There is a little Breton village not far from the city of L'orient, which is conceded by those who love it best to be very much out of the world. Perched high upon a rocky fastness of the moor, like the topmost stone of a diadem, it looks forth upon ridge after ridge of billowing moorland, of which each summit is strewn with rock, each slope made green with wire grass and furze. When the wind blows from the south, a faint breath of the sea mingles with the scent of heather and gorse, for away to the south, so far away that the grey of its waters melts indistinguishably into the grey horizon, lies the great, unquiet s.ea, which here beats fiercely on its shores.
Médoc in the Moor
By Georgia Willis Read