CHAPTER XI.
horsey mere and somerton broad.
The white sand-hills on the coast were plainly visible, and the thunder of the surf was audible, as the sea was but a mile and a half away. We did what nearly every one else does who visits Horsey in a yacht; landed at the east end of it, and walked to the coast, but it was too rough to bathe. These sand-hills form a very curious barrier between the salt and fresh water. They are steep and high, and make one wonder by what force of wind and waves they attained their present shape and dimensions, in so flat a country, and why the like forces do not dissipate them over the plain. Breaches have been made in them by the sea, from time to time, notably in the winter of 1791, when a very high tide made several gaps, and threatened to overwhelm the marshes inland.
“I like this Mere as well as any of the Broads,” said Wynne, when we returned to the yacht. “It is so very still and lonely, and its quiet is in such contrast to the roar and unrest of the sea close by. Is the fishing free here?”
“No, it is supposed to be preserved, though I don’t suppose anyone will object to our catching a pike for supper, if you wish. There are no pike like those in Horsey, the proverb says.”
But the wind had fallen as suddenly as it arose, and the glamour of a fiery sunset shone over the silent mere. An occasional cry of coot, or duck, or splash of fish, and the distant sound of the sea, but emphasized the stillness around us. We sat on the cabin roof, and talked lazily, as the dusk came slowly on, and our voices were low, in unison with the evening hush.
“I do not wonder,” said Wynne, “that you are so fond of these waters. An evening like this, in such watery solitude, makes a strong impression upon one.”
Horsey Mere is only accessible by water. There is a railway station—Martham—about four miles off, but if you walked from there you could get no sight of the Broad without a boat, and boats are not procurable.
“What are these cushions stuffed with?” asked Wynne, as we lay down for the night.