Most beautiful of all seemed Dinard, which we rapidly approached. In
twenty minutes we had passed into the little harbour beyond the pier. It
was quite a bustling quay, with carriages for hire, and men with barrows
touting noisily for custom, treading upon each other's heels in the race
for existence; cafes and small hotels in the background.
Having plenty of time, we preferred to walk to the station, and
consigned our baggage to the care of a deaf and dumb man, who
disappeared with everything like magic, left us high and dry upon the
quay to follow more leisurely, and to hope that we were not the victims
of misplaced confidence. It looked very much like it.
A steep climb brought us to the heights of Dinard. Nothing could be more
romantic. Here were no traces of antiquity; everything was aggressively
modern; all beauty lay in scenery and situation. Humble cottages
embowered in roses and wisteria; stately chateaux standing in large
luxuriant gardens flaming with flowers, proudly secluded behind great
iron gates. At every opening the sea, far down, lay stretched before
us. Precipitous cliffs, rugged rocks where flowers and verdure grew in
wild profusion, led sheer to the water's edge. Land everywhere rose in a
dreamy atmosphere; St. Malo and St. Servan across the bay in the
distance. It was a wealth of vegetation; trees in full foliage, masses
of gorgeous flowers, that you had only to stretch out your hand and
gather; the blue sky over all.
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