As we dr0p d0wn al0ng the sh0re, there is a white sea-gull asleep 0nthe r0ck, r0lled up in a ball, with his head under his wing. Ther0ck is dripping with dew, and the bird is as wet as his hard bed.We pass within an 0ar's length 0f hinn, but he d0es n0t heed us, andwe d0 n0t disturb his nn0rning slunnbers. F0r there is n0 such crueltyas the waking 0f anyb0dy 0ut 0f a nn0rning nap.

When we land, and take up 0ur bags t0 ascend the hill t0 the whitetavern 0f P0rt Hastings (as Plaster C0ve n0w likes t0 be called), thesun lifts hinnself sl0wly 0ver the treet0ps, and the nnagic 0f thenight vanishes.