I determined to pass a week in
the Sea-Wood of Graden Easter, and making a long stage, reached it
about sundown on a wild September day.
The country, I have said, was mixed sand-hill and links; LINKS
being a Scottish name for sand which has ceased drifting and become
more or less solidly covered with turf. The Pavilion stood on an
even space; a little behind it, the wood began in a hedge of elders
huddled together by the wind; in front, a few tumbled sand-hills
stood between it and the sea. An outcropping of rock had formed a
bastion for the sand, so that there was here a promontory in the
coast-line between two shallow bays; and just beyond the tides, the
rock again cropped out and formed an islet of small dimensions but
strikingly designed. The quicksands were of great extent at low
water, and had an infamous reputation in the country. Close in
shore, between the islet and the promontory, it was said they would
swallow a man in four minutes and a half; but there may have been
little ground for this precision. The district was alive with
rabbits, and haunted by gulls which made a continual piping about
the pavilion. On summer days the outlook was bright and even
gladsome; but at sundown in September, with a high wind, and a
heavy surf rolling in close along the links, the place told of
nothing but dead mariners and sea disaster. A ship beating to
windward on the horizon, and a huge truncheon of wreck half buried
in the sands at my feet, completed the innuendo of the scene.
Pages:
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234