The bishop was, like many of the cloth, a man of sarcastic wit; for when a lady, visiting him at Bishopstowe, gushingly exclaimed how like Torquay was to Switzerland, he retorted very neatly with, “Yes, only there you have mountains and no sea, and here we have sea and no mountains.”
Anstey’s Cove is the same as ever: one of the few places that have not changed of late years. Still the path leads down ruggedly to the little beach of big white marble pebbles, still the hollow is filled with a wild ferny brake and with old thorn-trees, hung, like the liana-choked forest trees of South America, with tangled strands of wild clematis. And although the original Thomas, who, half a century ago supplied picnics with necessaries, has long since assumed his crown and robe of white up above, the poetic notice-board written for him still survives, and Thomases of a later generation are to be found in their wooden shanty on the beach, where they continue the traditions—or some of them—of:
ANSTEY’S COVE.
“Picnics supplied with hot water and tea
At a nice little house down by the sea;
Fresh Crabs and Lobsters every day,
Salmon Peel sometimes, Red Mullet and Grey;
The neatest of pleasure-boats let out on hire;
Fishing Tackle as good as you can desire;