252 AN HOUR AMONG THE TORBAY SPONGES, 



Therefore it was that we ran soine miles away 

 from home, and pursued a pleasant road, partly 

 through green lanes, rank with the glossy young 

 leaves of the arum, and the arching fronds of the 

 hart's-tongue fern, scarcely embrowned by the late 

 arctic winter ; and partly sweeping along the shore- 

 line and over the cliffs that make the base of this 

 beautiful bay ; till, Paignton being some distance 

 behind us, we turned off to the left down a little lane, 

 and drew up at the margin of the broad flat beach 

 called the Goodrington Sands. 



Far away is the edge of the sea, for the tide is 

 wonderfully low, though we have yet a full hour and 

 a half before it will be at its lowest point, and an 

 immense breadth of soft, wet sand lies exposed. We 

 pause for a moment to gaze on the boundary to the 

 right. It is Berry Head, a noble headland that 

 projects like a long wall far out into the sea, and 

 presents its bluff termination, crowned with fortifica- 

 tions, to the impact of the waves that drive in with 

 impotent fury from the wide Atlantic. 



But now to work. Out with the collecting baskets, 

 the bottles and jars, the stout hammer and the strong 

 steeled . chisel, and away across the heavy sands, in 

 which we sink at every step, away obliquely to the 

 left, where another bold headland, Koundham Head, 

 breaks the sweep of the bay, and for the present shuts 

 out Torquay from our view. 



There is our working ground, at the foot of those 

 red cliffs. We diverge a little from a straight line, and 



