The finest beaches on the south are here, right and left of the Dodman, and are seldom visited save by stragglers, like ourselves, or picnic parties from a distance. The Bookworm chanced upon the fact that Cornwall had some little share in the production of Lord Byron, his grandmother being a Trevanion of Caerhays, only a short distance from here.[I] Admiral Byron, the grandfather, was known to contemporaries as "Foul-weather Jack," so storm-pursued was he, and the poet's passionate love of the sea was not a mere "sport," after all.
[Chapter XXIX]
The coastguard station, with whitewashed walls gleaming and flagstaff with halyards all taut, makes a good mark along this coast, which is certainly not thickly populated now, to judge by the number of crumbling houses and villages partially deserted. The fishing coves hold their own, but the cry of "back to the land" has not been much heeded in these parts.
The man in blue uniform, with spy-glass under his arm, is always an attractive personage; he is so human, though official; so fresh and breezy, so ready to help the passing ship in danger, and do grand deeds in storm and tempest. England's watchfulness and strength is writ large upon the coastguard station, and the men are uniformly intelligent and good-mannered. A strange mixture of blood—Great Britain in epitome—may be found in one small station we halted at, namely, two Irish, one Scotch, one Novocastrian, and one Devonian—not a dash of Cornish blood at a Cornish station. A native might wink the other eye if his own flesh and blood did a bit of free trading in spirits and tobacco, and only run with his "two left legs" after a culprit related to himself. The men, as a rule, have seen the world, read a great deal, and pass their time in thinking—not very much else to do when on duty but watch and think.
If you'll be good enough to listen, the coast-guardsman will talk. The sea-gulls are very chummy with the men, know the uniform, and like to come and help them in their garden patches. Guy told a man one day that the gulls were a bit out of favour just now with Londoners because they had a weakness for sparrows, feathers and all; but the coastguard wasn't surprised at the gull, only at the sparrow. He thought that London sparrows were too artful to be picked up in that way by a simple sea bird. He told us some stories about sea-gulls. They are fond of young kittens and puppies that nobody wants and throws into the water. The fur increases the luxury of the bonne bouche. Then rabbits. Woe to the young thing that they tap with their powerful bills! A gull will kill a rabbit caught in a gin and feast on its eyes. Then they are famous poachers, stealing the eggs of birds nesting in the cliffs, and carrying off the newly hatched. But ravens and crows take reprisals and make the gull sorry at times. Our coastguard told us this little story:—