sandstone cliffs dip
down sharply once more to the level marshlands. The path thither
meanders along the top of the cliffs, now approaching perilously near
the edge to give a glimpse of some sweet little hanging dell with trees
right down to the waves, now wandering inland a little through acres of
bee-thronged gorse and heather. It is such a spot as Richard Jefferies
loved: "All warmly lit with sunshine, deep under liquid sunshine like
sands under the liquid sea, no harshness of man-made sound to break the
isolation amid nature".

Once at Cliff End we marvel, and yet offer up fervent thanks that it is
not one of the "show places" of the district. The low rolling hills,
having constituted the coast-line for half a dozen miles, at this point
break away inland to form a delightful country-side. By so doing they
enclose what was formerly a great lagoon or inland sea, having long
arms, or fiords, running up into the different river-valleys of Brede,
Tillingham, and Rother. Now the sea has gone, and there, in its place,
stretch away acres upon acres of marshland, marked out like a piece of
old patchwork by the countless watercourses--a place of stressless
labour and contentment.

As we stand at this place and gaze out eastwards upon those broad acres
of sun-washed, wind-swept meadow-land, where now the cattle and sheep
graze peacefully and the shepherd slumbers at his post, it is difficult
to realize that here the fishermen once dropped their nets, and the
ships of war rode majestically at anchor--ready at any moment to
venture forth against marauding foes. Yet Winchelsea, which stands out
in the distance--seeming one day miles away and another barely a
stone's throw--and Rye, a tiny town, perched on its little hill some
three miles farther on, were each ports of the first
magnitude--veritable cradles of the navy and the Empire.

From the Cliff End here we have a choice of two routes: either we can
proceed by road to Icklesham, a place well worth a visit for the sake
of its interesting old church, and then on to Winchelsea; or, better
still, we can tramp the few miles beside the old military canal, which
serves to link up that town with the sea. This latter is certainly a
delightful walk, and well worth the fatigue of an extended effort. As
we drop down the slope, we note, on the lower ridges of the hills,
Pett, the insignificant village which has given its name to the Level,
or tongue of "polder", stretching away