The afternoon was waxing apace--we had lost time in attending to our
horses, for ostler there was none--and in musing amongst the simply
decorated graves in the humble churchyard;[9] after discussing with
great relish our repast of eggs and bacon, and Welsh ale, the best the
village afforded, (by the way, we shall not readily forget the fluster
of our Welsh hostess when we talked of dining on our arrival at the
little hostelrie) we then rode down to the sea-shore, intending to
cross the sandy beach of Oxwich, which extends several miles, on our
return to the Gower Inn. The tide flows with great rapidity on this
coast, and it had already advanced to the foot of a stupendous
headland, which juts into the beach about half way. We waded our
horses through the surf--but how can we do justice to the splendour of
the scenery around us. The alternations of stern and savage
beauty--the gigantic masses of "fantastic cliffs," and caverns, that
have stood the combat of the mighty Atlantic for countless ages?
Oxwich is almost unknown to the traveller, and there are few coast
scenes in these islands that surpass it in beauty. We lingered long on
the shore. There is a perpetual "jabble" against the cliffs on this
coast--and we have seldom met with a soul save an aged and solitary
fisherwoman--a study for a Bonington--pursuing her precarious calling
of crab or shrimp fishing, or of pulling lobsters from their retreats
in the savage cliffs.

[9] See _Mirror_, vol. xvi. p. 253.

A holy peace,
Pervades this _sea-shore solitude_--The world
And all who love that world, are far away.
N.T. CARRINGTON.