Between the vertical walls of the gully I looked out as though between blinkers. Yet that very restriction had merit. It gave to the hills, arrayed in keen edges against a pale green sky, and flaring a more fiery pink with each passing moment, a framed and focussed power to strike for all time to the mind. The broader and more splendid panorama, prevailing all daylong, confuses the eye with too great a mass of detail – suffers from a diffused interest that too readily fades with time and is forgotten. Moreover, that panorama is not lost through a gully-climb. It comes at the top, a sudden revelation; thus more memorable.
For a few minutes the mountains burned, white and red upon a field of green and gold. In low country one may see so rich and full a glow of colour in the cavernous nave of Chartres Cathedral, when the forenoon sun floods the stained glass and the vast brown flags are flecked by shafts of ruby and blue. But Chartres is not matched elsewhere. To seek such depth of colour, and to find it in yet more noble forms, one must go to mountains.
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