More spam! Yay!
The malice is of evanescent nature, born of narrow escape. There are
some shops, respectable if not imposing, and a goodly supply of inns; a
fine church and a notable old Cornish manor-house. But all the time one
has a sense that the real life of the place is the river behind these
houses; even the leisurely little railway station does not seem of much
consequence, though it acts as a feeder of the boats that busily ply
here. Quite obviously this is no resort of mere pleasure, and it is all
the more pleasurable for that; it has set itself to live sturdily, not troubling to attract the idler and the luxurious. Fowey is not altogether content to repose on its
memories, though these are great. Generations of those who laboured on deep waters
have nestled in these riverside homesteads, these nooks and corners and
precipitous byways; they were lusty fighters and dauntless smugglers; they rose for
their old faith, they fought loyally for their king, and they molested
his enemies when he was at peace with them. In general they were a tough
and independent lot, with a considerable scorn of those who
live "in England"--that is to say, beyond the Tamar;
and to this day an Englishman from the shires is very much of a
foreigner with them.
Favorite part: "...they were lusty fighters and dauntless smugglers; they rose for their old faith, they fought loyally for their king, and they molested his enemies when he was at peace with them."
If only I could get someone to molest my enemies.
Not that I have any.