We made a lovely excursion one day to Cap Gris Nez--just at the end of a
wild bit of coast about twenty-five kilomètres from Boulogne. The road
was enchanting on the top of the cliff all along the sea. We passed
through Vimereux, a small bathing-place four or five miles from
Boulogne, and one or two other villages, then went through a wild
desolate tract of sand-hills and plains and came upon the lighthouse,
one of the most important of the coast--a very powerful light that all
inward-bound boats are delighted to see. There are one or two villas
near on the top of the cliff, then the road turns sharply down to the
beach--a beautiful broad expanse of yellow sand, reaching very far out
that day as it was dead low tide.
In the distance we saw figures; couldn't distinguish what they were
doing, but supposed they were fishing for shrimps, which was what our
party meant to do. The auto was filled with nets, baskets, and clothes,
as well as luncheon baskets. The hotel--a very good, simple one--with a
broad piazza going all around it, was half-way down the cliff, and the
woman was very "complaisante" and helpful--said there were plenty of
shrimps, crabs, and lobsters and no one to fish. She and her husband had
been out at four o'clock that morning and had brought back "quatre
pintes" of shrimps. No one knew what she meant, but it was evidently a
measure of some kind. I suppose an English pint. She gave us a cabin
where the two young matrons dressed, or rather undressed, as they
reappeared in their bathing trousers--which stopped some little distance
above the knee--very short skirts, bare legs, "espadrilles" on their
feet, and large Panama hats to protect them from the sun. The men had
merely rolled up their trousers. They went out very far--I could just
make them out--they seemed a part of the sea and sky, moving objects
standing out against the horizon.
I made myself very comfortable with rugs and cushions under the cliff--I
had my book as I knew it would be a long operation. It was
enchanting--sitting there, such a beautiful afternoon. We saw the
English coast quite distinctly. There was not a sound--no bathing cabins
or tents, nobody on the shore, but a few fishermen were spreading nets
on poles to catch the fish as the tide came up. The sea was quite blue,
and as the afternoon lengthened there were lovely soft lights over
everything; such warm tints it might almost have been the Mediterranean
and the Riviera. A few fishing-boats passed in the distance, but there
was nothing to break the great stillness--not even the ripple of the
waves, as the sea was too far out. It was a curious sensation to be
sitting there quite alone--the blue sea at my feet and the cliff rising
straight up behind me.
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.
The drive home was beautiful--not nearly so lonely. Peasants and
fishermen were coming back from their work--women and children driving
the cows home. We noticed, too, a few little, low, whitewashed cottages
in the fields, almost hidden by the sand-hills, which we hadn't seen
coming out.