The downs here, at the summit of the cliffs between this and Hope, are those of Bolberry, whence comes, some consider, the name of Bolt Head. Heather clothes them and the cliff-tops with a more than imperial magnificence. Imperial mantles are poor things and tawdry beside such purple splendour. If Solomon in all his glory were not arrayed like the lilies of the field, certainly no emperor has ever attained to the gorgeousness of the heather. It is an untameable wilderness on these heights, for the land is of such negative quality that it is worth no farmer’s while to touch it, and moreover, great fissures and holes, like those of earthquakes, partly masked by undergrowth, exist here. The country people speak of them as Ralph’s Pits, Vincent Pits, Rotten Pits. Ralph, they tell you, was a smuggler, and that is the closest touch you can make to him. Ralph is as insubstantial as the mists that come streaking over the downs. Now we come to Bolt Tail and the signal-station, overlooking Ramilies Cove, where the _Ramilies_ man-o’-war was wrecked in 1760. Seven hundred and eight of the seven hundred and thirty four men on board perished. Down below lies Hope village, in its tiny cove, where an island can be seen in the making; a great mass of rock dividing the cove in two being joined to the mainland only by strips of sand and heaps of tumbled boulders. It was here that one of the many ships of the Spanish Armada was wrecked: so many ships and so many wrecks that the pen revolts from writing about them, even as the London apprentices revolted, in the centuries gone by, against salmon every day. These Spanish Armada ships are the “salmon every day,” or the _toujours perdrix_, if you like to put it in terms of a surfeit of game, of the historian of the coasts. Scarce a cove but they dashed their stout timbers to pieces upon its rocks, and those beaches are few that have no legends of silver ingots, pieces of eight, moidores, doubloons, dollars, and all the glittering galaxy of treasure-trove deriving from such a romantic source; but devil a dollar has rewarded the quest of this pilgrim, errant with the best will to it. Then, if you have faith, you may see in every dark-featured Devonian a descendant from a captured or shipwrecked Don. There are the names of Miggs and Jenny (among others), which may, or again may not, derive from Miguel and Jeronimo, and Cantrell has been recognised as a debased form of Alcantara, but ’tis a far cry. Here, at any rate, we know the name and rating of the Spanish vessel. She was the hospital-ship _St. Peter the Great_, and was on her way home, after having, in flight from Drake and his fellows, circumnavigated Great Britain. One hundred and fifty of the one hundred and ninety aboard of her were saved; and possibly the Delmers, the Jaggers, and the Murrens to be met with are descendants of that crew.