There was a yearly custom (a festival really) in many ancient and medieval villages in which parents would take their children to a local boundary marking stream and toss them in this stream, or bump their head against that tree and this rock: manuscripts report children crying out in laughter and repeating demands to do it again.
A curious custom: but it touches the heart. One cannot love a world. It is too large. But a piece of ground, a small corner of the world - where one knows each tree, each rock and stream because he has banged his head against them in his youth - one may hold that precious above all.