A nice, meandering story of a nice, meandering river. Until it was dammed. Wilson Stephens is okay with that. There's still ample duck habitat for hobby hunters, the land has become England's breadbaskets, the wind still sweeps across the fens, and the people remain hearty. The Great Ouse was kind of beautiful because Stephens was writing soothingly about a river, but that's rather by default. I am under the impression that the draining of the fens was and remains more contentious than Stephens lets on.