Human beings are by nature sociable; and to state that a crowd of well-dressed people will be at a certain point of the river at a particular date, is to ensure that everyone else who possibly can will be there too—only better dressed. It would seem to the ordinary ungregarious bachelor that Boulter's Lock, the Sunday after Ascot, would be a place to avoid, for there will be the necessity of waiting for hours on a river—grilling in the sun if the day be fine, or shivering if the day be cloudy; for the English climate never lacks the spice of uncertainty, and at this season of the year it is more capricious than usual. The middle of June is proverbially a time of roses, but it is just as likely to be a time for chills, at least so says the pessimist. To the optimist and he who "loves his fellow-men," Boulter's Lock, on this one day of the year, reveals itself to memory as a day of delight and flashing colour; he has only to shut his eyes to recall a scene as brilliant as a flower garden. Here, close to him, lies a long, flat-bottomed punt, with gay cushions on which lean two fair girls, their faces toned to a pink glow by the sun's rays penetrating gently through their rose-pink sunshades. Their large flapping hats are tied under their chins with huge bows of ribbon as pink as their cheeks; their soft, white muslin dresses lie in folds and frills and heaps bewildering to contemplate; they are exactly, exasperatingly, absurdly alike. "How can a woman be such an idiot as to duplicate her charms?" the onlooker exclaims to himself; but he looks again. Dark eyes dancing as merrily as the ripples on the breeze-stirred water; chatter and laugh; and babble as soft and meaningless as the gurgle of the little tributary stream; textures of fabric as delicate as the flowers peeping over the grey stone walls from the lock-keeper's garden above; dainty arms bare to the elbow; Japanese umbrellas jewelled in the sunlight; striped awnings, as gay as Joseph's coat, flapping softly; the long low outlines of craft of every kind, skiff and dingey and canoe, from the smoothly gliding little electric launch to the heavy clinker-built boat on hire for its tenth season; these items make up a scene quite unlike anything else. For half a mile below the lock you could step across a solid bridge of boats over half the river. Some years ago, the homely serge and sailor straw-hat were considered the proper river costume; now, the straw is worn only by men, whose severe flannels show little alteration from year to year, for men are much more conservative in sartorial matters than women. And every tantalising muslin, lace, and flower-decked hat is considered suitable for a woman on the river. The more fantastic and enormous, the more gauzy and lace-trimmed, the better. And, as her grandmother did, the young girl dresses in the thinnest of muslins and lawns, wears an open neck in the day time, and elbow sleeves.

In pushing forward between the open lock-gates into the lock, a slender canoe fits into an almost impossible space between the electric launch and the punt. A heavily weighted boatload, where four elderly women are rowed by one heated man, falls foul of its neighbour and has to be righted. The chatter is silenced for a moment, but rises again when the craft are fitted, like the pieces in an old fashioned puzzle, inside the green and slimy walls, which throw a deep shadow on one side. Then the gates are shut, and a wash and gurgle of water begins, delightfully cool to hear. A nervous girl gives a little shriek and jumps so that every boat is set a-rocking, as all are touching. Others laugh. It is impossible to upset, for there is no room. The whole gently swaying mass rises on the breast of the rising water up out of the shadow into the sunlight; into the view of the waiting crowds on the tow-path. Colours flash out once more; an excited little dog rushes yapping from stem to stern of his boat, and finally, with a vigorous jump, lands on the lock-keeper's garden, where there is a profusion of sweet old-fashioned flowers, and such roses as grow nowhere but by the river-side. Then, to the accompaniment of the dog's frantic barks, the massive gates creak backward on their hinges, and we ride forward into the wide expanse of the sparkling river. Only a few boats await the opening of the lock here, for, at this time of day, more are going up than coming down. But behind, away below the lock, a chaotic flotilla has once more collected, and may have to wait for hours, for it is rather like the process of ladling the river up in a tablespoon.

This reach at Maidenhead, is one of the most popular on the river. On each side of the wide stone bridge half a mile below the lock, Taplow and Maidenhead face one another. But though popular and easy of access, being on the Great Western Railway, which runs quick trains at frequent intervals, both stations are a little distance from the river. The name Maidenhead is derived from Maiden-hithe, or wharf, as a large wharf for wood at one time stood near the bridge. The bridge itself, though a modern fabric, is of ancient lineage, for we know that in 1352 a guild was formed for the purpose of keeping it in repair. It may be remembered that bridges at that time were considered works of charity, and competed with masses and alms as a means of doing good posthumously.

And in Piers Plowman:

The main road between London and Bath, a well-known coaching road, runs this way, and a very good road it is. The railway bridge crosses below the road, but it is of brick with wide arches, and is by no means unsightly. Between the two is the River-side club, where a band plays on the smooth green lawn in the season, and the smartest of smart costumes are the rule. Near here also is Bond's boat-house and a willow-grown islet. There are numbers of steps and railings and landing stages, all painted white, and these give a certain lightness to the scene. Close by the bridge are several hotels, of which the oldest established is Skindle's, low-lying and creeper-covered, on the Taplow side. Boats for hire line the banks everywhere, for many cater for the wants of the butterfly visitor, out of whom enough must be taken in the season to carry the establishments on through the winter; and the river visitor is essentially a butterfly. Few know the charms of the Thames in the winter, when, in an east and west stretch, the glowing red ball of the sun sinks behind dun banks of mist; when the trees are leafless, and the skeleton branches are outlined against a pale clear sky; when a touch of frost is in the air, and the river glides so stilly that it almost seems asleep.

The visitor goes to the river in the summer because of its coolness, and though the coolness is ofttimes delusive, being in appearance rather than reality, lying in the sight of the sparkles and the sound of the ripples, yet it is a fine make-believe. Such river-side hotels as cater for the season are content to lie dormant all the chill long winter, until, with the breath of early spring, the celandines raise their polished golden faces and the lords and ladies stud the hedgerows. Then a few adventurous beings come down on the first fine days, like the early swallows, a portent that summer is at hand; and these lucky people have the river largely to themselves, and do not find lovers in every attractive backwater; and if they have to row to keep themselves warm, they gain an increase of vigour that no burning summer sun can give.

The view from Maidenhead Bridge northwards—for here the river runs due south—is spoilt by the gasometers which rise over the willow-covered islets. But once past Boulter's Lock, the scenery improves with every hundred yards. Close by the lock itself is Ray Mead Hotel, where the deep carmine-tinted geraniums grow in quantities. Sometimes as many as three hundred people are supplied with tea at the hotel on a fine summer afternoon, while over a thousand pass through the lock. Above Boulter's is a secluded backwater formed by the stream of a mill, and this is one of the pleasantest retreats in the neighbourhood.

Above the river, on the east, rise the cliff-like heights of Clieveden, wooded to their summits, and seen magnificently by reason of the curve at the end of the reach, which gives their full sweep at one glance. The cliff rises to a height of 140 feet, but the thickness of the trees, and their own height towering above, make it look much higher. The trees are of all kinds, oak and beech, chestnut and ash, and many a dark evergreen; while here and there a Lombardy poplar shoots up like a straight line, and the wild clematis throws its shawls of greenery from tree to tree, giving the whole the appearance of a tropical forest. Seen in early spring, when the tender green of the beeches and the bursting gummy buds of the horse-chestnut are shedding a veil over the fretwork of twig and bough, they are glorious enough; but in autumn, when orange and russet break out in all directions, they are, perhaps, more imposing. River people do not, as a rule, see them at their best, for before that touch of frost has come which sends a flame of crimson over the maples, and heightens the orange of the beeches, the fairweather boatsman has fled to his fireside.

At one point we catch a glimpse of Clieveden itself, standing high and facing downstream. Evelyn says in his diary:

The taste of those days differed from ours; now we should prefer to see an expanse of ferns to a field of potatoes.

The first great mansion here was built by "Steenie," the Duke of Buckingham, King Charles's favourite. He was a villain, even for a time of slack morals, and the chief association connected with his house is that he brought here a comrade in every way suited to him, in the person of the Countess of Shrewsbury, who stood by, dressed as a page, holding his horse, while he killed her husband in a duel. The house was twice burnt down; the present one was built about the middle of the nineteenth century, and belongs to Mr. Astor. A pleasanter memory is that of the poet Thomson, whose masque Alfred was acted here in 1740, on the birthday of Princess Augusta. This contained, as a kernel, the song "Rule Britannia," destined to survive long after its husk had been forgotten.

Opposite Clieveden the ground is low lying, and, to use Evelyn's word, the river "serpents" a good deal. There are several islands, on one of which, called Formosa, there is a house. There are several side-streams crossed by footbridges, and in one of these is the lock. The main stream continues in a great sweep, and is guarded by two weirs. The fishing here is very popular, and though it belongs to Lord Boston, permission to fish may be obtained by writing beforehand. Hedsor Church stands well on high ground near; and with its bosky foliage and many islets, the river here is not a bad place in which to idle away many an hour.

The hotel at Cookham is right down on the water's edge, and from its lawn a charming view is gained of the main stream breaking into its many channels, with the wooded island of Formosa in the middle. All about here is a favourite place for anglers, and many a punt is moored across stream with its ridiculous chairs on which sit two or three solemn elderly men, content to sit, and sit, and watch the dull brown water rush beneath for hour after hour, without once raising their eyes to see the green of the witching trees, or listening to the hum of the joyous life around them. To an onlooker they appear to be quaffing the flattest part of the sport, having missed all its head and froth. How different the punt fisher's day from that of the man who starts off up-stream, through many a low-lying willow-fringed meadow, who reaches over to land his fly in the deep brown pool into which the stream falls. Punt fishing, like loch fishing, must have its fascinations, or few would do it, but it lacks all the sparkle expressed in such a song as that of Walton's, for instance:

In a morning, up we rise,

Ere Aurora's peeping,

Drink a cup to wash our eyes,

Leave the sluggard sleeping.

Then we go

To and fro,

With our knacks

At our backs,

To such streams

As the Thames,

If we have the leisure.