"Everywhere in Scilly there are the same features: here a hill
strewn with boulders; there a little down with fern and gorse
and heath; here a bay in which the water, on such days as it
can be approached, peacefully laps a smooth white beach; here
dark caves and holes in which the water always, even in the
calmest days of summer, grumbles and groans, and, when the
least sea rises, begins to roar and bellow--in time of storm it
shrieks and howls.... All round the rocks at low tide hangs the
long seaweed, undisturbed since the days when they manufactured
kelp, like the rank growth of a tropical creeper: at high tide
it stands up erect, rocking to and fro in the wash and sway of
the water like the tree-tops of the forest in the breeze.
Everywhere, except in the rare places where men come and go,
the wild sea-birds make their nests; the shags stand on the
ledges of the highest rocks in silent rows gazing upon the
water below; the sea-gulls fly, shrieking in sea-gullic
rapture--there is surely no life quite so joyous as the
seagull's; the curlews call; the herons sail across the sky;
and in spring millions of puffins swim and dive and fly about
the rocks and lay their eggs in the hollow places of these wild
and lonely islands."
Is not that beautiful writing? But it is not fanciful; it is beautiful
because true, absolutely true. Go and see if it be not so.
Have you ever made acquaintance with the horrors of Lowestoft, a flat
insipid shore, where the sea is always charged with mud and no breakers
thunder, where the land scene is as dull and insipid as is the
sea-scape? I was there last summer. It was a dismal place, made the
more dismal by being invaded and pervaded, spread out, exposed, devoted
to the "tripper." And I fled to the west coast to see the Atlantic,
with the water crystal clear, through which you look down into
infinity, and to the glorious cliffs about which that transparent water
tosses, shakes its silver mane, curls its waves blue and iridescent as
a peacock's neck, and I wondered that any should ever visit the east
coast of England.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account