re sand than water at most times round Scarthey.
For miles northward the wet strand stretches its silent expanse, tawny
at first, then merging into silver grey as in the dim distance it
meets the shallow advance of briny ripple. Wet sand, brown and dull,
with here and there a brighter trail as of some undecided river
seeking an aimless way, spreads westward, deep inland, until stopped
in a jagged line by bluffs that spring up abruptly in successions of
white rocky steps and green terraces.

Turn you seaward, at low tide there lies sand again and shingle
(albeit but a narrow beach, for here a depth of water sinks rapidly)
laved with relentless obstinacy by long, furling, growling rollers
that are grey at their sluggish base and emerald-lighted at their
curvetting crest. Sand yet again to the south, towards the nearer
coast line, for a mile or perhaps less, dotted, along an irregular
path, with grey rocks that look as though the advance guard of a giant
army had attempted to ford its insecure footing, had sunk into its
treacherous shifting pits, and left their blanching skull-tops half
emerging to record the disaster.

On the land side of the bight, far away beyond the grandly desolate,
silent, yellow tract, a misty blue fringe on the horizon heralds the
presence of the North Country; whilst beyond the nearer beach a
sprinkling of greenly ensconced homesteads cluster round some peaceful
and paternal looking church tower. Near the salty shore a fishing
village scatters its greystone cabins along the first terrace of the
bluffs.

Outwards, ever changing in colour and temper roll and fret the grey
waters of the Irish Sea, turbulent at times, but generally lenient
enough to the brown-sailed ketches that break the regular sweep of the
western horizon as they toil at the perpetual harvest of the deep.

Thus stands Scarthey. Although appearing as an island on the charts,
at low tides it becomes accessible dry-foot from the land by a narrow
causeway along the line of the white shallow reefs, which connect the
main pile to the rocky steps and terraces of the coast. But woe betide
man or beast that diverges many feet from the one secure path! The
sands of the great bay have already but too well earned their sinister
reputation.

During the greater part of the day, however, Scarthey justifies its
name--Skard- or Scarth-ey, the Knoll Island in the language of the old
Scandinavian masters of the land.

In fair weather, or in f