Then, as you climb up to the down, on the opposite side, stretches a view, hard to be matched in England either for extent or beauty. On one side rolls the English Channel, indenting the shore with its deep bay as far as the land-locked harbour of Christchurch, shut in by Hengistbury Head and the white Swanage rocks; and, on the other, it sweeps away by the long beach of Hurst and its round gray castle. Opposite, glitter the coloured sands and chalk cliffs of Alum Bay, and the white Needle Rocks running wedge-shaped into the sea. Farther eastward, rise the treeless downs, and the breach opens across the Island to Freshwater Gate, and the two batteries, built into the cliff, one by one appear: the long scene ended at last by the houses of Yarmouth—the Solent still winding onward, like some great river. An uninterrupted path runs, for some three or four miles, along the top of the cliff—the scene constantly changing in its beauty. Below hangs a broken under-cliff, shelving down to the sea, strewed here and there with blocks of gravel, the grass and furze growing on them just as they fell. On the shore stretch long reaches of yellow sand, separated by narrow strips of pebbles, and patches of dark green Barton clay, embossed with shells, and studded with sharks’ teeth. Passing the Coastguard Station and the Gangway, we reach Becton Bunny—very different to Chewton, but equally lovely, with its bare wide gorge, and its beds of furze and heath fringing the edge of the cliff.[183] Very beautiful, too, are the summer sunsets seen from this point—the sun sinking far down the channel, lighting up the coloured sands of Alum Bay purple and gold, tinting the white chalk cliffs with rose and vermilion, the crimson of the sky floating on the waves as they break along the shore. Still following the path along the top of the cliff, we pass the grave-yard, where stood the old cruciform church of Hordle—once in the middle of the village, but now only a hundred yards from the sea. Nothing of it remains except some blocks of Grey Wethers, used for its foundation, and too large to be removed. Very interesting are these stones, brought up from the shore, where, now and then, one or two may be seen at low tide, tumbled from the drift above—the same stones as those at Stonehenge, left on the top of the chalk. Gone, too, are its mill and its six salterns, mentioned in _Domesday_, and the village itself removed inland. The sailors, however, dredging for cement-stone or for fish, sometimes draw up great logs of wood, locally known as “mootes,” which may perhaps tell of the salterns, or the time when the Forest stretched to the sea. The salterns of the Normans and the Old-English have suffered very different fates. In Normandy the sea no longer reaches to their sites,[184] whilst here it has long since rolled over them.