Not so much a book, hardly a story and with little or no action - and not quite a prose poem, this contemplation of the Downs and countryside of the Southern counties of England is more of an Impressionistic Painting.
Sentences flow with Thomas's elegant, mystical poetry - and we get the feeling of this glorious part of England. I now live in Sussex and having lived in a variety of other parts of the UK (Yorkshire, Suffolk, Berkshire) now wonder why one would live anywhere else - and Thomas captures the spirit, the essence and the beauty of these lands.
Each sentence, indeed, every word resonates with the Nature that he observed on his walks - and each sentence can almost be taken in isolation - like a single dot of Impressionist paint - creating a word picture - the mist in the trees, the dampness of a deep Green lane, the scuttlings in the undergrowth, or the bird song that is heard on every page.
Although written before the First World War, his descriptions of the Downs, the Green Lanes, the Weald, the Beech hangers and the whole host of Nature can still be seen today - surprisingly much of Sussex still looks the same - miles of trees and fields and the Downs as a backdrop to everything. Not too much tarmac has encroached on Thomas's beloved countryside.