A week ago, my friend the Journalist wrote to remind me that once upon
a time I had offered him a bed in my cottage at Troy and promised to
show him the beauties of the place. He was about (he said) to give
himself a fortnight's holiday, and had some notion of using that time
to learn what Cornwall was like. He could spare but one day for Troy,
and hardly looked to exhaust its attractions; nevertheless, if my
promise held good.... By anticipation he spoke of my home as a "nook."
Its windows look down upon a harbour, wherein, day by day, vessels
of every nation and men of large experience are for ever going and
coming; and beyond the harbour, upon leagues of open sea, highway
of the vastest traffic in the world: whereas from his own far more
expensive house my friend sees only a dirty laurel-bush, a high green
fence, and the upper half of a suburban lamp post. Yet he is convinced
that I dwell in a nook.

I answered his letter, warmly repeating the invitation; and last week
he arrived. The change had bronzed his face, and from his talk I
learnt that he had already seen half the Duchy, in seven days. Yet he
had been unreasonably delayed in at least a dozen places, and used the
strongest language about 'bus and coach communication, local trains,
misleading sign-posts, and the like. Our scenery enraptured him--every
aspect of it. He had travelled up the Tamar to Launceston, crossed
the moors, climbing Roughtor and Brown Willy on his way, plunged down
towards Camelford, which he appeared to have reached by following two
valleys simultaneously, coached to Boscastle, walked to Tintagel,
climbed up to Uther's Castle, diverged inland to St. Nectan's Kieve,
driven on to Bedruthan Steps, Mawgan, the Vale of Lanherne, Newquay,
taken a train thence to Truro, a steamer from Truro to Falmouth,
crossed the ferry to St. Mawes, walked up the coast to Mevagissey,
driven from Mevagissey to St. Austell, and at St. Austell taken