ll me why
You sit and softly laugh by yourself.'
'It is because I am repeating to myself,
Write! write
Of the valiant strength,
The calm, brave bearing
Of the sons of the sea.'"
--FRENCH ROWING SONG

"And that is why I have written this book
Of the things that live in your noble hearts.
You are really the authors of it.
I have only put into words
The frank simplicity of your sailor life."
--GUILLAUME DE LA LAUDELLE.

From Padstow Point to Lundy Race is one of the wildest and grandest
portions of the Cornish coast, and on it there is always somewhere a
tossing sea, a stiff breeze above, and a sucking tide below. Great
cliffs hundreds of feet high guard it, and from the top of them the
land rolls away in long ridges, brown and bare. These wild and rocky
moors, full of pagan altars, stone crosses, and memorials of the Jew,
the Phoenician, and the Cornu-British, are the land of our childhood's
fairy-folk--the home of Blunderbore and of Jack the Giant Killer, and
the far grander

"Fable of Bellerus old,
And the great vision of the Guarded Mount."

But it is the Undercliff which has the perennial charm for humanity,
for all along its sloping face there are bewildering hummocks and
hollows, checkered with purple rocks and elder-trees. Narrow footpaths
curve in and out and up and down among the fields and farms, the
orchards and the glimmering glades, and there the foxgloves grow so
tall that they lift their dappled bells level with the eyes.

Further down are queer, quiet towns, hundreds of years old,
squeezed into the mouths of deep valleys--valleys full of delicate
ferns and small wild roses and the white heath, a flower peculiar to
the locality. And still lower--on the very shingle--are the
amphibious-looking cottages of the fishermen. They are surrounded
by nets and boats and lobster-pots. Noisy children paddle in the
flowing tide, and large, brown, handsome women sit on the door-steps
knitting the blue guernsey shirts and stockings which their husbands
wear.

Such a lonely, lovely spot is the little village of St. Penfer. It is
so hidden in the clefts of the rocks that unless one had its secret
and knew the way of its labyrinth down the cliff-breast it would be
hard to find it from the landward side. But the fishermen see its
white houses and terraced gardens and hear the sweet-voiced bells of
its old church