actually touch the ocean, there is much pretty scenery to be enjoyed
all the way to the busy town of Granville. It is a watering-place and a
port, the two aspects of the town being divided from each other by the
great rocky promontory of Lihou. If one climbs up right above the place
this conformation is plainly visible, for down below is the stretch of
sandy beach, with its frailly constructed concert rooms and cafes
sheltering under the gaunt red cliffs, while over the shoulder of the
peninsula appears a glimpse of the piers and the masts of sailing ships.
There is much that is picturesque in the seaport side of the town,
particularly towards evening, when the red and green harbour-lights are
reflected in the sea. There are usually five or six sailing ships loading
or discharging their cargoes by the quays, and you will generally find a
British tramp steamer lying against one of the wharves. The sturdy
crocketed spire of the sombre old church of Notre Dame stands out above the
long line of shuttered houses down by the harbour. It is a wonderful
contrast, this old portion of Granville that surmounts the promontory, to
the ephemeral and gay aspect of the watering-place on the northern side.
But these sort of contrasts are to be found elsewhere than at Granville,
for at Dieppe it is much the same, although the view of that popular resort
that is most familiar in England, is the hideous casino and the wide sweep
of gardens that occupy the sea-front. Those who have not been there would
scarcely believe that the town possesses a castle perched upon towering
cliffs, or that its splendid old church of Saint-Jacques is the real glory
of the place. Granville cannot boast of quite so much in the way of
antiquities, but there is something peculiarly fascinating about its dark
church, in which the light seems unable to penetrate, and whose walls
assume almost the same tones as the rocks from which the masonry was hewn.

I should like to describe the scenery of the twenty miles of country that
lie between Granville and Coutances, but I have only passed over it on one
occasion. It was nine o'clock in the evening, and the long drawn-out
twilight had nearly faded away as I climbed up the long ascent which
commences the road to Coutances, and before I had reached the village of
Brehal it was quite dark. The road became absolutely deserted, and although
one or two people on bicycles passed me about this time, they were carrying
no lamps a