon—the
giant Tree by Cheshunt we have missed, but keep your chart to go by, unless you
will be our conduct—at present I am disabled from further flights than just
to skirt round Clay Hill, with a peep at the fine back woods, by strained tendons,
got by skipping a skipping-rope at 53—hei m hi non sum
qualis—but do you know, now you come to talk of walks, a ramble
of four hours or so—there and back—to the willow and lavender
plantations at the south corner of Northaw Church by a well dedicated to
Saint Claridge, with the clumps of finest moss rising
hillock fashion, which I counted to the number of two hundred and sixty, and are
called “Claridge’s covers”—the
tradition being that that saint entertained so many angels or hermits there, upon
occasion of blessing the waters? The legends have set down the fruits spread upon
that occasion, and in the Black Book of St. Alban’s some are named which are
not supposed to have been introduced into this island till a century later. But
waiving the miracle, a sweeter spot is not in ten counties round;
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If you do not know this, you do not know the capabilities of this country, you may be said to be a stranger to Enfield. I found it out one morning in October, and so delighted was I that I did not get home before dark, well a-paid.
I shall long to show you the clump meadows, as they are called; we might do that, without reaching March Hall— when the days are longer, we might take both, and come home by Forest Cross, so skirt over Pennington and the cheerful little village of Churchley to Forty Hill.
But these are dreams till summer; meanwhile we should be most glad to see you for a lesser excursion—say, Sunday next, you and another, or if more, best on a weekday with a notice, but o’ Sundays, as far as a leg of mutton goes, most welcome. We can squeeze out a bed. Edmonton coaches run every hour, and my pen has run out its quarter. Heartily farewell.
