The bay is small—­two points jutting out on each side, completely shutting it in.  There are a good many rocks—­the water dashes over them finely when the tide is high and the sea rough.  I got rather stiff sitting still and walked about a little on the hard beach and talked to the fishermen.  They were looking on amused and indulgently at our amateurs, and said there were plenty of fish of all kinds if one knew how to take them.  They said they made very good hauls with their nets in certain seasons—­that lots of fish came in with the tide and got stranded, couldn’t get back through the nets.  One of them had two enormous crabs in his baskets, which I bought at once, and we brought them home in the bottom of the auto wrapped up in very thick paper, as they were still alive and could give a nasty pinch, the man said.

About five, I thought I made out my party more distinctly; their faces were turned homeward, so I went to meet them as far as the dry sand lasted.  I had a very long walk as the tide was at its lowest.  They came back very slowly, stopping at all the little pools and poking their nets under the rocks to get what they could.  They had made a very fair basket of really big shrimps, were very wet, very hungry, and very pleased with their performance.

We had very good tea and excellent bread and butter at the hotel.  They gave us a table on the piazza in the sun which finished drying the garments of the party.  I fancy they had gone in deeper than they thought.  However, salt water never gives cold and nobody was any the worse for the wetting.  The woman of the hotel said we ought to go to see a fisherman’s hut, on the top of the cliff near the lighthouse, before we went back.  The same family of fishermen had lived there for generations, and it was a marvel how any one could live in such a place.  We could find our way very easily as the path was marked by white stones.  So we climbed up the cliff and a few minutes’ walk brought us to one of the most wretched habitations I have ever seen:  a little low stone hut, built so close to the edge of the cliff one would think a violent storm must blow it over—­no windows—­a primitive chimney, hardly more than a hole in the roof—­a little low door that one had to stoop to pass through, one room, dark and cold—­the floor of beaten earth, damp and uneven, almost in ruts.  There were two beds, a table, two chairs, and a stove—­nondescript garments hanging on the walls—­a woman with a baby was sitting at the table—­another child on the floor—­both miserable little, puny, weak-eyed, pale children.  The woman told me she had six—­all lived there—­one man was sitting on the bed mending a net, another on the floor drinking some black stuff out of a cup—­I think the baby was drinking the same—­two or three children were stretching big nets on the top of the cliff—­they, too, looked miserable little specimens of humanity, bare-legged, unkempt, trousers and jackets in holes; however, the woman was quite cheerful—­didn’t complain nor ask for money.  The men accepted two francs to drink our health.  One wonders how children ever grow up in such an atmosphere without light or air or decent food.