Of foliage, towering sycamore.
—Tennyson.
The river turns almost a right angle at Wargrave, and, from running eastward, goes due north. The little village, being situated at the bend, gets the benefit of both vistas. The George Hotel, indeed, stands exactly at the angle, and the sweep of the water catches its wharf with full force. It boasts a signboard painted by two R.A.s; this is preserved indoors, while another swings as its proxy in the village street. Placed as it is in regard to the river channel, and with the wide flats of Shiplake meadows opposite, the hotel is exposed, and the very openness of its garden, an attraction which draws hundreds of summer visitors, makes it a butt for the racing winds of early spring. It is a pretty hotel built of brick, with a white painted verandah, after the usual river pattern; and a gigantic wistaria embowers all the front in its delicate mauve in summer, while roses trained over trellis work flash answering colour signals.
The view over the river includes the glowing sunsets, which leave a slowly dying splendour behind a distant bank of trees.
And there was still, where day had set,
A flush that spoke him loth to die;
A last link of his glory yet
Binding together earth and sky.
—Moore.
Looking up to the left is the railway bridge, which is not so ugly as it might be; below, every hundred yards shows fresh beauties.