A wee bit further back from the banks of the river, Algy found a large rocky mound covered in deep moss and fallen leaves. Between these rocks and the water lay the course of an ancient path through the woods. As Algy reclined on his soft bed, dreamily watching the river and listening to the rustling leaves, he was inevitably reminded of the famous poem by Rudyard Kipling:

          They shut the road through the woods
          Seventy years ago.
          Weather and rain have undone it again,
          And now you would never know
          There was once a road through the woods
          Before they planted the trees.
          It is underneath the coppice and heath
          And the thin anemones.
          Only the keeper sees
          That, where the ring-dove broods,
          And the badgers roll at ease,
          There was once a road through the woods.

          Yet, if you enter the woods
          Of a summer evening late,
          When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
          Where the otter whistles his mate,
          (They fear not men in the woods,
          Because they see so few.)
          You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
          And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
          Steadily cantering through
          The misty solitudes,
          As though they perfectly knew
          The old lost road through the woods …
          But there is no road through the woods.

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