July, 1890. a naturalist’s notes in north deyon. 
149 
villas and houses and quaint warm-coloured tower at the end 
of the fishing jetty. Round the curve of the coast, eastward, 
the great headlands of red sandstone rise one after the other 
to terminate in the bold cliff of the Foreland. To the south¬ 
east the valley of the East Lynn can be traced as it runs 
inland, its slopes on either side thickly covered with dense 
oak scrub, the deep green sharply contrasting with the glowing 
purple heather which caps the higher summits; while out to 
the north the brightest blue sea is studded with many a sail 
or dark steamer, dwarfed down to toy boats in the distance, 
and stretches away only to be bounded by a hazy purple out¬ 
line marking the Cambrian coast. 
There were two birds of which I hoped to see something 
here, along the rushing, boulder-strewn River Lynn. The 
Grey Wagtail comes to us in the southern midlands for the 
winter, but rarely stays to breed, preferring always the rapid 
streams of the north and west. In Devon I expected to see 
a little of him in his summer haunts. The Dipper is even a 
greater lover still of the rush and swirl and ripple and dash 
of the mountain watercourse. Of it I knew but little, having 
previously only met with it in North Wales. As you pass 
down the main street of Lynmouth, leading to the beach, 
you cross the bridge over the East Lynn a little way above 
the river mouth. Just above the bridge the river is full of 
huge iron-grey boulders, through which the river flows with 
a delightful musical murmur. As far as contrast goes, you 
could not have a better background to show up the clear light 
grey and sulphur-yellow tints of the Grey Wagtail than these 
dark grey boulders ; and flitting about them, in a short piece 
of river, were no less than a dozen birds. Two broods, at 
least, and perhaps all birds of the year, for not one bore the 
distinctive black throat assumed by the adults in spring and 
summer. The crowd of tourists, and the trout-fishers casting 
their flies over the pools of clear brown water, had driven the 
Dippers away, and all up the river from the sea to where the 
Badgworthy water comes down to join the Lynn at Waters- 
meet I did not see one. There I left the beaten track, and 
wandered a little way up the tributary stream, pushing my 
way through the underwood. A little way up stream some 
flat-topped boulders, nearly flush with the water, stemmed the 
current in a little rapid, and flitting and jerking from one to 
the other, wading fearlessly through the shallows, or anon 
perched sedately on some higher stone, was the object of my 
search, the “ Water-piet,” with its neat blackisli-brown dress 
beautifully relieved by the snowy white of its throat and 
breast. Walking back along the road above the river, the 
