All round Co’burn’s path is a wild land of romance. But here is the hamlet itself.
The inn—there is but one—stands boldly by the roadside; the little village itself hides upon a wooded braeland away behind.
“Is it a large village?” I inquired.
“No,” was the canny Scotch reply, “not so vera large. It is just a middlin’ bit o’ a village.”
So I found it when I rode round, a very middling bit of a village indeed.
The shore is about half a mile from the road. It is bounded by tall steep cliffs, and many of these are pierced by caves. The marks of chisels are visible on their walls, and in troublous times they were doubtless the hiding-places of unfortunate families, but more recently they were used by smugglers, concerning which the hills about here, could they but speak, would tell many a strange story.
Dined and baited at Co’burn’s path, and started on again. And now the rain began to come down in earnest—Scotch rain, not Scotch mist, rain in continuous streams that fell on the road with a force that caused it to rebound again, and break into a mist which lay all along the ground a good foot deep.
Nothing could touch us in our well-built caravan, however; we could afford to look at the rain with a complacency somewhat embittered with pity for the horses.
The country through which we are now passing is beautiful, or would be on a fine day. It is a rolling land, and well-treed, but everything is a blur at present, and half hidden by the terrible rain.
When we reached Dunbar at last, we found the romantic and pretty town all astir. The yeomanry had been holding their annual races, and great was the excitement among both sexes, despite the downpour.