persuaded that it was merely wrack of
clouds. That may be or no; the fact remains that Polchester sniffed
the sea from afar, was caught with sea breezes and bathed in reflected
sea-lights; again and again of an evening the Cathedral sailed on dust
and shadow towards the horizon, a great white ghost of a galleon, and
the young citizens of the town with wondering eyes, watched it go. But
there were more positive influences than mere cloud and light. We had,
in the lower part of our town, sailors, quite a number of them. There
were the old white-bearded ones who would sit upon tubs and tell
smuggling tales; these haunted the River Pol, fished in it, ferried
people across it, and let out boats for hire. There were younger sailors
who, tired of the still life of their little villages and dreading the
real hard work of a life at sea, lurched and slouched by the Pol's river
bed, fishing a little, sleeping, eating and drinking a great deal.

And there were the true sailors, passing through perhaps on their way
to Drymouth to join their ships, staying in the town for a day or two
to visit their relations, or simply stopping for an hour or so to gaze
open-mouthed at the Cathedral and the market-place and the Canons and
the old women. These men had sometimes gold rings in their ears, and
their faces were often coloured a dark rich brown, and they carried
bundles across their backs all in the traditional style.

Then there were influences more subtle than either clouds or men. There
were the influences of the places that we had ourselves seen in our
summer holidays--Rafiel and St. Lowe, Marion Bay or Borhaze--and, on
the other coast, Newbock with its vast stretch of yellow sand, St. Borse
with its wild seas and giant Borse Head, or St. Nails-in-Cove with its
coloured rocks and sparkling shells. Every child had his own place; my
place was, like Jeremy's, Rafiel, and a better, more beautiful place, in
the whole world you will not find. And each place has its own legend:
at Rafiel the Gold lured Pirates, and the Turnip-Field; at Polwint the
Giant Excise Man; at Borhaze the Smugglers of Trezent Rock; at St. Borse
the wreck of "The Golden Galleon" in the year 1563, with its wonderful
treasure; and at St. Maitsin Cove the famous Witch of St. Maitsin Church
Town who turned men's bones into water and filled St. Maitsin Church
with snakes. Back from one summer holiday, treasuring these stories
together with our collections of shells and sea