In the smoke-room of my inn that evening, seated by its big ingle-nook before a blazing log-fire that threw a ruddy, cheerful glow on beamed ceiling, panelled wall, and antique furniture, I got a-chatting with the chance and friendly company gathered there. Amongst the company was a touring cyclist who talked interestingly about the country and the places he had passed through; another was a fellow-motorist who "talked motor," but he had an eye for scenery as well; still another had recently returned from a long voyage, but he had neither met the Flying Dutchman nor seen the sea-serpent, nor even an iceberg, and what worth is a tale of the sea without a little romance thrown in? I love to hear the good old-fashioned sailor spin his confidential yarn; salt is cheap, so you can allow him more than the proverbial grain. The last yarn I had was from a skipper aboard his ship out in the wide Atlantic, who told me positively that he had seen the sea-serpent "swimming in the sea." "I estimated that it was ninety feet long," said he, "judging from the length of the ship, but perhaps he was a young one: it was a sea-serpent or a snake of some kind sure enough, and much alive." "Did you record it in the Log?" was my response. "Not I," replied the skipper. "You see, another captain of our company had previously seen a sea-serpent, only a much bigger one than mine, and he noted the fact in his Log. Now when our people saw the Log they said to him, 'Captain, if you see any more sea-serpents you won't get another ship.' He never saw another." And this is an unvarnished tale as told to me by the well-known skipper of a famous liner, faithfully retold, word for word, as far as my memory serves. CHAPTER VIII The Vale of Evesham--A stormy drive--An angler's inn--A big fish--Dating from "the flood"!--Fishermen's tales--The joys of "the gentle craft"--Hotel visitors' books--A "quiet day"--Burford church and its monuments--The golden age of travel--A fine old half-timber inn--Ludlow--A Saxon doorway. Leaving our ancient inn we proceeded westward along winding, hedge-bordered lanes that took us through the beautiful and fruitful Vale of Evesham, a very Land of Goshen. We had an uneventful drive to close upon Pershore, where we found ourselves on a good main road; then crossing a narrow bridge we drove into that quiet and ancient town, famous for its fine old abbey church, and for what else I know not; as for the town, it has a pleasant look. Then into the country again and into a storm of rain. By a signpost we learnt that the road led to Worcester, and, as it appeared to keep on high ground with the promise of fine views, we followed it.