Where the waves hit the land I hold cliffs and the strand I am where the road ends Where you meet up with friends I don't like to boast But I rhyme with most

I was once a milky sap, collected from a tree. Heat changed me into something strong, that stretches willingly.

The attitude of a fruit grower who thinks they have more refined tastes than others.

I wear a hat, but I have no head, I grow in the dark on a forest bed. I am a fungi, quirky and small, Standing like trees, though I am not tall.

Often traveled by folks, going to and fro. I'm what you might say is the ideal way to go. You can stray from me if you're in a rush, but you're more than likely to get caught in the brush.