The Cove maidens are not taught to row and handle boats, and you may go there and never see a woman touch a boat or mend a net, for fear that Bucca may take a fancy to them, and "slock" them out to sea. And they don't need the warning twice.
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[Chapter XXXII]
The "good" King Arthur left some tracks, on the north coast mostly. We heard nothing of him on the south. Tennyson followed the northern trail, and we followed Tennyson, for a while; and we started in comfort, which any one may do now the Tintagel hotel is running. The King himself was never so well accommodated on the spot. The Arthur zone is somewhat limited for mere holiday pilgrims. The Lyonesse is out of it now, so the area is about from Bude to Camelford, and back again, following the lines of desolation and tumuli. The anniversary of the King's birthday is still celebrated by the ringing of bells under the sea between Bude and Boscastle. We didn't hear them, but some people say they have.
We had a wet Sunday—a day of pitiless rain and gloom, a day to be remembered as long as human sensation of the dismal lasts. Everybody took to letter-writing and addressing post-cards. So the morning passed, and it was cheerful to hear some one say it would be all right after twelve—it was always all right then. We struggled on, and still it poured. There was some wind, but it was the rain which took possession of us; and Guy suggested that the Gulf Stream had gone wrong this time, and was pouring out of the clouds. We explored the hotel, and tried smoking and sleeping, and sleeping and smoking, until we were awake again, and began to take an interest in our fellow-pilgrims.