When We Had Driven As Far As The Car Could Go We Left Car And Driver,
And Scrambled Over The Rocks Like Goats.
Rocks frowned above us, between
us and the sky, rocks all round in black confusion.
As we climbed from
slippery rock to slippery rock, over long leathery coils of thick sea
weed, like serpents, on, on through the _Dorus_ to the open sea,
noticing the dark passages, the gloomy caves, the recesses among the
cliffs, the narrow passes, where one could turn to bay and keep off
many, it was natural to think of rebels skulking here, with a price on
their heads, after the '98, or of lawless people stilling illicit
_poteen_ to hide it from the gaugers. Sheltered by the rocks of
Port-a-dorus, I could enjoy the sea air flavored with essence of sea
weed. We watched for a while the waves playing about the rocks and
washing through the door in innocent gambols. This sportfulness did not
impose upon me nor the rocks either, for the marks of the Atlantic in a
rage were graven on their brows in baldness and in wrinkles.
Along the road as we drove back I noticed the white cottages of coast
guardsmen who have married the maidens of the hills. They were there in
their patches of ground, delving with the spade, scattering sea weed
manure, the landlords here allowing them to gather all the sea weed that
drifts to their shores. Decent looking men these, in their blue uniforms
and thoughtful sea-beaten faces, with hardy little children around them,
playing or helping.
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