ion at Kettleness is on the top of the huge cliffs, and to reach
the shore one must climb down a zigzag path. It is a broad and solid
pathway until halfway down, where it assumes the character of a
goat-track, being a mere treading down of the loose shale of which the
enormous cliff is formed. The sliding down of the crumbling rock
constantly carries away the path, but a little spade-work soon makes the
track firm again. This portion of the cliff has something of a history,
for one night in 1829 the inhabitants of many of the cottages originally
forming the village of Kettleness were warned of impending danger by
subterranean noises. Fearing a subsidence of the cliff, they betook
themselves to a small schooner lying in the bay. This wise move had not
long been accomplished, when a huge section of the ground occupied by
the cottages slid down the great cliff and the next morning there was
little to be seen but a sloping mound of lias shale at the foot of the
precipice. The villagers recovered some of their property by digging,
and some pieces of broken crockery from one of the cottages are still to
be seen on the shore near the ferryman's hut, where the path joins
the shore.

This sandy beach, lapped by the blue waves of Runswick Bay, is one of
the finest spots on the rocky coast-line of Yorkshire. A trickling
waterfall drops perpendicularly down the blackish rocks from a
considerable height, while above it are the towering cliffs of shale,
perfectly bare in one direction, and clothed with grass and bracken in
another. At the foot of the rocks a layer of jet appears a few inches
above the sand.

You look northwards across the sunlit sea to the rocky heights hiding
Port Mulgrave and Staithes, and on the further side of the bay you see
tiny Runswick's red roofs, one above the other, on the face of the
cliff. Here it is always cool and pleasant in the hottest weather, and
from the broad shadows cast by the precipices above one can revel in the
sunny land and sea-scapes without that fishy odour so unavoidable in the
villages. When the sun is beginning to climb down the sky in the
direction of Hinderwell, and everything is bathed in a glorious golden
light, the ferryman will row you across the bay to Runswick, but a
scramble over the rocks on the beach will be repaid by a closer view of
the now half-filled-up Hob Hole. The fisher-folk believed this cave to
be the home of a kindly-disposed fairy or hob, who seems to have been