There were the old white-bearded ones who would sit upon tubs and tell smuggling tales; these haunted the River Pol, fished in it, ferried people across it, and let out boats for hire.

There were younger sailors who, tired of the still life of their little villages and dreading the real hard work of a life at sea, lurched and slouched by the Pol's river bed, fishing a little, sleeping, eating and drinking a great deal.
And there were the true sailors, passing through perhaps on their way to Drymouth to join their ships, staying in the town for a day or two to visit their relations, or simply stopping for an hour or so to gaze open-mouthed at the Cathedral and the market-place and the Canons and the old women.

These men had sometimes gold rings in their ears, and their faces were often coloured a dark rich brown, and they carried bundles across their backs all in the traditional style.
Then there were influences more subtle than either clouds or men.

There were the influences of the places that we had ourselves seen in our summer holidays--Rafiel and St.Lowe, Marion Bay or Borhaze--and, on the other coast, Newbock with its vast stretch of yellow sand, St.Borse with its wild seas and giant Borse Head, or St.Nails-in-Cove with its coloured rocks and sparkling shells.

Every child had his own place; my place was, like Jeremy's, Rafiel, and a better, more beautiful place, in the whole world you will not find.