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Updated: May 24, 2025
Not in some glade of Attica or by Sicilian streams, but where a homelier river gushes through the swollen lock at Bray, or shaves the smooth pastoral meadows at Boveney, where Thames begins to draw a longer breath for his passage between Eton and Windsor.
One of these evenings, by the bye, was productive of a little adventure. I had just accomplished "the shallows," and was now rowing hard against the stream opposite Boveney Church, when I was startled for the moment by the sounds of a number of female voices, some of which even amounted to screams.
They both get hold of the same bit of line, and pull at it in opposite directions, and wonder where it is caught. In the end, they do get it clear, and then turn round and find that the boat has drifted off, and is making straight for the weir. This really happened once to my own knowledge. It was up by Boveney, one rather windy morning.
After you pass Old Windsor, the river is somewhat uninteresting, and does not become itself again until you are nearing Boveney.
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