We now hark back to the cliffs once more, and coast around the broad inlet of Bullslaughter Bay, whose rocky walls are pierced with many a dark, weed-fringed cavern where
'Old Triton blows his wreathed horn.'
Pacing the springy turf of the open down, we feast our eyes upon the sparkling waters of the Channel, whose sunlit waves roll in upon the rocky headlands, 'where the broad ocean leans against the land.' The flat, featureless character of the landward view enhances by contrast the attractions of the iron-bound coast; upon whose wild, fantastic crags and beetling precipices, the traveller gazes in undivided admiration.
Anon we diverge seawards again, and, traversing the grassy mounds of a prehistoric camp, we look down into the depths of a profound abyss known as the Cauldron. The weather-stained precipices of this magnificent chasm rise sheer from the ocean, inaccessible save to the gulls and cormorants that haunt their rocky ledges. Huge archways and vaulted passages, yawning in the limestone rock, afford glimpses of the foam-flecked waves beleaguering, in unceasing onslaught, these sea-girt bulwarks of the steadfast land.
Onward we plod, until erelong the incessant clang and clamour of the myriad sea-fowl that, time out of mind, have made their home amidst these wild and inaccessible sea-cliffs, tell of our approach to the far-famed Stack Rocks.
Standing upon a rocky vantage-point, we have the two lofty, isolated rocks, or 'stacks,' full in view; rising from the surging ocean that rolls in foaming eddies around their feet. Countless sea-birds wheel with harsh, discordant cries around their weathered sides; where every available ledge and cranny of the rocks is peopled with a multitude of feathered bipeds, huddled together close as herrings in a barrel. Here, cheek-by-jowl in sociable good-fellowship, cluster clumsy guillemots (or'eligugs,' as they call them locally), razorbills, and ridiculous-looking puffins in clerical black and white; while kittiwakes, sea-pies and dark-green cormorants dart about athwart the waves, or, perched upon some projecting ledge, pursue their morning toilette with the utmost insouciance.
The eggs of these birds are of rather peculiar form. Very large at one end and pointed at the other, their sides are curiously flattened; this nice provision of Nature rendering them less liable to roll off the narrow ledges of the rocks which are their resting-place.
Inexorable time forbids our rambling farther around the trend of the sea-cliffs; so we reluctantly quit their breezy summits to hie away inland past the lonely chapel of Flimston; keeping straight ahead through sandy lanes glorified with hedges of golden gorse, and 'the swete bramble floure' of good old Chaucer. Presently we come in sight of the tall steeple of Warren Church on the rise of the hill before us.
A long mile westward from our present road lies Bullibur, where traces of an ancient chapel have been brought to light at a spot to this day known as the 'Church Ways.' Anent the erection of this little edifice, the story runs that, as fast as ever the builders could raise their stones from day to day, the Prince of Darkness came along and demolished their handiwork during the night.