To take a walk through this quaint village was to go up and
down stairs the whole time.
At last, after a long, downward scramble, I found myself on the shore,
and then I looked back at the cliff and at the irregular little town. I
did not wonder that artists were to be found there. I had counted four
as I came down the hill, perched on different platforms on the rock, and
all hard at work at their easels.
Yes, it was certainly a picturesque place, and I was glad that I had
come. The colouring was charming: there was red rock in the background,
here and there covered with grass, and ablaze with flowers. Wild roses
and poppies, pink-thrift and white daisies, all contributed to make the
old rock gay. But the yellow ragwort was all over; great patches of it
grew even on the margin of the sand, and its bright flowers gave the
whole place a golden colouring. There seemed to be yellow everywhere,
and the red-tiled cottages, and the fishermen in their blue jerseys, and
the countless flights of steps, all appeared to be framed in the
brightest gilt.
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