It was just
such a quaint unimproved, old-world, restful place as she had
painted. It was surprising to find that there were many
visitors, and one wondered where they could all stow
themselves. The explanation was that those who visited
Branscombe knew it, and preferred its hovels to the palaces
of the fashionable seaside town. No cottage was too mean to
have its guest. I saw a lady push open the cracked and
warped door of an old barn and go in, pulling the door to
after her--it was her bed-sitting-room. I watched a party of
pretty merry girls marching, single file, down a narrow path
past a pig-sty, then climb up a ladder to the window of a loft
at the back of a stone cottage and disappear within. It was
their bedroom. The relations between the villagers and their
visitors were more intimate and kind than is usual. They
lived more together, and were more free and easy in company.
The men were mostly farm labourers, and after their day's work
they would sit out-of-doors on the ground to smoke their
pipes; and where the narrow crooked little street was
narrowest--at my end of the village--when two men would sit
opposite each other, each at his own door, with legs stretched
out before them, their boots would very nearly touch in the
middle of the road. When walking one had to step over their
legs; or, if socially inclined, one could stand by and join in
the conversation.
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