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and yachtsmen must halt, nor near any celebrated
salmon river or waterfall, nor on a great highway.
Yet somehow it has acquired such a reputation that
large numbers of tourists somehow find excuses
to stop here and revel in “ the fleslipots of Sande,”
as we did for some days with huge enjoyment.
The cherry pies of Sande, the black-currant
tarts of Sande, the red-currant tarts of Sande, the
bowls of bilberries of Sande, the wild raspberries
of Sande, and the currants of every colour of Sande,
all buried in a neve of the rich cream of Sande, to
say nothing of the fritters of fish, the stewed
ptarmigans, and the delicate, though incomprehensible,
little joints of meat, have engraved such deep
memories in my heart that I cannot allude to them
without emotion, and I am sure that when the
glances of my pupils and companions fall upon
these pages, their eyes will be moistened as mine
are while I write. I say eyes, not mouths, in order
to eliminate vulgarity.
After breakfast, and after dinner, and after tea,
and after supper, at this latter end of August, we
gathered cherries and gooseberries, and black
currants, and red currants, and white currants,
all growing in such profusion—some not yet ripe
—that the household and guests of Sande were
unable to consume them.
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