curious old brass bowls one sees everywhere here.
Some of them are very handsome, polished until they
shine like mirrors, with a delicate pattern lightly
traced running around the bowl. They balance them
perfectly on their heads and walk along at a good
swinging pace. They all look prosperous, their
skirts (generally black), shoes, and stockings in good
condition, and their white caps and handkerchiefs
as clean as possible. Quineville is a very quiet
little place, no hotel, and rows of ugly little houses
well back from the sea, but there is a beautiful stretch
of firm white sand. To-day it was dead low tide.
The sea looked miles away, a long line of dark sea-weed
marking the water’s edge. There were plenty
of people about; women and girls with stout bare legs,
and a primitive sort of tool, half pitchfork, half
shovel, were piling the sea-weed into the carts which
were waiting on the shore. Children were paddling
about in the numerous little pools and making themselves
wreaths and necklaces out of the berries of the sea-weed—some
of them quite bright-coloured, pink and yellow.
We wandered about on the beach, sitting sometimes on
the side of a boat, and walking through the little
pools and streams. It was a lonely bit of water.
We didn’t see a sail. The sea looked like
a great blue plain meeting the sky—nothing
to break the monotony. We got some very bad coffee
at the restaurant—didn’t attempt tea.
They would certainly have said they had it,
and would have made it probably out of hay from the
barn. The drive home was delicious, almost too
cool, as we went at a good pace, the horses knowing
as well as we did that the end of their day was coming....
We have been again to market this morning. It
was much more amusing than the first time, as it was
horse day, and men and beasts were congregated in
the middle of the Cathedral Square. There was
a fair show—splendid big carthorses and
good cobs and ponies—here and there a nice
saddle-horse. There were a good many women driving
themselves, and almost all had good, stout little horses.
They know just as much about it as the men and were
much interested in the sales. They told me the
landlady of the hotel was the best judge of a horse
and a man in Normandy. She was standing
at the entrance of her court-yard as we passed the
hotel on our way home, a comely, buxom figure, dressed
like all the rest in a short black skirt and sabots.
She was exchanging smiling greetings and jokes with
every one who passed and keeping order with the crowds
of farmers, drivers, and horse-dealers who were jostling
through the big open doors and clamoring for food for
themselves and their animals. She was the type
of the hard-working, capable Frenchwoman of whom there
are thousands in France.