It was just such a quaint unimproved,
old-world, restful place as she had painted. It was surprising to find
that there were many visitors, and one wondered where they could all
stow themselves. The explanation was that those who visited Branscombe
knew it, and preferred its hovels to the palaces of the fashionable
seaside town. No cottage was too mean to have its guest. I saw a lady
push open the cracked and warped door of an old barn and go in, pulling
the door to after her--it was her bed-sitting-room. I watched a party
of pretty merry girls marching, single file, down a narrow path past a
pig-sty, then climb up a ladder to the window of a loft at the back of a
stone cottage and disappear within. It was their bedroom. The relations
between the villagers and their visitors were more intimate and kind
than is usual. They lived more together, and were more free and easy in
company. The men were mostly farm labourers, and after their day's work
they would sit out-of-doors on the ground to smoke their pipes; and
where the narrow crooked little street was narrowest--at my end of the
village--when two men would sit opposite each other, each at his own
door, with legs stretched out before them, their boots would very nearly
touch in the middle of the road. When walking one had to step over
their legs; or, if socially inclined, one could stand by and join in the
conversation. When daylight faded the village was very dark--no lamp
for the visitors--and very silent, only the low murmur of the sea on the
shingle was audible, and the gurgling sound of a swift streamlet flowing
from the hill above and hurrying through the village to mingle with the
Branscombe lower down in the meadows. Such a profound darkness and quiet
one expects in an inland agricultural village; here, where there
were visitors from many distant towns, it was novel and infinitely
refreshing.

No sooner was it dark than all were in bed and asleep; not one square
path of yellow light was visible. To enjoy the sensation I went out and
sat down, and listened alone to the liquid rippling, warbling sound of
the swift-flowing streamlet--that sweet low music of running water to
which the reed-warbler had listened thousands of years ago, striving to
imitate it, until his running rippling song was perfect.

A fresh surprise and pleasure awaited me when I explored the coast east
of the village; it was bold and precipitous in places, and from the
summit of the cliff a ve