I may be wrong, but I do not think a place of worship could well be made uglier—not even if corrugated iron were employed in the endeavour, and much unsightliness can be wrought that way!
CAUGHT IN A STORM At Martin we descended to a narrow stretch of fen, here almost treeless and hedgeless, and wholly wanting the wild, weird beauty of the wider Fenland with its magic of colour, and mystery of distance. Across this monotonous flat, our road led us "as straight as an arrow" for three or four miles, at a rough guess. Half-way over, where there was no possible shelter, it suddenly began to rain, then it poured in torrents and the wind began to blow—well, I am of opinion that you can get as wet on an exposed fenland as anywhere! After all we were not sorry that the road was so straight, we could the sooner get over it.
Leaving the dreary fens without regret, we reached the embanked and slothful river Witham at a spot marked "Ferry" on our map, but where we fortunately found an iron swing-bridge. It was an ugly affair, whereas a ferry would most possibly have been picturesque, like that of Stixwold a little higher up the same river, which I sketched next day, and is herewith engraved, but it was raining hard, and to ferry across, though doubtless a more romantic proceeding, would have meant more discomfiture, so we were glad of the bridge, nor did we begrudge the sixpence toll demanded for the use thereof. Another mile or so of good road brought us to Woodhall Spa, where we arrived dripping and jolly, to find a warm welcome at our hotel. I know not how it is,
