The shore was open and desolate--great banks of pebbles to which straggled alders and hazels from the hillside scrub.

But as I marched northward and turned a little point of land I saw before me in a crook of the bay a smoking cottage.

And, plodding along by the water's edge, was the bent figure of a man, laden with nets and lobster pots.

Also, beached on the shingle was a boat.
I quickened my pace and overtook the fisherman.

He was an old man with a ragged grey beard, and his rig was seaman's boots and a much-darned blue jersey.