one of the slow-dying inhabitants of the world of mythology implicitly
believed in by the Saxons. And these beliefs died so hard in these
lonely Yorkshire villages that until recent times a mother would carry
her child suffering from whooping-cough along the beach to the mouth of
the cave. There she would call in a loud voice, 'Hob-hole Hob! my
bairn's gotten t'kink cough. Tak't off, tak't off.' One can see the
child's parents gazing fearfully into the black depths of the cavern,
penetrating the cliff for 70 feet, and finally turning back to the
village in the full belief that the hob would stay the disease.

The steep paths and flights of roughly-built steps that wind above and
below the cottages are the only means of getting about in Runswick. The
butcher's cart every Saturday penetrates into the centre of the village
by the rough track which is all that is left of the good firm road from
Hinderwell after it has climbed down the cliff. To this central
position, close to the post-box, the householders come to buy their
supply of meat for Sunday, having their purchases weighed on scales
placed on the flap at the back of the cart. While the butcher is doing
his thriving trade the postman arrives to collect letters from the
pillar-box, Placing a small horn to his lips, he blows a blast to warn
the villagers that the post is going, and, having waited for the last
letter, climbs slowly up the steep pathway to Hinderwell.

Halfway up to the top he pauses and looks over the fruit-trees and the
tiles and chimney-pots below him, to the bright blue waters of the bay,
with Kettleness beyond, now all pink and red in the golden light of late
afternoon. This scene is more suggestive of the Mediterranean than
Yorkshire, for the blueness of the sea seems almost unnatural, and the
golden greens of the pretty little gardens among the houses seem perhaps
a trifle theatrical; but the fisher-folk play their parts too well, and
there is nothing make-believe about the delicious bread-and-butter and
the newly-baked cakes which accompany the tea awaiting us in a
spotlessly clean cottage close by.

The same form of disaster which destroyed Kettleness village caused the
complete ruin of Runswick in 1666, for one night, when some of the
fisher-folk were holding a wake over a corpse, they had unmistakable
warnings of an approaching landslip. The alarm was given, and the
villagers, hurriedly leaving their cottages, saw the whole place slide
dow