further east the cliffs break to allow room for a fine stretch of
sands at Widemouth Bay, and here we have another spot that is certain
to develop into a pleasure-resort of the future. It cannot, of course,
compare with the coast magnificence of the shore from Pentire to
Boscastle, but it has what these wilder spots lack--a possibility of
conventional settlement and expansion in the style of watering-place
that the British public chiefly loves.

CHAPTER XVII

BUDE

We read in the memoir of Tennyson that in the year 1848 he felt a
craving to make a lonely sojourn at Bude. "I hear," he said, "that
there are larger waves there than on any other part of the British
coast, and must go thither and be alone with God." So he came, with
the subject of his Idylls simmering in his mind. He found the great
rollers, the grand, open coast, the solitude; these are still there,
to be found of all that seek. There may be some lessening of the
solitude, but only in parts; Bude has not yet become widely popular;
it is the haunt of those who love bracing air and quiet. It grows, but
grows slowly; old friends may return to it without being tortured by
too glaring a change.

The coast must indeed be destitute of harbours that can call Bude a
haven; yet the name Bude Haven stands, as if in deadly irony. This
whole north coast of Cornwall and Devon has little enough of refuge
for seamen in distress; and if they endeavour to make Bude when seas
are running high they are simply courting disaster; it were better to
stay far out, if the cruel Atlantic will let them. Yet a rumour of
history says that Agricola landed here. It is not impossible, though
accredited history tells nothing of such a visit; seas are not always
stormy, even on the shores of North Cornwall--there are days when the
waters from St. Ives to Lundy are peaceful as a child asleep. But such
slumbering is not their characteristic mood; there is generally a
strong ocean swell, and when westerly winds chafe the tide its force
and fury are tremendous. Hawker, who was familiar with every yard of
the district, has a ballad to the purpose:--

"Thus said the rushing raven
Unto his hungry mate:
'Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven;
There be corpses six or eight.
Cawk, cawk! the crew and skipper
Are wallowing in the sea;
So there's a savoury supper
For my old dame and me.'

. . . . . .

'Cawk, cawk!' then said the rave