RAMBLES IN SARK. 



189 



the hillsides all along the coast may be literally described as 

 " gleaming in purple and gold," by the intermingling of late 

 flowering Gorse with long stretches of blossoming Heath and 

 Heather. 



These two names, by the way, Heath and Heather, are 

 often confused, or employed as if they were synonymous ; 

 but the two plants are distinct enough. The former bears 

 bright purple bell-like flowers, and narrow spreading leaves ; 

 whereas Heather has much smaller, lighter-coloured flowers, 

 and minute leaves pressed close to the stem. Both of them 

 frequently grow together. Curiously enough, the pretty 

 cross-leaved Heath, sometimes known as Bell Heather, which 

 is so plentiful in the south of England, does not grow in Sark, 

 or in fact anywhere in the Channel Islands, except in one 

 part of Jersey. 



Now, suppose we take a walk or two in this charming 

 island, the " gem of the Channel Islands " as the guide-books 

 call it, and note a few of the wild flowers we happen to meet 

 with on the way — some common, some rare, but without 

 particularly specifying the exact localities in which they grow, 

 because that would take away half the pleasure. To walk up 

 to a certain place, and see a rare plant which you were told 

 grew there, is a very tame sort of experience, compared with 

 the delight of discovering the same plant by yourself quite 

 unexpectedly, because there is the added pleasure of wondering 

 whether anybody else in the world knows that it grows in that 

 spot. 



As Sark is justly renowned for its magnificent coast 

 scenery, let our first ramble be along the cliffs, where there 

 are large stretches of gorse, heath and bracken interspersed 

 with rugged grey crags and lichen-covered rocks. The 

 winding cliff path leads through tangled masses of bramble, 

 honeysuckle, and wild rose, which rise in little hillocks among 

 the tall fern, and in some places overhang a yawning chasm 

 where you can almost drop a stone into the sea 200 feet below. 

 And surely no honeysuckle was ever more deliciously fragrant, 

 and no blackberries more sweet and luscious than those to be 

 found on these rocky slopes. 



At the foot of that boulder yonder, an old weather-beaten 

 Hawthorn bush, gnarled and knotted with age, and bearded 

 with grey lichen growth, rises up amidst a miniature forest of 

 Fetid Iris and Butcher's Broom, both of them striking plants 

 in their way, especially in autumn, when their fruit is ripe. 

 The Iris may be known at once, even if not in flower, by the 

 disagreeable odour of its long sword-like leaves when they are 



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