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[Page 264]

its banks with a straggling village of irregularly shaped lichen-covered cottages on so sharp a decline that the base of the one is on a level with the root of its neighbour pave the street with miniature boulders from the shore arranged in a series of terraces, and terminate the descent by an antique pier of wave worn stones from which the only approach to the sea at low water is by ladders who perpendicular depths might well startle something which would resemble Clovelly, it were not indeed, unique in its singular construction and beauty, and did not surpass all descriptive powers, whether of pen or pencil". (From my diary May 6th)

This morning was foggy and we saw nothing of the scenery on our way out – indeed my Aussie boy couldn't have in any case – because he was tucked away in among the mail bags at the back, for we were one too many for the mail being licensed to take only so many but the driver, only a boy was sport and you know, perhaps we rather rejoice in keeping up our military reputation of breaking the rules. Anyway it was very nice of the boy, and he enjoyed the joke as well as anyone. After about an hour and a half the mail stopped, and the boys said. "This is Clovelly but all we could see was a man and a donkey. Then he told us if we followed he donkey it would take us to the New Inn about 15 minutes walk. The fog was lifting, and we were full of expectant anticipation for we knew not what – for by this time we had heard so much of Clovelly. Walking down hill along the high-ledged narrow paths we suddenly turn a sharp corner, and are at the Top of High Street. I will never forget it. As we chattered down the pebbly walk we thoroughly enjoyed the novelty of everything, pointed and laughed at the old fashioned quaint

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