Читать книгу Our Western Hills: How to reach them; And the Views from their Summits. By a Glasgow Pedestrian онлайн

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Looking to the east in the direction of the self-important town of Biggar (who has not heard the ancient joke of the district, London’s big, but Biggar’s Biggar?), it was interesting to see the Clyde approaching in that direction within 7 miles of the Tweed. Between the two streams there lies, of course, the watershed of the country, the drainage flowing on the one side into the Atlantic, and on the other into the North Sea. And yet, instead of a range or a hill, the space between the two rivers is simply the broad, flat valley of Biggar, so little above the level of the Clyde that it would not cost much labour to send it across into the Tweed.

And there are some members, possibly of a Glasgow Angling Club, one or two of them up to the knees in the Clyde in the pursuit of what they can get, even though it should be but a nibble. No more peaceful scene could be found for one who wants to get away from the cares of his ordinary daily life. I am content merely to be a reader of Walton’s books, which are like those that Horace had in his mind when he said that to read them was a medicine against ambitions and desires.