After enjoying the rocking in the bright warm sunshine, and watching the tiny people crossing the Coupée (like the little men crossing a bridge on a willow-patterned plate), three hundred feet overhead, off I started again. I kept about two hundred yards from the precipitous sides of the island, steering so close to the rock Moie de la Bretagne, which rises ninety feet above the sea, that I touched it as we (my boat, dog, and I) glided by.
Next, into the romantic little bay of Port Gorey (just a lovers' paradise), where I let "Begum" have a run ashore while I sketched. Here are situate the mines which were abandoned many years ago as a dismal failure, leaving as a legacy to those fond of sketching some ruinous cottages and huge chimney shafts, which look down on the little Bay of Gorey, as Gog and Magog look down on the visitors to the London Guildhall.
Leaving Gorey we had a good look at the rock called L'Etac de Sark with its satellites, and gave them a wide berth, for their tooth-like appearance is not at all pleasant when but an inch of wood lies between one and a watery grave. L'Etac is the highest isolated rock round the island, rising nearly two hundred feet above low water.
ROCKS AT SOUTH END OF SARK.
To save time, instead of sweeping the bays we made a straight line, so as to pass between Point Derrible and La Couchée, and quickly arrived off what one may suppose the most picturesque spot in the Channel Isles—Creux Harbour, with its stumpy little breakwater pier and cave cutting which gives entrance to the island. The half-dozen fishermen on the quay gave us a cheer as we passed, in answer to a wave from my yellow cap.
On our right were the rocky islets, rising about one hundred feet above the sea, called La Burons, and I passed just in time to see a sheep fall with a plunge and splash into the sea, shot by a man in a boat. This appeared to be the local way of slaughtering the sheep which are put on the rocks to crop the sparse herbage which grows above high-water mark. After a fortnight among the rocks sheep will get so agile and surefooted, that a man has no chance with them in running or climbing, hence the rifle has to be employed to obtain mutton.
After passing Grand Moie (one hundred and seventeen feet)—there are no other rocks of any magnitude—so keeping well out I stripped and tumbled overboard, hanging now to the stern, and then swimming alongside, but never more than a yard away, for fear a current might part my boat and me. "Begum," of course, swam with me, and seemed to keep an eye on his master, for he seldom went far away from me. Whenever I looked round his dear old brown eyes were upon me, as if he would say, "How are you getting on, master?"
We rounded the northernmost point of Sark, a rock called Bec du Nez, about twelve a.m., and with a fair wind ran into Port Jument, where we hove to for dinner; then creeping round Point Moie de Mouton, anchored off the famous Gouilot caves, and took a sketch, but could not by reason of my compact enter them. This was very annoying, for I had heard so much about them and their wonderful pools and anemonæ. Disappointedly hauling in my anchor I steered for the Gouilot Pass, and like a fool nearly lost myself and craft. The distance between Moie de Gouilot and the island of Brechou is only about seventy yards, and as it was now past three o'clock, a swift tide was pouring pell-mell through the channel; this in my indolence I did not think of, and had like an ass taken a turn of the sheet round a cleat, and somehow got it jammed. Away went the "Yellow Boy," like a shot out of a gun, and as we passed through, a big puff of wind came round the end of Brechou, and nearly took the mast out before I could let go the sheet. Another two or three inches more and we must have capsized, and it was only due to the boat being rather heavily laden with cooking apparatus, gun, and cartridges, extra provisions, and the weight of "Begum" (eighty pounds), who was fortunately lying to windward, that we did not heel right over. As it was we were all afloat in each compartment, so I ran into the beautiful bay of Havre Gosselin and anchored. It took an hour to bale out and sponge dry and put everything in order for the run home. After rightsiding, and when over my tea, I cast my eyes upon the beautiful precipitous vale which comes down from a height of about one hundred and fifty feet to the sandy shore. It was an exquisite sight in the full glow of the western sun, and would make a lovely theme for a canvas. It was an emerald valley, through the trees of which the sun glinted and made splendid contrasts of light and shade so beloved by the artist, while at the top of the vale, hung, or appeared to hang, half a dozen fishermen's cottages, such as the aforesaid artist frequently looks for in vain; but here they are, and perhaps my artistic friends may thank me for pointing out these delightful "bits" to them.