The last events in the history of Corfe Castle were two sieges in 1643 and 1646. The latter was successful, and, by order of the Parliament, the buildings were afterwards “slighted,” _i.e._, blown up by gunpowder. But so sturdy and so immensely thick were these walls, that although ruined indeed, they still stand, with gateways thrown out of the perpendicular, yet intact. The views from the keep embrace the low-lying heaths that stretch out toward Wareham, and the sullen salt waters of that inland lake, Poole Harbour. XXIII. The Purbeck Hills make breathless walking on a hot day, and so it chanced that when we reached the hamlet of East Lulworth we were hot and footsore and scant of breath. Shall I confess that we were soulless enough (or too tired) to step aside in search of Lulworth Cove, that famous inlet of the sea? Yes, ’tis better so. Instead, we lay awhile under the shade of trees in Lulworth Park, and viewed with some disfavour the unpicturesque towers of Lulworth Castle. At the only inn here we were turned empty away when we would have had lunch; the good folk were too busy with what appeared to be a rent-audit dinner. From the roadway and through the open windows we could see long tables spread with all manner of eatables, and seated there many farmers and yeoman-looking men, who, many of them, in the pauses of their eating, rested their hands beside their plates with knife and fork held upright between their fists. [Illustration: “POLITICS AND AGRICULTURE.”] We were very hungry, and when, on leaving Lulworth, we asked the way of a stolid, big-built, farmer-like man, were none too interested in his long talk of politics and agriculture. He told us of a route over the downs by which we should pass Osmington, and we set out with all haste to cover the eight miles between us and that village. The cliff scenery here is grand and comprehensive, with great barrow-covered hills near and far, and a long sweep of coast-line bounded by Portland Bill; but this is a tiring and almost trackless walk in places, and lonely. All the way to Osmington we passed but one meagre collection of cottages with a roadside smithy, where the smith, leaving his work, came out and gazed after us, possibly to refresh his eyes with the infrequent sight of human beings. [Illustration: “GAZED AFTER US.”] We came into Osmington village at the twilight hour, famished and deadly tired. At the “Plough” we would have tea. “Yes,” said the hostess, “but we have neither milk nor butter.” We had a glass of ale instead, and postponed the meal. At Preston, one mile and a half farther, we partook of the long-deferred refreshment at a quarter to nine, and afterwards walked into Weymouth. The Naval Manœuvres were in progress, and some night operations off Portland were taking place, the roadways, sky, and sea lit up with the brilliant flashings of the search lights.