It was a gay and lively scene, and, sober Bretons though they
were, the air echoed with song and laughter. Rioting there was none.
The distance was about five miles; but something more than the last mile
had to be taken on foot by everyone. We had secured a victoria which was
not much larger than a bath chair, but in a crowd this had its
advantage. True, we felt every moment as if the whole thing would fall
to pieces, but in case of shipwreck there were plenty to come to the
rescue.
Nothing happened, and we walked our last mile with sound wind and limbs.
Much of the way lay on a hill-side. Cottages were built on the slopes,
and we walked upon zigzag paths, through front gardens and back gardens,
now level with the ground floor window, now looking into an attic; and
now--if we wished--able to peer down the chimney or join the cats oh the
roof.
At last we came to the sea, which stretched away in all its beauty,
shining and shimmering in the sunshine. In the bay formed by this and
the opposite coast, the boats taking part in the races were flitting
about like white-winged messengers, full of life and grace and buoyancy.
Some of the races were over, some were in progress.
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.
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