Our side of the shore was beautifully backed by green slopes rising to wooded heights.  In the select inclosure, for the privilege of entering which a franc was charged, the elite of Morlaix walked to and fro, or sat upon long rows of chairs placed just above the beach.  We did not think very much of them and were disappointed.  All round and about us, rich and poor alike were clothed in modern-day costumes, as ugly and ungainly and ill-worn as any that we see around us in our own fair, but—­in this respect—­by no means faultless isle.

The few costumes that formed the exception were not graceful; those at least worn by the men.  Umbrellas were in full array, and as there was no rain they put them up for the sunshine.  A large proportion of the crowd took no interest whatever in the races, which attracted attention and applause only from those either sitting or standing on the beach.  The crowded green behind gave its attention to anything rather than the sea and the boats.  More general interest was manifested in the sculling matches; especially in the race of the fish-women—­tall, strong females, the very picture of health and vigour, becomingly dressed in caps and short blue petticoats, who started in a pair of eight-oared boats, and rowed valiantly in a very well-matched contest until it was lost and won.  As the sixteen women, victors and vanquished, stepped ashore, the phlegmatic crowd was stirred in its emotions, and loud applause greeted them.  They filed away, laughing and shaking their heads, or looking down modestly and smoothing their aprons, each according to her temperament, and were soon lost in the crowd.

On the slopes in sheltered spots, vendors of different wares, chiefly of a refreshing description, had installed themselves.  The most popular and the most picturesque were the pancake women, who, on their knees, beat up the batter, held the frying pans over a charcoal fire, and tossed the pancakes with a skill worthy of Madame Hellard’s chef.  Their services were in full force, and it was certainly not a graceful exhibition to see the Breton boys and girls, of any age from ten to twenty, devouring these no doubt delicious delicacies with no other assistance than their own fairy fingers.  After all, they were enjoying themselves in their own fashion and looked as if they could imagine no greater happiness in life.

We wandered away from the scene, round the point, where stretched another portion of the coast of Finistere.  It was a lovely vision.  The steep cliffs fell away at our feet to the beach, here quite deserted and out of sight of the crowd not very far off.  Over the white sand rolled and swished the pale green water with most soothing sound.  The sun shone and sparkled upon the surface.  The bay was wide, and on the opposite coast rose the cliffs crowned by the little town of Roscoff, its grey towers sharply outlined against the sky.  Our thoughts immediately went back to the day we had spent there; to the quiet streets of St. Pol de Leon, and its beautiful church, and the charming Countess who had exercised such rare hospitality and taken us to fairy-land.