CHAPTER XLI

THE SCILLY ISLES: BRYHER, PENINNIS DOWN, ST. MARY'S, ELIZABETH CASTLE, PULPIT ROCK, WRECKS, BULBS, ROCKY

HILL GARDENS

HE island of Bryher possesses a remarkable shellbeach, upon which I landed. The shore is simply composed of a mass of shells in incalculable numbers, some, I believe, being rare. This island is three miles from St. Mary's and to the west of Tresco, from which it is separated by a narrow channel, from the midst of which rises Hangman's Rock, looking exactly like a miniature St. Michael's Mount. The circumference of Bryher is about three miles, and it contains some three hundred acres, and sufficient objects of interest, and fine sea views, to make it worth visiting.

Not far from the shelly beach is the plain, solidly constructed church built in 1742 by the S.P.C.K. and enlarged by the late Mr. Augustus Smith. I noticed that the roof slates were cemented on, to withstand the onslaughts of the wind, eloquently telling of the roughness of the blasts which at times sweep these islands. The tombstones in the little, plain churchyard around the simple edifice were almost entirely confined to families of the names of Stedeford, Jenkins, Trevellick, Pender. One epitaph, to a gentleman who died aged ninety-six, says :

"This is to let you see

I've had the fifth generation on my knee." Not far from the church is a Methodist chapel, where the service is conducted by the people themselves, who, I ascertained, go to church as well when service is held there by the Tresco clergyman, who comes across for that purpose.

As I passed this Methodist chapel-it was on Sunday

I heard, long before I reached it, the most fearful sounds apparently of lamentations and suffering, and high-voiced ejaculations. An extempore prayer was being said, and the number of "Ohs!" and "Good Lords!" nearly obscured what the vehement speaker was driving at. Members of the audience, too, every now and then made very audible remarks, such as, "Very fine," "Quite so," "Amen," and “Oh, oh!" as if in pain.

The post office of Bryher is a little cottage called “Vine Cottage," with a wee greenhouse in front where flourish vines, geraniums, and gladioli.

I had made the acquaintance on board the Lyonnesse, as I crossed from Penzance, of the solitary coastguard who keeps watch and ward over the customs of Bryher, and had promised to look him up when I visited his island. On leaving the post office I saw him on a height above at the signal-station-or Watch House, as it is called-133 feet above the sea, and he at once saw me and considerately semaphored with his arms the nearest way to get up. I recommend everyone who travels in out-of-the-way spots to learn the Morse alphabet as spelt with the arms. It often comes in useful. On the way thither I saw a hen tethered by the leg, apparently to gently remind her that she had, on that spot, to look after her chicks, and not to take them for walks around-a method of insisting upon her attending to nursing duties which was to me a novelty, and reminded me of the way cows are tethered in Jersey. From the Watch House the stalwart coastguard, by means of his telescope, introduced me to the fine views around, showed me the seven lighthouses visible from this vantage-ground-the Bishop, St. Agnes, Round Island, Seven Stones, Pendear, Lizard, Wolf-and generally and intelligently told me many useful facts about the islands.

Directed by my friend, I wandered on to the north of the island and found the sea view looking at Shipman Head very fine. This, the most northern part of the island, is a magnificent mass of rocks separated from the main part of the island by an awful chasm only about twelve feet wide, and is a grand place to photograph waves breaking against the black rocks.

I then walked to view Hangman's Rock, the tide being