The place on the east coast which the reader is asked to consider is
Seaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to have
been when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south,
recalling the early chapters of Great Expectations; flat fields to the
north, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all, gorse,
inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious church
of flint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six bells.
How well I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as our
party went slowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them, for
the church stands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang with
a flat clacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air was
softer they were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little
terminus farther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill
just before you came to the station, and another down near the shingle
at the south end the town, and yet others on higher ground to the
north. There were cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs... but
why do I encumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that
they come crowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write
of Seaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right
ones to get on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with
the word-painting business yet.
Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up the
road on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and
if you follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left
(you are now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side
towards the sea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top,
with the slope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from
the train they would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it,
that you were approaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little
hill, a line of these firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for
there is a ridge that goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather
well-defined mound commanding the level fields of rough grass, and a
little knot of fir trees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot
spring day, very well content to look at blue sea, white windmills,
red cottages, bright green grass, church tower, and distant martello
tower on the south.
As I have said, I began to know Seaburgh as a child; but a gap of a
good many years separates my early knowledge from that which is more
recent. Still it keeps its place in my affections, and any tales of it
that I pick up have an interest for me. One such tale is this: it came
to me in a place very remote from Seaburgh, and quite accidentally,
from a man whom I had been able to oblige--enough in his opinion to
justify his making me his confidant to this extent.
I know all that country more or less (he said). I used to go to
Scaburgh pretty regularly for golf in the spring. I generally put up
at the 'Bear', with a friend--Henry Long it was, you knew him
perhaps--('Slightly,' I said) and we used to take a sitting-room and
be very happy there. Since he died I haven't cared to go there. And I
don't know that I should anyhow after the particular thing that
happened on our last visit.
1002073298
Seaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to have
been when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south,
recalling the early chapters of Great Expectations; flat fields to the
north, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all, gorse,
inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious church
of flint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six bells.
How well I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as our
party went slowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them, for
the church stands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang with
a flat clacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air was
softer they were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little
terminus farther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill
just before you came to the station, and another down near the shingle
at the south end the town, and yet others on higher ground to the
north. There were cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs... but
why do I encumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that
they come crowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write
of Seaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right
ones to get on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with
the word-painting business yet.
Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up the
road on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and
if you follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left
(you are now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side
towards the sea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top,
with the slope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from
the train they would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it,
that you were approaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little
hill, a line of these firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for
there is a ridge that goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather
well-defined mound commanding the level fields of rough grass, and a
little knot of fir trees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot
spring day, very well content to look at blue sea, white windmills,
red cottages, bright green grass, church tower, and distant martello
tower on the south.
As I have said, I began to know Seaburgh as a child; but a gap of a
good many years separates my early knowledge from that which is more
recent. Still it keeps its place in my affections, and any tales of it
that I pick up have an interest for me. One such tale is this: it came
to me in a place very remote from Seaburgh, and quite accidentally,
from a man whom I had been able to oblige--enough in his opinion to
justify his making me his confidant to this extent.
I know all that country more or less (he said). I used to go to
Scaburgh pretty regularly for golf in the spring. I generally put up
at the 'Bear', with a friend--Henry Long it was, you knew him
perhaps--('Slightly,' I said) and we used to take a sitting-room and
be very happy there. Since he died I haven't cared to go there. And I
don't know that I should anyhow after the particular thing that
happened on our last visit.
A Warning to the Curious
The place on the east coast which the reader is asked to consider is
Seaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to have
been when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south,
recalling the early chapters of Great Expectations; flat fields to the
north, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all, gorse,
inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious church
of flint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six bells.
How well I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as our
party went slowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them, for
the church stands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang with
a flat clacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air was
softer they were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little
terminus farther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill
just before you came to the station, and another down near the shingle
at the south end the town, and yet others on higher ground to the
north. There were cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs... but
why do I encumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that
they come crowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write
of Seaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right
ones to get on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with
the word-painting business yet.
Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up the
road on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and
if you follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left
(you are now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side
towards the sea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top,
with the slope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from
the train they would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it,
that you were approaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little
hill, a line of these firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for
there is a ridge that goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather
well-defined mound commanding the level fields of rough grass, and a
little knot of fir trees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot
spring day, very well content to look at blue sea, white windmills,
red cottages, bright green grass, church tower, and distant martello
tower on the south.
As I have said, I began to know Seaburgh as a child; but a gap of a
good many years separates my early knowledge from that which is more
recent. Still it keeps its place in my affections, and any tales of it
that I pick up have an interest for me. One such tale is this: it came
to me in a place very remote from Seaburgh, and quite accidentally,
from a man whom I had been able to oblige--enough in his opinion to
justify his making me his confidant to this extent.
I know all that country more or less (he said). I used to go to
Scaburgh pretty regularly for golf in the spring. I generally put up
at the 'Bear', with a friend--Henry Long it was, you knew him
perhaps--('Slightly,' I said) and we used to take a sitting-room and
be very happy there. Since he died I haven't cared to go there. And I
don't know that I should anyhow after the particular thing that
happened on our last visit.
Seaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to have
been when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south,
recalling the early chapters of Great Expectations; flat fields to the
north, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all, gorse,
inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious church
of flint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six bells.
How well I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as our
party went slowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them, for
the church stands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang with
a flat clacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air was
softer they were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little
terminus farther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill
just before you came to the station, and another down near the shingle
at the south end the town, and yet others on higher ground to the
north. There were cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs... but
why do I encumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that
they come crowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write
of Seaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right
ones to get on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with
the word-painting business yet.
Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up the
road on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and
if you follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left
(you are now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side
towards the sea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top,
with the slope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from
the train they would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it,
that you were approaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little
hill, a line of these firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for
there is a ridge that goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather
well-defined mound commanding the level fields of rough grass, and a
little knot of fir trees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot
spring day, very well content to look at blue sea, white windmills,
red cottages, bright green grass, church tower, and distant martello
tower on the south.
As I have said, I began to know Seaburgh as a child; but a gap of a
good many years separates my early knowledge from that which is more
recent. Still it keeps its place in my affections, and any tales of it
that I pick up have an interest for me. One such tale is this: it came
to me in a place very remote from Seaburgh, and quite accidentally,
from a man whom I had been able to oblige--enough in his opinion to
justify his making me his confidant to this extent.
I know all that country more or less (he said). I used to go to
Scaburgh pretty regularly for golf in the spring. I generally put up
at the 'Bear', with a friend--Henry Long it was, you knew him
perhaps--('Slightly,' I said) and we used to take a sitting-room and
be very happy there. Since he died I haven't cared to go there. And I
don't know that I should anyhow after the particular thing that
happened on our last visit.
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A Warning to the Curious
A Warning to the Curious
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013768796 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/07/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 23 KB |
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