And so at last to leave Lynmouth.
It is by no means necessary to take Lynton on the way to the Valley of Rocks and the coast-walk to Wooda Bay and Heddon’s Mouth. The cliff-path known as the North Walk avoids Lynton, and, climbing up midway along the hillside, forms a secluded1 route of the greatest beauty. It was cut in 1817 by a public-spirited Mr. Sanford. Until that time, there was no path, and only the most hardy2 climbers, at the risk of falling headlong into the sea, ever attempted to make their way by this route. It is merely a footpath3, and so not in any way injurious to the wild, romantic nature of the scenery. Were some injudicious person, or local authority, to conceive the idea of forming it into a broad road, not Nature herself could, short of a convulsion, remedy the scar that would be made for all the neighbourhood to see. Trees cannot grow on this stony4 hillside, to hide such things; the great gash5 made for the Lift, or Cliff Railway, which here runs at right-angles up hill, being only by good fortune screened45 through ascending6 by a route affording foothold for shrubs7 and undergrowth. It is now, indeed, hidden in a degree those who saw the raw wound in 1890 dared not hope for. Kindly8 Nature, dear, forgiving, long-suffering, immortal9 mother, to whom we all come, weary, for rest at last, to your ample bosom10, how great soever be our enormities, you bear with them all and, smiling, resume your way.
This rocky walk, winding11 past one grey crag after another, is rich in towered and spired12 masses and jutting13 pinnacles14. Sometimes they rise up for all the world like pedestals rudely shaped to receive statues; but they would need to be statues of heroic size and pose to fit these surroundings. The eye ranges along the coast, past Castle Rock and Duty Point, to the softly rounded masses of woods covering the hillsides enclosing Wooda Bay; and only the restless, resistless spirit of exploration forbids long lingering here and there, on those occasional seats provided by the thoughtful Urban District Council that rules the twin places, Lynmouth and Lynton, and perseveringly15 tries to reconcile their jealousies16. But one must needs rest awhile at that point where the North Walk, bending to the left, enters the Valley of Rocks. Here a convenient seat is placed, commanding a view backwards17 to Lynmouth and the Foreland, and looking down from a sheer height on to great emptinesses of blue, sunlit sea. Seagulls wheel and cry, or poise18 suddenly, on idle extended pinions19, whimsically like a cyclist46 “free-wheeling”; excursion steamers, to and from Ilfracombe and other resorts, go by, and in the still August sea leave more than mile-long creamy wakes of foam20 traced in the blue, until they become indistinct in distance.
An elderly gentleman, who had hobbled up the path on gouty feet, sat down beside me. Like two true Britons, we sat there a minute or two together, each ignoring the presence of the other. He glanced a greatly impressed eye upon the short, steep and slippery slope of grass that alone intervened between his side of the seat and a sheer drop of some two hundred feet into the sea. “It would not be difficult to commit suicide here,” he at length remarked.
Was he wearied to extinction21 with his gout, and so determined22 here and now, to make an end? Not at all: it was a purely23 speculative24 thought.
“The easiest thing in the world,” I replied; “and one person might readily push another over, and no one——”
“Yes, yes,” he rejoined with alacrity25, and relapsed into thoughtful silence a moment. Then, suddenly consulting his watch: “Time I was moving off for lunch.”
Now I don’t by any means, you know, regard myself as a very desperate-looking person, yet obviously that unlucky remark moved that nervous old gentleman to go off in quest of his lunch at a very early hour. I suppose he imagined himself to have experienced a very narrow escape. “One49 does read such dreadful things in the papers,” I hear him, in imagination, saying at lunch; “you never know what lunatic you may meet in some lonely spot.” True.
THE VALLEY OF ROCKS.
And so, into the Valley of Rocks. There was a time when every writer who happened upon the Valley of Rocks felt himself obliged to adopt an attitude of awe26, and to ransack27 the dictionary for adjectives to fitly represent the complicated state of mind into which he generally lashed28 himself. That time has naturally been succeeded by a revulsion of feeling; and there is not a guidebook at the present day which does not apologise for those old transports of feeling, and declare the Valley of Rocks to be really nothing remarkable29. But that later attitude is just as absurd as the earlier. The valley is very fine indeed, and its wildness is only impaired30 by the broad white ribbon of road that runs through it, and will not let you forget that here, too, however craggy and precipitous the piled-up masses of granite31 on either side, and however remote the feeling, actually the most up-to-date civilisation32 is very near indeed.
This is what was written of the Valley of Rocks in 1803: “The heights on each side are of a mountainous magnitude, but composed, to all appearances, of loose, unequal masses, which form here and there rude natural columns, and are fantastically arranged along the summits, so as to resemble extensive ruins impending33 over the pass.”
50 So far, this is literally34 true, and the name of Castle Rock, given to one of these stony heights, grimly coroneted with masses of rock, is excellently descriptive. The rocks so closely resemble towers and battlements that the stranger is often deceived into thinking them to be real masonry35. A companion rocky hill, isolated36 midway in the valley, and called “Ragged37 Jack38,” from its notched39 outline, is almost equally castellated.
It is only when the account already quoted proceeds to dilate40 upon the “awful vestiges41 of convulsion and desolation presenting themselves, and inspiring the most sublime42 ideas,” that we do not quite follow, and we suspect this was the outcome of much competitive writing; each succeeding writer striving to pile phrase upon phrase, very much after the manner in which the rocks of the Valley of Rocks are heaped upon one another.
The “Devil’s Cheese-wring” is the name of one of these curious stony piles, now partly overgrown with ivy43. The Valley and the cheese-wring are mentioned in “Lorna Doone,” a romance no one can escape in North Devon, strive though he may; although, really, the Doone Valley and almost every incident of that story, are in, and concerned with, Somerset.
A wind-swept little wood is almost the only sign of vegetation, except the coarse grass, in this wild valley of grey stones; but it is the appalling44 heat, rather than the wind, which troubles the tourist in his passage, and he is often fain to51 shelter awhile in the welcome shade of some huge crag; thinking, as he does so, of that eloquent45 passage in Isaiah, “The shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” And really, the Valley of Rocks is very like the parched46, stony land of Palestine, which suggested the phrase.
It is at the close of some sultry summer day that the Valley of Rocks looks its very best. The irradiated sky, throwing into silhouette47 the great masses of rock, has the effect of magnifying and glorifying48 them. On such summer evenings, the more youthful among the holiday-makers set out from Lynton, and there, on the rugged49 hillside of the Castle Rock or Ragged Jack, you may see the white frocks of the girls, looking more than a little like the white-robed figures of those Druids, who, according to old Polwhele, used this place of desolation as a temple, and carved the roughly shaped rock-pillars and granite hollows into “rock idols” and “sacrificial basins.” On the summit of Castle Rock a “white lady” of a different kind may be seen; a curious figure, resembling a woman, formed by a huge slab50 of rock fallen between two upright masses. The resemblance is sufficiently51 close to startle strangers coming this way at night.
The road goes under the rugged hills, past the little inlet of Wringcliff Bay, overhung with ferny precipices52, to a gate leading into the domain53 of Lee Abbey. All kinds of wheeled traffic may go through by lodge54 and gate, except motor vehicles—they are forbidden.
52 Lee Abbey, occupying the site of the old manor55-house of the Wichehalse family, is an abbey only in name and venerable only in appearance, having been built in 1850. But although “Abbey” be merely a fanciful name, and although there yet remain people who have seen the building of the entire range of mansion56 and outworks, the ivied entrance-tower and enclosing walls have so truly medi?val an appearance, that many people are entirely57 deceived, and, not seeking to inform themselves, dream wonderfully romantic dreams of “the old monks” and their religious life in this secluded spot, and live ever afterwards in happy ignorance of the deception58. Lee “Abbey” is, in fact, nothing more than a very charming country residence, designed to fit an exceptionally beautiful site.
High above it is the woody hill with look-out tower overhanging that spot on Duty Point called “Jennifrid’s Leap,” of which we have already heard, and down below is the loveliest little bay—Lee Bay—with Wooda Bay opening out beyond it, and the little tumbled headland of Crock Point and the swelling59, scrub-covered hillside of Bonhill Top in between. To style the little promontory60 Crock Point is entirely correct, for it was the scene of a landslip somewhere about 1796, when, one Sunday morning, the hillside fields, with their standing61 crops of wheat, suddenly slid down to the sea in utter ruin. This was due partly to the percolation62 of landsprings acting63 upon the clay, and the clay-digging that had for some while been55 in progress, for shipment to Holland. The names, “Crock Point” and “Crock Meads,” probably allude64 to this old digging for pottery65 uses.
LEE “ABBEY.”
Lee Bay looks like the choicest site in some delectable66 Land of Heart’s Desire. Down goes the road, through another gate and past the most entirely picturesque67 and well-constructed lodge I have ever seen, and so out of this private domain. Here a shady valley welcomes the heated traveller; a valley where everything but the generous trees, and the cool shade they spread, is in miniature. A little stream comes running swiftly down from the hilltops, as though it, too, were eager to enter from sunburnt heights into this place, where mossy tree-trunks radiate a welcome coolness, and hart’s-tongue ferns grow in lichened69 walls and look refreshing71. The little stream presently falls over a ledge72 of rock and becomes a little waterfall, whose purring voice fills the narrow space; and everything is delightful73. And there are not any of those horse-stingers, which generally infest74 the most desirable spots and, instead of confining themselves strictly75 to horse-stinging, interfere76 with inoffensive explorers.
The tiny bay that opens out from this twilight77 lane is a quiet spot, where boulders78 are scattered79 about amid the sand and shingle80, with that look of studied abandon customary in stage-carpenters’ versions of the seaside; and surely we can give no higher praise than that! It is a spot where one might fitly converse81 with some not too forward young mermaid82 (keep your eye off her tail, and56 such, by all accounts, should be presentable enough); to be auditor83 of strange, uncanny legends; a thousand fearful wrecks84 “full fathom85 five,” and dead-men’s bones and drowned treasure.
But for tales of drowned treasure, or “money sunk” and lost, which, after all, is much the same to the owner of it—one need not go far, nor seek the dangerous society of mermaids86. Wooda Bay, yonder, across the intervening neck of land, has a modern story of some interest. It was somewhere about 1895 that Benjamin Greene Lake, of the London firm of solicitors87, Lake and Lake, conceived the idea of “developing” this secluded and extremely lovely spot, and of making it, as it were, a newer Lynmouth. He purchased much land, caused many roads to be made to the bay, and built an elaborate timber landing-stage for steamers. A few houses were indeed built here and there: among them the “Glen” Hotel, but Wooda Bay has not developed to any extent, in the building-estate sense. How many thousands of pounds were lost here, seems uncertain; according to some accounts, ￡25,000, or by others, much more. Unfortunately, this was one of Benjamin Greene Lake’s many speculations88 financed with other people’s money—without their knowledge or consent. He was sentenced in January 1901 to twelve years’ imprisonment89, for converting trust funds to his own use. He had in various projects made away with no less than ￡170,000 of his clients’ money.
So there was an end of this great development57 idea. Only a few scattered houses and the roads gashed90 in the hill-tops remain to tell of it, for the sea speedily washed away every fragment of the timber pier91.
The name of Wooda Bay, therefore, falls ill on the ears of not a few defrauded92 persons. It is a pity, for it is one of the loveliest bays on an exceptionally lovely coast. The Post Office authorities have adopted the new-fangled spelling, “Woody,” instead of “Wooda,” as appears by the tree-shaded post-office here; and the Lynton and Barnstaple Railway, which has a station for it, set down in a far-off wilderness93, appears to spell the name, with a fine air of impartiality94, in both styles. But the old rustic95 Devonian way was “Wooda”; a form characteristic of innumerable place-names throughout the country, and exemplified near by, in “Parracombe,” “Challacombe,” “Fullaford,” “Buzzacott,” and innumerable others.
Delightful lanes lead round the shores of the bay, amid woods, with here and there a waterfall; notably96 at a point where a bridge carrying a lane over a little stream is inscribed97 Inkerman Bridge, 1857.
Near the shore is the unpretending manor house of Martinhoe: the church of that parish being situated98 high above, away among the wild commons of a little-visited hinterland. It was here and at Trentishoe, many years since, that the future Bishop99 Hannington, who met a martyr’s fate in 1885 in the wilds of his African diocese, was58 curate. He dressed the part unconventionally, in a manner fitting a neighbourhood where there were no Dorcas Societies, mothers’ meetings, or any of the quaint100 machinery101 of a modern parish. Only rough farmers and their men, and wild and unfrequented footpaths102 formed everyday experiences. The typical curate would have soon found his conventional dress very much out of place. Hannington wore Bedford cord knee-breeches of a yellow hue103, yellow Sussex gaiters with brass104 buttons, and great nailed boots that would have suited a ploughboy. A short jerkin of black cloth and a clerical waistcoat that buttoned up the side gave just a professional hint. In this costume, covered with the surplice, of course, he would take the services as well; not from any eccentricity105, but simply because the conditions of these rustic parishes demanded it. They demanded much walking, too. “I see you’ve got fine legs,” Dr. Temple, the rather grim Bishop of Exeter, said: “mind you run about your parish.”
Over the wooded hill called Wringapeak, the way now lies on to Heddon’s Mouth.
WOODA BAY.
There is no hint of monotony in this grand stretch of coast scenery. Here nature is full of resources and surprises, and each cliff-profile, valley, wooded hillside, or little bay is strikingly different from the last. Leaving Wooda Bay behind, having already, as you think, tasted every variety of scenic106 splendour, yet another aspect of these boundless107 resources is revealed, in an61 exquisite108 wood of dwarf109 oaks. Through this delightful boscage, delightful in itself and in the shade it gives on fervent110 days, the way lies, as a grassy111 path. Great grey boulders, covered with lichen70, show on either side, in the half light, and the foliage112 of the oaks grows in wonderfully large lustrous113 leaves, by favour of this wonderful climate. It is all so quiet. Few people are ever met here; but, here and there, at infrequent intervals114 one finds a retired115 villa116, three-parts hidden behind the shrubs of its ample grounds. One such you pass, and see amid the woodland trees a little tombstone to a pet dog; “‘Bruiser,’ a good dog”: concise117, yet all-comprising.
When rounding successive points, new and ever more beautiful views are disclosed, and sublime thoughts rise, but they do not find full expression in that form, because of the loose stones and fragments of rock that everywhere prodigally118 strew119 the cliff-paths. Midway between Wooda Bay and Heddon’s Mouth, a lovely waterfall comes spouting120 down the face of the cliff, in a little bight, the sides of it fringed with moss68 and ferns, and at the foot a tangle121 of trees and bushes that have found a precarious122 foothold. Here fragments of rock, like some prehistoric123 rubbish-heap, threaten unstable124 ankles.
These cliffs are simply huge masses of loosely compacted rubbish—laminated stone embedded125 in ochreous, friable126 earth—held together largely by surface vegetation: gorse, grass, and rock-plants, and in places the hillsides resemble engineers’62 spoil-banks. But the horned breed of sheep that browse127 here keep a wonderful foothold, in places where no human being would dare trust himself on the slopes, covered with slippery grass. The cliff-path is usually solitary128, and the occasional, nearly human cough of these only living creatures is therefore at first somewhat startling, in its apparently129 half-apologetic note, like that of some Paul Pry130, who “hopes he don’t intrude131.” Their clattering132 walk along the loose flakes133 of stone, so plentifully135 strewn about, is oddly like unseen people roughly handling piles of dinner-plates.
HEDDON’S MOUTH.
Presently Heddon’s Mouth bursts upon the view, with all the force of a revelation. To observe the coast-line from the deck of a vessel—for example, from one of the big steamers that pass63 quite close in, on the way to Ilfracombe—may seem (and is) a luxurious136 way of seeing these cliffs and their openings. No foot-soreness, no scrambling137 amid incredible rocks: only a patronising passing in review from an easeful attitude of observation. But then, strangely enough, this majestic138 succession of headlands, of bays, and “mouths” is flattened139 and fore-shortened and depreciated140 in a degree incredible to those who have not tried both methods. Heddon’s Mouth, for example, looks by no means remarkable from the sea. But viewed from either above or below, on land, its grandeur141 is exceptional. From this cliff-path on High Veer142, whence you first see the deep and narrow valley, or gully, or, as a Central American might say, “ca?on,” you look far up the valley in one direction, and in the other out to sea. The hills on either side are not rocky. They impress rather by their enormous size and simplicity143 of outline. Shelving down steeply to where the Heddon flows at the bottom, only an occasional outcrop of rock stands up. For the rest, they are clothed in patches and streaks144 with bracken and with a short, wiry innutritious grass, and very largely strewn from top to bottom with countless145 thousands of tons of rocky rubbish, blue-grey in general effect of colour, and in appearance like the refuse on the tip banks of mines. Oddly enough, such a generous distribution of waste material does not help to spoil the scenery. The hillsides end, seaward, in grey, red and yellow-brown cliffs, where an old limekiln, like a stone blockhouse fort,64 lends a specious146 air of historic assault and battery to the scene. Here the Heddon stream comes trickling147 down among the boulders of the beach; sometimes indeed, when thunderstorms have vexed148 the uplands, swirling149 down in a coffee-coloured tumult150 and staining a calm sea for a long distance out.
“HUNTER’S INN.”
Winding footpaths lead up the lonely valley and through a wood, and then conduct to a well-known hostelry in these parts, the Hunter’s Inn. For many long years this was a picturesque thatched house, but it was burnt down at last, in 1895, and the new “Hunter’s Inn,” although it is built very charmingly and in good taste, and really is as picturesque as the one it replaces, has not yet existed long enough to compel the affections of the sentimental151. There is a nameless something in these things, an elusive152 flavour, an65 unexpected feeling, it may be, that the old inn was picturesque by accident, as it were, and was the natural product of its era and surroundings, while the new was created to be self-consciously pretty. It is a favourite resort of anglers, who, except in summer, when pedestrians153 and carriage-parties come this way, have the inn and the whole valley very much to themselves, for there is no neighbourly village and Trentishoe is a mile distant, half-way up one of the steepest of hills.
Trentishoe has a church of the Early English extremely rural type, with a little insignificant154 tower; but, although it possesses this church of its own, no one would accuse it of being a village. Two cottages by the church, a little group half-way up hill, and another little group below, by the Heddon, constitute Trentishoe.
The moorland to which the traveller comes is the wild windy waste of Trentishoe Down and Holdstone Down, considerably155 over a thousand feet above the sea, scorching156 and drouthy in summer and ferociously157 cold in winter; but these disadvantages, each in its season, have not prevented hopeful, would-be sellers of building-sites from erecting158 the usual notices of “this desirable” land to be on offer. It has come to this at last, that all land is in land-agents’ jargon159, “desirable,” just as, conventionally, a naval160 or military officer is “gallant,” members of Parliament are “honourable,” and barristers “learned”: to name but a few of those tags and labels that nowadays mean so little.
66
TRENTISHOE CHURCH.
Few are those who explore to the right hand on this upland, where Trentishoe Barrow seems to witness that, however un-desirable the site may really be for residences, Prehistoric Man found it eminently161 suitable as a burying-place. The “Great Hangman,” the crowning height of these cliffs (1187 ft.), obtains its ill-flavoured name from an ignorant perversion162 of Pen an maen: the old Cornu-British for “the Hill of the Stone,” namely, a rude, post-like monolith, standing something over five feet high. The “Pen” was lost in course of time and “an-maen” became by degrees “Hangman,” when the legend that now attaches to the stone was duly invented to account67 for the name. According to this thoroughly163 unveracious story, which old Fuller, who does not appear to have disbelieved it, no doubt heard from the peasantry, a sheep-stealer was crossing the hill with a sheep slung164 over his back, and sat down here to rest awhile, and, doing so, the sheep in its struggles slipped, and the rope tightening165 round the man’s neck, he was strangled. Two difficulties, however, meet us here (supposing, for the moment, we take this tale seriously)—(1) How the sheep-stealer could have sat down to rest on a post over five feet high, and (2) How this strangling accident could possibly in any way have happened. Probably we may be met with the reply that the standing-stone is merely a monument of the affair, but the final quietus should be given the legend by the fact that there are numerous tales identical in every respect, all over England: and it is unthinkable that sheep-stealers were always being accidentally hanged in such numbers—and in a manner demonstrably impossible.
This region between Heddon’s Mouth and Great Hangman Point is without doubt the most inaccessible166 nook along the coast. Roads avoid the neighbourhood of the gigantic cliffs that for the most part go sheer down into the sea, without sands or beaches at their base, six or seven hundred feet. And the combes, mouths, and valleys, that here and there let down some streams to the sea, are, if on a smaller scale than the gorge167 of Heddon’s Mouth, even more rugged and difficult of exploration.68 Sherracombe—or “Sherry-come-out,” as the fishermen name it—is particularly notable for its stream that, rushing down this cleave168 in the hills, pours out in a fall of seventy feet over the rock-face. Somewhat east of it, over the hillside and down a perilous169 climb, is “Wild Pear Beach,” a lonely spot overhung with brambles and hawthorn170 bushes: the haws upon the thorns in autumn being the “wild pears” in question.
The Great Hangman ends in Blackstone Point and beach; a savage171 spot, now absolutely solitary, but once the scene, together with the neighbouring cliffs, of busy mining operations. Combemartin, round the next bend of coast, was for centuries famed for its silver mines, and in a less degree for its lead, iron, and copper172; and here also rich lodes were evidently discovered at some remote period, for the cliffs are honeycombed with tunnels and caves excavated173 in the pursuit of wealth. No road exists to these old excavations174, and the rock and ore extracted must either have been shipped off by long-vanished stagings, or hoisted175 hundreds of feet above by ropes. One of these tunnels extends nearly 350 feet into the rock, and with a plentiful134 supply of matches it is possible to stumble along it to a great distance. But scrambling in these wilds, in a climate such as this of Devonshire, is an undertaking176 of the most exhausting kind, and not to be embarked177 upon by any except the agile178 or the robust179. This explorer, at any rate, is not likely to forget the69 scramblings up and scramblings down involved, in company with showers of the loose stones that encumber180 the hillsides; nor the astonishment181 exhibited at West Challacombe Farm on beholding182 a stranger, stumbling upon the place by accident, on the way to Combemartin.
There are remains183 in this old farmstead of a vanished importance, both in the thick walls carefully disposed and loopholed for defence, and in the old porch surmounted184 by a defaced coat of arms and the word “Pruz.” It is said to have been the manor-house of a family of that name, long ago extinct, or its identity lost in the debased form, “Prowse.”
And so at last, steeply—always steeply up or down in these parts—down a typical Devonshire lane to Combemartin, meeting on the way a truly Devonian farm-labourer, who remarked of the sultry heat that it was, “Law bless ’ee proper St. Lawrence weather.”
“St. Lawrence weather?”
“Ees, fay; braave an’ hot, sure.”
“But why St. Lawrence?”
But why St. Lawrence should have that unenviable distinction is more than I can tell. There is, at any rate, an obvious connection between hot weather and the gridiron martyrdom of St. Lawrence.
“Lazy as David Lawrence’s dog,” is said to be a Scottish phrase: the “Lawrence” in this70 instance being originally an imaginary “Larrence” who presided over the indolent. In Essex, on the other hand, your typical lazybones is “Hall’s dog”: e.g. “you’re like Hall’s dog, who was too lazy to bark.”
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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spired
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| v.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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perseveringly
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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26
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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27
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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28
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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29
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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30
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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32
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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33
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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34
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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35
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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36
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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37
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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38
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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39
notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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40
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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41
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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42
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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43
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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44
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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45
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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46
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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47
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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48
glorifying
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| 赞美( glorify的现在分词 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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49
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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50
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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51
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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52
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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53
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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54
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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55
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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56
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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57
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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58
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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59
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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60
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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61
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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62
percolation
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| n.过滤，浸透；渗滤；渗漏 | |
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63
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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64
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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65
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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66
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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67
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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68
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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69
lichened
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| adj.长满地衣的，长青苔的 | |
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70
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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71
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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72
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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73
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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74
infest
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| v.大批出没于；侵扰；寄生于 | |
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75
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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76
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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77
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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78
boulders
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|
| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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79
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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80
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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81
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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82
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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83
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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84
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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85
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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86
mermaids
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|
| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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87
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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88
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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89
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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90
gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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92
defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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94
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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95
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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96
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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97
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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98
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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99
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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100
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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101
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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102
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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103
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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104
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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105
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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106
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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107
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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108
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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109
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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110
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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111
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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112
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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113
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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114
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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115
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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116
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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117
concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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118
prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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119
strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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120
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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121
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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122
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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123
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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124
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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125
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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126
friable
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| adj.易碎的 | |
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127
browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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128
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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129
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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130
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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131
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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132
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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133
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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134
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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135
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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136
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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137
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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138
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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139
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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140
depreciated
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|
| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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141
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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142
veer
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| vt.转向，顺时针转，改变；n.转向 | |
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143
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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144
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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145
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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146
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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147
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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148
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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149
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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150
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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170
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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excavated
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| v.挖掘( excavate的过去式和过去分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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182
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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184
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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