As I was saying before my digression, every Wednesday evening I walked
with a light and joyous step along the road that led towards those
distant rocks lying at the boundary of the plains, I went gayly
towards that region of oak trees and mossy stones in which Limoise was
situated,--my imagination greatly magnified it in those days.

The river we had to cross was at the end of the straight avenue
of lichened trees so harried by the west winds. The river was very
changeable, being subject to the tides and to all the moods of the
neighboring ocean. We crossed in a ferry-boat or a yawl, always having
for our oarsmen old sailors with bleached beards and sunburnt faces whom
we had known from earliest childhood.

When we reached the other bank, the rocky one, I always had a curious
optical illusion: it seemed to me that the town from which we had come,
and whose gray ramparts we still could see, suddenly drew very far
away from us, for in my young head distances exaggerated themselves
strangely. Upon this side all was different, the soil, the grass, the
wild flowers and even the butterflies that hovered over them; nothing
here was like those approaches to our town in whose fens and meadows I
took my daily walk. And the differences, which perhaps others would
not have noticed, thrilled and charmed me, for it had been my habit to
spend, perhaps to waste, my time in observing the infinitesimally small
things in nature, and I had often lost myself in contemplation of the
lowliest mosses. Even the twilights of these Wednesday evenings had
about them something distinctive and peculiar which I cannot express;
generally we reached the far shore just as the sun was setting, and we
watched it, from the height of the lonely plateau, disappear behind the
tall meadow-grass through which we had but newly come, and as it sunk
its great ruddy dish seemed uncommonly large.