“Merciful heavens, what a view!"
We were running along a high white road that hugged the side of Parnassus. Below us to the left, the steep hillside fell away to the valley of the Pleistus, the river that winds down between Parnassus' great flanks and the rounded ridges of Mount Cirphis, towards the plain of Crissa and the sea. All along the Pleistus – at this season a dry white serpent of shingle beds that glittered in the sun – all along its course, filling the valley bottom with the tumbling, whispering green-silver of water, flowed the olive woods; themselves a river, a green-and-silver flood of plumy branches as soft as sea spray, over which the ever-present breezes slid, not as they do over corn, in flying shadows, but in whitening breaths, little gasps that lift and toss the olive crests for all the world like breaking spray. Long pale ripples followed one another down the valley. Where, at the valley's end, Parnassus thrust a sudden buttress of gaunt rock into the flood, the sea of grey trees seemed to break round it, flowing on, flooding out to fill the flat plain beyond, still rippling, still moving with the ceaseless sheen and shadow of flowing water, till in the west the motion was stilled against the flanks of the distant hills and to the south against the sudden sharp bright gleam of the sea.”