r resort
that is most familiar in England, is the hideous casino and the wide sweep
of gardens that occupy the sea-front. Those who have not been there would
scarcely believe that the town possesses a castle perched upon towering
cliffs, or that its splendid old church of Saint-Jacques is the real glory
of the place. Granville cannot boast of quite so much in the way of
antiquities, but there is something peculiarly fascinating about its dark
church, in which the light seems unable to penetrate, and whose walls
assume almost the same tones as the rocks from which the masonry was hewn.

I should like to describe the scenery of the twenty miles of country that
lie between Granville and Coutances, but I have only passed over it on one
occasion. It was nine o'clock in the evening, and the long drawn-out
twilight had nearly faded away as I climbed up the long ascent which
commences the road to Coutances, and before I had reached the village of
Brehal it was quite dark. The road became absolutely deserted, and although
one or two people on bicycles passed me about this time, they were carrying
no lamps as is the usual custom in France, where the rules governing the
use of a _bicyclette_ are so numerous and intricate, but so absolutely
ignored. My own lamp seemed to be a grave distraction among the invisible
occupants of the roadside meadows, and often much lowing rose up on either
side. The hedges would suddenly whirr with countless grasshoppers,
although, no doubt, they had been amusing themselves with their monotonous
noises for hours. The strange sound seemed to follow me in a most
persistent fashion, and then would be merged into the croaking of a vast
assemblage of frogs. These sounds, however, carry with them no real menace,
however late the hour, but there is something which may almost strike
terror into the heart, though it might almost be considered foolish by
those who have not experienced a midnight ride in this country. The clipped
and shaven trees that in daylight merely appear ridiculous, in the darkness
assume an altogether different character. To the vivid imagination, it is
easy to see a witch's broom swaying in the wind; a group of curious and
distorted stems will suggest a row of large but painfully thin brownies,
holding hands as they dance. Every moment, two or three figures of gaunt
and lanky witches in spreading skirts will alarm you as they suddenly
appear round a corner. When they are not so uncanny in