Nestling in a valley, a natural lawn where the river turns, the start of your walk by the water. Follow the course of the river, point A to point B via C, M, the glorious vista of V, the swooning S of H, the 'where is my doggie?' of 'down there by the water'.

Walk on along the well-worn path by the bank of the river, pass beneath the outstretched branches of the trees, reaching out over the water, casting shadows on the long grass where desertling ducklings walk in circles, the woman from the laundrette wondering where L (the laundrette) is, but no, it's not by the R (iver) unless it's lying on its back between S and who (the bottle in her hand).

Follow the path along the course of the river, over the fence to where the ducks are, looking so friendly as they move towards your legs but not so friendly when they get there (that's why the little darling ducklings are so desertling), but we won't argue about who started a fight with a defenceless bird. Say hello to the woman there who'll fight about that very issue. Say goodbye before hello, and on your way, look to your left at the great oak, one of the oldest trees around the town. A museum of past and present, a beautiful walk at any time of the year, especially sunny time of the any, but even unny 'look at the sun' time the town is bathed in a warm heady glow wherever your head will go or stay in bed appreciating the head glow.

When luck brings the sun out, when ucklings are arling, and skylarks and starlings sing to the sky, listen to the murmur of the water as it flows and falls over stones shaped by thousands of years of flowing, falling water. The breeze through leaves above you and the song of birds accompany the mur, the skylarks and starlings and scare-lings aren't-there-lings, just little darling ducklings. There isn't anyone hiding in the bushes. Take a deep breath.

Wave goodbye to the woman feeding her little darling desertlings, constantly being attacked and suggesting they're a different member of the -uckling species, but always then aww the poor little lucklings, and all again ow! the F now stand backlings, but poor little ducklings pretend to be sad and she can't stay M while they're S, but ucklings can't stay D for ten seconds without very much F becoming, and she becomes M again, all part of nature's continous cycle. Don't make any noise while ucklings are F.

Sit on one of the many seats and eat near binny of the one and only place to dispose of leftovers, or else money of the fine for leaving leftovers anywhere other than within the bin. See if you can find it, and feel free to let us know where it is if you do.

If you sit quietly for hours you'll see all of nature's creatures coming out to play. There's a deer by the tree and a chance that the deer is not really a deer and not really a duck. It's definitely not a duck, but there's a chance that it's a deer, oblivious to your presence, exuding a feeling of calm as he walks through the trees and there's also a chance that it's a duck.

Walk on along the day by the R with the gentle hmm of a distant tractor and the sssh of a gentle waterfall, the ___ of the woman with her ducklings (that's right; you can no longer hear her now), the sights, the sounds, the lights by night, the scents when you stance by the edge of the R, with the gentle water murmuring and R-muring, the seemingly armouring hammering sounds are not about to bring harmering your way. Maybe little ducklings should get out of H-ering way, but all of nature's creatures are in the way of H when the woman who looks after the ducks is around, so don't worry about the ducklings. Thus here in talk of H and crossfire we approach the end of our tour with a gentle jog or run and when someone shouts 'duck', that could mean a lot of different things.

The river now in full flow and full fool the flee across the current. Fool to think flee is called for because of the ducks. Walk along, the gentle waters make your heart ssh, listen to what your heart says and if H says ___ clear! ___ we wash our hands and remove finger prints of all liability.

Sit in the long grass in the shadows of the trees by the water, the voices on the breeze singing of a life of leis with your Liz sitting back on deckchairs, sitting legs and resting back in rest chairs for rest of years with you and yours whether or not your 'yours' are really yours or just pretending to be for a weekend while your really yours are visiting your real in-laws.

The sound of flowing water falling. A water falling bridge over the something something. But not the something something most people first think of. We may not have forced POW labour in Mizzenwood but we do have a lovely little waterfall with an old wooden bridge.

We do not have forced POW labour in Mizzenwood. We do not have a curtain. Noises of shovels and axes are something something else.