There was no garden to speak of about the house. It was grown up
like the moor. Two or three images of Buddhas stood about in it;
one of them was quite large - three feet in height I should say
at a guess. They were on rough stone pedestals. I examined them
carefully. They were all defective; the large one had an immense
flaw in the shoulder. The gorse nearly covered them; the unkept
hedge let the moor in and there were no longer any paths, except
one running to the boathouse.
I did not follow the path. But I looked down at the boathouse
with some interest. This was the building that my uncle had
turned into a sort of foundry for his weird experiments. There
was a big lock on the door and a coal-blacked chimney standing
above the roof.
It was afternoon. The whole coast about me was like an
undiscovered country. I hardly knew in what direction to set out
on my exploration. I stood in the path digging my stick into the
gravel and undecided. Finally I determined to cross the bit of
moor to the high ground overlooking the loch. It was the sloping
base of one of the great peaks and purple with heather.
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