Between the Windrush and the Colne
I found a house of stone –
A little wicked house of stone.
The October day was brightening toward late afternoon when Leithen and I climbed the hill above the stream and came in sight of the house. All morning a haze with the sheen of pearl in it had lain on the folds of downland, and the visions of far horizons, which is the glory of Cotswold, had been veiled so that every valley seemed as a place enclosed and set apart.
The stone of the Cotswold takes curiously the colour of the weather. Under thunderclouds it will be as dark as basalt; on a grey day it will be grey like lava but in sunshine it absorbs the sun. At the moment the little house was pale gold, like honey.
Leithen swung a long leg across the stile.
“Pretty good, isn’t it? “ he said. “It’s pure authentic Sir Christopher Wren. The name is worthy of it too. It is called Fullcircle.”
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