Fragrance in Travel Literature-Wales




"Beautiful Wales"
BY EDWARD THOMAS
Etext of Beautiful Wales

Between the bridge and the mountain, and in
fact surrounded by streams which were heard
although unseen, was an island of apple trees.
There were murmurs of bees. There was a
gush and fall and gurgle of streams, which could
be traced by their bowing irises. There was a
poignant glow and fragrance of flowers in an air
so moist and cold and still that at dawn the earliest
bee left a thin line of scent upon it.

And the magic of Wales, or of Spring, or of
childhood made the island of apple trees more
than an orchard in flower. For as some women
seem at first to be but rich eyes in a mist of
complexion and sweet voice, so the orchard was
but an invisible soul playing with scent and colour
as symbols. Nor did this wonder vanish when
I walked among the trees and looked up at the
blossoms in the sky. For in that island of apple
trees there was not one tree but was curved and
jagged and twisted and splintered by great age, by
the west wind, or by the weight of fruit in many
autumns. In colour they were stony. They were
scarred with knots like mouths. Some of their
branches were bent sharply like lightning flashes.
Some rose up like bony, sunburnt, imprecating
arms of furious prophets. One stiff, gaunt bole
that was half hid in flower might have been Ares'
sword in the hands of the Cupids. Others were
like ribs of submerged ships, or the horns of an
ox emerging from a skeleton deep in the sand of
a lonely coast. And the blossom of them all
was the same, so that they seemed to be Winter
with the frail Spring in his arms. Nor was I
surprised when the first cuckoo sang therein, since
the blossom made it for its need. And when a
curlew called from the mountain hopelessly, I
laughed at it.


Yesterday, the flower of the wood -sorrel and
the song of the willow-wren came together into the
oak woods, and higher up on the mountain, though
they were still grey, the larches were misty and it
was clearly known that soon they would be green.
The air was full of the bleating of lambs, and though
there was a corpse here and there, so fresh and
blameless was it that it hardly spoiled the day.
The night was one of calm and breathing dark-
ness ; nor was there any moon ; and therefore
the sorrowful darkness and angularity of early
spring valleys by moonlight, when they have no
masses of foliage to make use of the beams, did
not exist. It was dark and warm, and from the
invisible orchard, where snow yet lay under the
stone wall, came a fragrance which, though it was
not May, brought into our minds the song that
was made for May in another orchard high among the
hills-....

Yet, more than once, as I was
pausing to count the white clusters of nuts or to
remind myself that here was the first pale -blue
flower of succory, I knew that I took up eternity
with both hands, and though I laid it down again,
the lane was a most potent, magic thing, when I
could thus make time as nothing while I meandered
over many centuries, consulting many memories
that are as amulets. And even as I walked, the
whole of time was but a quiet, sculptured corridor,
without a voice, except when the tall grasses
bowed and powdered the nettles with seed at my
feet. For the time I could not admit the existence
of strident or unhappy or unfortunate things. I
exulted in the knowledge of how cheaply purchased
are these pleasures, exulted and was yet humiliated
to think how rare and lonely they are, nevertheless.
The wave on which one is lifted clear of the foam
and sound of things will never build itself again.
And yet, at the lane's end, as I looked back at the
long clear bramble curves, I will confess that there
was a joy (though it put forth its hands to an
unseen grief) in knowing that down that very lane
I could never go again, and was thankful that it
did not come rashly and suddenly upon the white
highroad, and that there is no such thing known
to the spirit as a beginning and an end. For not
without cool shadow and fragrance was the white
highroad.

Very sweet it
was to see the world as but a shining green hill
and a shining brown wood, with a wood-pigeon for
a voice, while all other things that had been were
gone like the snow. That there was also a wind I
knew only because it brought with it the scent of a
farmyard behind : for it had motion but no sound.
Something in me was content to see the hill as a
monument of Spring that might endure for ever,
that the wood-pigeons might coo their song ; and
saw that it made possible the sound of bells in an
evening landscape, of wheat in sheaves, and quiet
beeches and doves among them.

When I went on towards the hills, they by
that time looked as if they had never known the
night ; and sweet it was to pass, now and then, a
thatched, embowered cottage, with windows open
to the scented air, and to envy the sleepers within,
while I could see and recognise the things the sky
and earth and air, the skylarks singing among the
fading stars, and the last cuckoo calling in the silent,
vast and lonely summer land which make dream-
less sleep amidst them so divine, I had long not
known why. For half the day there was nothing
to remember but sudden long views that led,
happily, nowhere, among the clouds or the hills,
and farms with sweetly smiling women, and jutting
out of every hedge-bank a little pistyll of fair water,
curving and shining in the heat, over a slice of stone
or through a pipe, into the road. These things the
memory has to work to remember. For, in truth,
the day was but as a melody heard and liked. A
child who, in the Welsh story, went to the land of
the fairies, could only say that he had been listening
to sweet airs, when he returned after a long stay.


But at length, when I was among the hills, the
ferns whispered all along the stony hedges, and on
a cold stream of wind came the scent of invisible
hay, and a great drop of rain shook all the bells on
a foxglove stalk, and the straight, busy rain came
down, and the hills talked with the heavens while it
thundered heavily. The doves and jays only left
the hedge as I passed within reach of them. The
crouching partridge did not stir even after her eye
caught mine. The lightning was as a tree of fire
growing on the northern sky. The valley below
was a deep and tranquil mere, in which I saw a
church and trees and fields, as if they were reflec-
tions of things in the sky, and, like reflections in
water, they were reverend in their beauty.


The last village was far behind. The last happy
chapel -goer had passed me long ago. A cock
crowed once and said the last word on repose.
The rain fell gently ; the stems of the hazels in
the thickets gleamed ; and the acorns in the grassy
roads, and under the groups of oaks, showed all
their colours, and especially the rosy hues where
they had but just before been covered by the cup.
One by one I saw the things which make the
autumn hedges so glorious and strange at a little
distance : the yellow ash trees, with some green
leaves ; the hoary and yellow willows ; the haw-
thorns, purple and crimson and green ; the briers,
with most hips where there were fewest leaves ;
the green brambles with red fruit and black ; tall,
grey, and leafless thistles with a few small crimson
flowers ; the grey-green nettles with purple stems ;
the ragwort flowers ; and on the long, green, wet
grass the fallen leaves shining under red and
yellow oaks ; and through the olive lances of hazel
the fields shining in patines of emerald. Doves
cooed in the oaks, pheasants gleamed below. The
air was full of the sweetness of the taste of black-
berries, and the scent of mushrooms and of
crumbling, wild carrot-seeds, and the colour of
yellow, evening grass. The birches up on the hills
above the road were golden, and like flowers.
Between me and them a smouldering fire once or
twice sent up dancing crimson flames, and the
colour and perfume of the fire added themselves to
the power of the calm, vast, and windless evening,
of which the things I saw were as a few shells and
anemones at the edge of a great sea. The valley
waited and waited.

Wanderings and excursions in North Wales
Thomas Roscoe

The walls that formerly had bristled with hostile
arms, were now richly hung with festoons of " vege-
table furniture," in green, and purple, and scarlet dies,
like the gaudy ensigns of a friendly force gathered
from all lands. The battle-cry had subsided, and the
song of birds filled the air with the melody of peace.
The " great High Priest of Earth " was performing his
sacrifice in the heavens, and calling up incense from
every herb and flower to hallow his presence. The
ancient moat and lake were now covered with a thick
green sward, and the venerable portcullis stood in all
its glory surrounded by a wreath of ivy. I ascended to
the latter, and looked upon a scene of undisturbed
tranquillity and gladness. The air was perfumed with
the odour of the various -tribes of clematis, with eyes of
white, and blue, and violet, peeping out of their Virgin's
Bower. The walls, those blood-stained walls of other
days, were clothed with the coloured parasites of this
and the western hemisphere, in all the varied livery of
the season ; below and on the sides of the hill, the
firm red tints of the hawthorn gaily intermingled with
the changing hues of the forest ; around and above was
the gleaming atmosphere, arched with a sky of peerless
cerulean.

There is something in the scent and impression of a balmy atmo-
sphere, in the lustre of sunshine, in the azure heaven and purple clouds,
in the opening of prospects on this side and on that, in the contempla-
tion of verdure and fertility, and industry and simplicity, and cheerful-
neas, in all their variations, in the very art and exercise of travelling,
peculiarly congenial to the human frame.


THE CHARM OF THE ROAD ENGLAND AND WALES

BY
JAMES JOHN HISSEY


Still, though the marshes were dreary enough,
the air of them was so pure, fresh, and soothing,
that to inhale it was an exhilaration, and the mere
act of breathing became a pleasure. The un-
common fragrance of the many marsh-flowers and
green-growing things was borne along on the soft
west wind ; and the frequent salt whiffs that wafted
by gave us a sense of the unseen sea and the
mystery of it.


Leaving Ashburnham, we soon came into " a
land of fragrance, quietness, and trees," for presently
our road led us through the heart of a forest of
pointed pines. With Belloc I might sing —
"I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air."
Now and again through their pillared recesses we
caught long vistas, like the aisles of some fairy
cathedral, barred with shafts of golden sunshine and
long lines of blue-grey shadows. The air was filled
with the pine trees' resinous odours quickened by the
warm sunshine. Nowhere, I think, within the same
distance of London can one find such glorious and
wild forest scenery as beautifies the hills of Sussex,
where the kindly southern climate gives an added
wealth of colour to the woods. Here and there one
stately tree uprose above the rest, and seemed fitted
to be " the mast of some great Admiral," did only
fighting ships of to-day need such masts.

As to the interior of Smallfield, the first thing
that pleasantly strikes the visitor is the substantial
and finely proportioned oak screen, of the fourteenth
century, in an excellent state of preservation ; this
comes between the outer hall and the large inner
hall or withdrawing room. This latter spacious
chamber is panelled from floor to ceiling in the
good old-fashioned way. Here is a delightful open-
hearth fireplace with a great oak beam above, and
ancient dog-irons stand on the hearth below for
burning wood. The fireplace, with its ample ingle-
nook, has seats on either side, where host, hostess,
and guests may sit and converse at ease in the
cheerful glow of blazing logs, enjoying the while the
fragrant incense of the burning wood, redolent of
the forest whence it came. " A nook of rest for host
and guest " I saw once cut on the over-beam of one
of these ancient ingle-nooks, an excellently suitable
motto, it seems to me.

Horsham left behind, we soon found ourselves
in a pretty country where shady woods abounded,
and glancing up at a sign-post we observed the
inscription " To Guildford " thereon. Well, Guild-
ford served as well as any other place ; to Guildford
we would go, which was twenty miles on, we dis-
covered by a milestone. But we were getting hungry,
so we kept a good look-out for a retired spot for a
halt and refreshment, and soon discovered one
much to our liking. At one side of the road was a
deep and fragrant wood of fir, on the other an
inviting meadow sloping gently down to a purling
stream, and not a human habitation was in sight ;
the road, moreover, had a delightfully deserted look,
as though little traffic came that way. So there we
stopped the car, got down the luncheon basket, and
spread our rugs in a snug corner of the meadow
under the lee of a tangled hawthorn hedge and
close beside a big oak, whose spreading branches
afforded a welcome shelter from the sun. It was
an ideal spot for a picnic, and the weather was ideal
too, a day of soft sunshine, with hardly a suspicion
of a breeze. There at " God's green caravanserai,"
roofed by the blue sky, carpeted by the smoothest
of turf, soothed by the quiet murmuring of the
stream, and cheered by the songs of birds, we spent
two delightful hours ; it was a spot " to dream down
hours to moments." A great contentment came
over us ; our simple repast amid such pleasant
surroundings seemed super-excellent, so much better
than a meal taken within four cramping walls ; the
finest hotel in the world could not command such
a room as we had that day.

As the road led along the top of the hills and
afforded wide panoramas on either hand over the
vast rolling country below, we elected to follow it
for a while. The day was hot, and the cool breezes
that swept over the uplands were very welcome. I
fancy, for a time, that we enjoyed those fresh and
fragrant breezes more even than the spacious
scenery ; they were as exhilarating as champagne,
without the hurt or the cost of it. Some people
travel for change of air ; you get plenty of such
changes on a motor tour.


But I am a little previous. That drive up the
Ceiriog valley in the quiet gloaming, when a land-
scape always looks its best, with the soft lights and
vague shadows over all, was a drive to be remem-
bered. All Nature, except the running water,
seemed at rest ; the only sound we heard was that
of the river foaming and frolicking along and making
the valley musical with its song. Here it flowed
gurgling and glittering beneath the open sky, there
it raced under a grey, one-arched and rugged bridge
— and how charmingly picturesque those old Welsh
bridges are — anon it turned an ancient mill over-
hung by darkling trees, then, now and again, it
rested awhile in stilly pools, wherein, one would
imagine, a lusty trout was likely to lie concealed.
Each polished pool reflected a bit of the golden glow
above, a splash of vivid colour brought down to the
dull earth, enlivening the gathering gloom around.
Ahead the hills grew bolder, rising stately out of
the shadowy valley to their sun-kissed tops, and the
pine trees below breathed forth their warm fragrance
that lingered in the calm, cool air. We were driv-
ing into the mountains and their mystery. In the
uncertain light of that poetic hour we seemed to be
journeying through dreamland, for over all the
landscape lay the glamour of the gloaming. So we
came to Glyn.

We turned up another road to avoid Hawkhurst,
and soon came to Goudhurst, a lonely village set on
a windy height, — our map made this spot to be 419
feet above sea-level. Cobbett describes Goudhurst
as "standing upon the very summit of the steepest
and highest hill in the country." Goudhurst has
an isolated look, thus lifted up above the world as
though it had no part in it ; there we felt the inward
meaning of the word remoteness. Excepting for
its ancient and hoary church of goodly proportions,
Goudhurst has little of interest for the sentimental
traveller. From its elevated churchyard we enjoyed
a glorious view over a green wilderness of woods
that clothed the hills to the sky-line, and we enjoyed
besides the bracing breeze that greeted us there
laden with the scent of forest trees. We were not
left to enjoy the view long alone, for a boy found us
out and civilly asked if we wanted to see the church ;
if so, he knew who kept the key, and would run and
fetch it, doubtless hoping to earn an honest penny
where pennies were hard to earn ; so we let him go.
Away he went, and brought back with him not only
the key, but the clerk with it, who also probably
deemed it an opportunity to earn an honest sixpence.

That night, after a long chat about art and many
other things, we retired to rest, and opening wide
our windows, gazed upon the mountains all around,
dimly outlined in the gloom, impressive in their
mystery, and how light, pure, and sweetly heather-
scented was the air of the uplands that came wafted
in to us ; there was joy in the breath of it. I can
always scent this delicious air, even though some
distance off the mountains and wild open moors,
when the wind blows towards me from them, just
as I can scent the land when approaching it after a
long sea voyage should the breeze be favourable.
No sounds we heard but the space-mellowed mur-
muring of many far-away streams tumbling down
the rocky steeps, and the liquid gurgling of a little
river in the valley below struggling with the boulders
that impeded its course : there was no light from any
human habitation showing in all the vast prospect.
Truly, this was solitude ! For all our eyes could tell,
we might have been looking upon a primitive world
where man had not arrived. We realised
"The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills."

The old house was retired from the road by a
little garden, bright and sweetly scented with old-
fashioned flowers, such as our forefathers loved ; the
stone wall that bounded it was so friendly and low
that even a child might look over it and enjoy the
garden as well as its owner can. For this old home
did not selfishly shut out its beauties from the
passer-by behind high fences, as many old houses
do ; rather, like some fair maid, it seemed pleased
to be admired. For what is the use of beauty
unless to be admired ? The roof of this old house
was of split stones that had become a lovely pearly
grey with age ; its walls were of half timber and
decked with flowering creepers ; its windows of
leaden lattice panes that gleamed in the sunshine,
each diamond pane apparently reflecting the light
at a different angle with a jewel-like sparkle. And
in front of this ideal home of the picturesque past
stood two great yew trees, manifestly of ancient
growth, yet still flourishing, and these yews were
clipped into the bold form of two big peacocks, at
least we judged them to be intended for those
birds, apparently sitting on their nests. At any
rate, they were meant to represent some big birds.

But when you do discover any rural folk to talk
with, their talk is frequently interesting and even
may prove profitable in its way ; at any rate it serves
to pass a few odd minutes pleasantly enough, and
enables you to glean something of the more or less
hidden life of the country dwellers at first hand, to
see into their minds and think for a time their
thoughts. As an example of the quaHty of these
wayside gossips that I always indulged in whenever
the opportunity offered, I have taken the following
at random from my note-book. By way of preface,
I may say it happened one day, early on the
journey, that strolling up a lane I came to a neat
little cottage with a large and cared-for garden
round it ; a narrow stone-flagged path that led
through the latter to the cottage door was lined
with sweet-scented, old-fashioned flowers, and this it
was that first attracted me. Then on the wicket
gate I noticed carved in bold letters the words
" Grata Quies," and I was struck at finding a Latin
inscription there, for the cottage was old and
unpretentious, and might have been a gamekeeper's
abode, or even a superior farm-labourer's ; it was no
" cottage of gentility . . . that apes humility." In
the garden was a middle-aged woman in a print
dress and with a sun-bonnet on her head so busily
weeding with her fingers, aided by a rusty old knife,
that she did not observe me leaning over the gate.
As an excuse for a short chat, I remarked I was
surprised at seeing a motto in Latin on her gate.
She looked up at me with a smile and said, "I'm so
fond of the quiet country so I had it put there.
The country folk don't understand Latin, but that
does not trouble me. I lived in London the best
part of my life until my health gave way, then I
came into the country, where my heart always was.


Gallant Little Wales

J E ANNETTE MARKS

I, too, have gone my wonder-ways in Wales,
plundering where I could. I, too, Celt and Celt
again, have followed its beauty and felt a biting
hunger for a land which, once loved, can never be
forgotten. As did another Celt, William Morris,
in his poems, so in prose this little book and I
have wrought in an old garden, hoping to make
" fresh flowers spring up from hoarded seed" and
to bring back again — "back to folk weary" —
some fragrance of old days and old deeds. Friend-
liness, solitude, memories, beauty for the eye and
beauty for the ear, — he who would have one or
all of these, let him go and go again to gallant
little Wales. Jeannette Marks.

The majestic beauty of these little Alps of
Wales seems but to emphasize the cheerfulness
and cosiness of the life man has made for him-
self. Indeed, nowhere are valleys greener, more
sheltering, more homelike, more cosey. And
the cottages, with their ascending spirals of peat
smoke, the sweet fragrance of their homely life,
speak a language of welcome no one can mis-
take. Gone are the old barbaric days, with their
rough, strong life, their adventure ; gone are the
days of chivalry, with their bright pageant, their
luxury, their courtly ways. Here we may turn
a stone of those mediaeval days, there touch a
fretted memorial of still earlier times, even before
Arthur had come to wake the world to a new
romance and a new and selfless endeavour. Les-
sened, cheaper may this humble cottage heritage
of the present seem than those times which have
gone their "journey of all days " into the past. But
not so does this sweet homeliness seem to me.

Life is gentler, life is better, perhaps even kind-
lier within them by the bright hearth where, for
the asking, any one may sit welcomed and at
ease. Their purple roofs are but modest regal
seal upon the happiness within. One feels
singularly close to that great mother of us
all in these tiny Welsh cottages, near to what
is essential, what is real. Mortals who have
not been dissevered from their proper feeling
for houses will realize that these little homes
have sprung, as it were, from the soil, that the
cord binding them to the earth has never
been cut.

Sometimes it was a little lane I travelled on
foot, off the highroad and through the heart of
a farmland, the hedges eight feet high with
honeysuckle and heaven-deep with fragrance;
again I dropped down a hill, heather and fox-
glove making a royal display in bare places,
and in the distance the bells of Llanycil ring-
ing; or I climbed a hill on the way to Llangy-
nog, a ridge which seemed the top and the edge
of the world, treeless upland pastures like deep
agate rich with ruby, lavender, brown and
freaked with emerald green, purple and pink,
and all opalescent with sunshine, dotted with
black sheep and white sheep and little lambs,
some straddling with surprise as they rose stretch-
ing and curling their tails with the delicious
energy of awakening.

A gleam that led me on and on was this
bright-shining, fragrant, humble cottage life of
Wales, with its much-needed assurance, amidst
the sorrows of our present times, that some magic
of a life still full of faith is lived among these
solitary hillsides, among busy towns and in shel-
tered Welsh valleys.

"Beggars on horseback; a riding tour in North Wales"

BY
MARTIN ROSS
AND
E. OE. S O M E R V I L L E



Powys Castle and its woods towered aloof in a
shimmer of heat, as unaware of town and tourist
as the cattle within its gates. The grey houses
of the town became smaller and older looking ;
cats sat on the doorstep and mused on the deceit-
fulness of things, overawing the languid dogs in
the eternal supremacy of mind over matter ; and
the flame of sunshine blazed tangibly round us
and all things. Our last impression of Welshpool
is of its oldest house, a black -beamed cottage,
lolling and bulging, crooked and bowed in every
line ; impossible as to perspective, but strong and
stable beyond all houses in the town — so the town
says. Then the hedgerows, and the white road
stretching- westward into the unknown. Elder-
bushes, with their creamy discs ; dog-roses of every
shade of pink gazing at us with soft innumerable
faces ; honeysuckle in thickets ; perfumes lonely
and delicate, perfumes blended and intoxicating.
The thought of them takes the pen from the paper
in indolent remembrance of that first ride between
the Montgomery hedgerows, while yet the horse-
flies had not discovered us, and while the hold-alls
lay trim and deceptive in the straps that bound
them to the saddles.

We rode up through the Plas Oakley Woods,
along the ramparts of the glens, and reaching
higher levels, came on a vision of a mountain lake
dreaming in the early sun. Three or four coots
beat a silver path across it with their black wings,
in alarm that testified to the rarity of the June
tourist, and the pine-woods round it still held the
purple shadows of morning. Out on the bare hills
beyond it the heather was in bloom, and the wind's
freshness was softened by the scent of it.


"Nooks and corners of Pembrokeshire"

by Henry Thornhill

Anon our lane degenerates into a hollow watercourse fringed with
the greenest of mosses and wineglass ferns ; insomuch that, like Agag,
we are compelled to walk delicately across the rough stepping-stones
that here do duty as a footpath ; while the hedgerows fairly meet over-
head in a tangle of wild roses, hawthorn and fragrant honeysuckle.

Forward again, betwixt pleasant greenswards tangled with fragrant
gorse, brambles and unfurling bracken, within whose cool retreats
the yellow-hammer lurks in his new spring bravery ; while smart
little goldfinches hunt in pairs amidst the thistle-heads under the
hedgerow.


Ensconced beneath a gnarled old hawthorn hedge wreathed in
fragrant woodbine, we indulge in a quiet pipe ; watching the rabbits as
they scuttle to and fro under the sandy bank, and the dainty blue
dragonflies hovering over the meadowsweet and ragged Robin, that
deck the oozy course of the streamlet at our feet. The deep tones of a
steamer's syren float across the water, followed by the report of a heavy
gun from a fortress guarding the Haven ; for the summer manceuvres
are now in full swing, and we can see the white-peaked tents of the
Connaught Rangers behind Angle Point.

Crossing a couple of fat grazing meadows, decked with hemlock
and fragrant meadowsweet, we find ourselves on the brink of the
Nevern Brook, a genuine Welsh streamlet that rushes briskly onward
in deep brown pools and broken, shingly reaches —
' With here and there a lusty trout.
And here and there a grayhng.'

Rousing ourselves at length from these cogitations on the sand-
hills, we put the best foot foremost and hie away past a spring of pure
water known as the Druid's Well, to the sunny slopes of that selfsame
Priest's Nose. Scrambling warily amidst brakes of prickly furze, we
presently espy a mighty cromlech standing in a nook of the hill, beside the
narrow path. A soft westerly breeze draws in 'gently, very gently from
the sea,' as we perch beside this relic of the immemorial past ; waftmg
the scent of wild thyme and gorse over warm, crisp turf that shimmers
beneath the lusty summer sunshine. Hence unfolds yet another charm-
ing view of the gray old castle, set amidst a breadth of feathery wood-
land that clusters under the lee of the sheltering hill. A turn of the
head reveals the varied line of coast stretching away, league upon
league, past the groves of Stackpole to the bluff, perpendicular landfall
of St. Govan's Head.

Overhead the fleecy clouds are swept by the breeze into graceful
forms suggestive of sea-birds' wings; while the sunny air is musical
with the song of birds and the distant bleating of sheep, and sweet with
the scent of chestnut and elder bloom. A newly-fledged Burnet
butterfly tries his smart speckled wings ; whilst a passing ' Blue ' out-
rivals the hue of the dainty speedwell in the hedgerow; which peeps from
amidst a tangle of pushing young bracken, hooded ' lords and ladies,'
bluebells and wild geranium.

But, meanwhile, time is stealing a march upon us, and the lengthen-
ing shadows warn us to depart : so, casting a last glance across the
sunlit sea, flecked with white ' mares'-tails ' and dotted with brown-
sailed trawlers, we retrace our track over the breezy headland. At
every step we inhale the healthful smell of wave-washed seaweed, and
tread underfoot the flowers that gem the rough, uneven ground — thrift,
trefoil, blue sheep's bit and a minute, starlike flower whose name we do
not know.

We now seek out a view-point for a sketch of the lonely hermitage',
a matter of no small difficulty owing to the tumbled nature of the
ground ; but eventually we select a sheltered spot where the noontide
sun, peering downward from the cloudless vault of heaven, draws out
the rich, sweet odours of sea-pink, wild-thyme and gorse.

The gracefully curving shore is fringed with a broad stretch of sea-
weed, of every hue from golden brown to bottle green, whence the
pungent odour of ozone is borne upon the sun-warmed air.