We rounded the northernmost point of Sark, a rock called Bec du Nez, about twelve a.m., and with a fair wind ran into Port Jument, where we hove to for dinner; then creeping round Point Moie de Mouton, anchored off the famous Gouilot caves, and took a sketch, but could not by reason of my compact enter them.  This was very annoying, for I had heard so much about them and their wonderful pools and anemonae.  Disappointedly hauling in my anchor I steered for the Gouilot Pass, and like a fool nearly lost myself and craft.  The distance between Moie de Gouilot and the island of Brechou is only about seventy yards, and as it was now past three o’clock, a swift tide was pouring pell-mell through the channel; this in my indolence I did not think of, and had like an ass taken a turn of the sheet round a cleat, and somehow got it jammed.  Away went the “Yellow Boy,” like a shot out of a gun, and as we passed through, a big puff of wind came round the end of Brechou, and nearly took the mast out before I could let go the sheet.  Another two or three inches more and we must have capsized, and it was only due to the boat being rather heavily laden with cooking apparatus, gun, and cartridges, extra provisions, and the weight of “Begum” (eighty pounds), who was fortunately lying to windward, that we did not heel right over.  As it was we were all afloat in each compartment, so I ran into the beautiful bay of Havre Gosselin and anchored.  It took an hour to bale out and sponge dry and put everything in order for the run home.  After rightsiding, and when over my tea, I cast my eyes upon the beautiful precipitous vale which comes down from a height of about one hundred and fifty feet to the sandy shore.  It was an exquisite sight in the full glow of the western sun, and would make a lovely theme for a canvas.  It was an emerald valley, through the trees of which the sun glinted and made splendid contrasts of light and shade so beloved by the artist, while at the top of the vale, hung, or appeared to hang, half a dozen fishermen’s cottages, such as the aforesaid artist frequently looks for in vain; but here they are, and perhaps my artistic friends may thank me for pointing out these delightful “bits” to them.

I lingered as long as prudence would allow at this enchanting spot, and crept along the lee of Brechou Island to get a peep at its harbour or port, and soon found it, facing due west, a snug little haven enough in calm weather; but the very thought of trying to get into it in a heavy sea was enough to make one shudder.  A steep path leads up from the beach to a farmhouse, which stands high upon the island; it is the only habitation in the place.

This island is probably larger than Jethou, but being so near Havre Gosselin is not so lonely, as help may very quickly be summoned in case of accident or illness.

How I should have loved to pay the old farmer and his family a visit to compare notes with him; but it could not be, and even if I had seen him it is doubtful if I could have understood him, as doubtless he spoke Sarkoise French, and with that language I was totally unacquainted.  Still, we might have had what the Indians call a “pow-wow,” and fraternised to some extent if only by signs.