They drove through the spring countryside, with gently rolling hills and rich meadows enlivened by many villages. Until they reached Frome, the roads were busy, but as they approached the broad Vale of Blackmore, the rich pasturelands ahead were less traveled and promised fewer congenial inns, so they took lunch at Wincanton. Afternoon was drawing to a close when the outcroppings of pinewoods alerted them they were nearing their destination. From the rising ground they looked down on a fashionable watering place situated at the mouth of a valley. Hills of pine lifted above, surrounding and protecting it from harsh winds. Beyond the coast, water shimmered gold and orange and crimson in the sunlight. “Our hotel is on the east cliff,” Bea said. “Yes, John Groom has studied the maps. He will get us there with no trouble,” Southam replied. “I’m starved!” Gillie whined. She was restless from her long incarceration. Bea shot her a warning look. “Pardon me, Aunt Bea. I am feeling peckish.
