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So, after riding with friends on Dartmoor by old ways known and loved since childhood, I would sit on their tennis court through the afternoons and read Philby's Arabian journeys, and lift my eyes from the brown desert-horizon of the pages, to see the Teign valley below me, the gentle steepness of slopes where every patch of warm gorse, every singing of heather or bending of grass in the south-west wind was known to me, with the voice of the hidden river slipping through forest pools.