It was the yellow flowers that did it! I’ve finally remembered. All night long I’ve been dreaming of Runswick Bay. I’ve been climbing the rocks, talking to the fishermen, picking my way over the masses of slippery seaweed, and breathing the fresh salty air. And all morning I’ve been saying to myself, “What can have made me dream of Runswick Bay? What can have brought the events of my short stay in that quiet little place so vividly before me?” Yes, I am convinced of it; it was that bunch of yellow flowers on the table in my bedroom. My little Ella gathered it in the lane behind the house yesterday morning, and brought it in triumphantly. She took the best china vase from the dining room, filled it with water from the tap, and stuck the large yellow bunch in it.
“Ella!” said Florence, her older sister, “What ugly weeds! Why did you put them in Mother’s best vase, the one Aunt Alice gave her on her birthday! What a silly thing to do!”
“It’s not silly,” Ella retorted, “and Mother is sure to like them; I know she will. She won’t call them weeds. She loves all yellow flowers. She said so when I brought her the daffodils, and these are yellower, much yellower.”
Her mother came in at that moment, and, taking our little girl on her knee, she told her that she was quite right; they were very beautiful and she would put them at once in her own room where she could have them all to herself.
And that is how it came about that, as I lay in bed, the last thing I saw before I went to sleep was Ella’s bunch of yellow flowers, and what could be more natural than that I should dream of Runswick Bay?
I was a young man then, just beginning to make my way as an artist. It was slow work at first, for until you’ve become well-known, every one looks critically at your work. Only after you’ve gotten a good reputation does every daub from your brush sell easily. At the time my story begins I wasn’t making much money, but I enjoyed my work and kept at it patiently. Several of my pictures had sold for reasonably good prices, and I hoped to have some of my paintings in the Art Academy soon.
That summer was unusually hot and London was emptying fast. Every one who could afford it was going either to the moors or to the sea, and I wanted to follow their example. My father and mother had died when I was young. The aunt who brought me up had just passed away, and I mourned her death very deeply. She had been both father and mother to me. I felt that I needed a change. I’d been up for many nights with her during her last illness, and I’d had my rest broken for so long, that I found it very difficult to sleep. I felt tired and restless most of the time.
My Aunt left all she had to me, so I had enough money to leave London and to take a long holiday. The question was, where should I go? I was anxious to combine, if possible, pleasure and business. I hoped to find some quiet place where I could get fresh air and pleasant weather, and also where I could find inspiration for my new picture, which I hoped would find a place in the Academy the following spring.
I was having trouble finding a place to go until Tom Bernard, my best friend, came to the rescue.
“Jack, old fellow,” he said, thrusting a torn newspaper into my hand, “read that.”
The newspaper was folded to the spot Tom had circled in red for me to read.
RUNSWICK BAY
This charming seaside resort is not half as popular as it deserves to be. For the lover of the beautiful, for the person with an artistic eye, it possesses a charm which is difficult to describe. The little bay is a favorite resort for artists; they, at least, know how to appreciate its beauties. Any who can visit this wonderfully picturesque and enchanting spot should reserve hotel or lodging house accommodation as early as possible, because the demand for rooms in August and September is far greater than the supply.
“Well, what do you think of it?” said Tom.
“It sounds just right,” I said; “fresh air and plenty to paint.”
“Are you going to go?”
“Yes, tomorrow,” I replied; “the sooner the better.”
Eagerly I packed my bag and painting easel and purchased some art supplies. By early the next morning I was on my way into Yorkshire.
The late afternoon sun looked down as I reached the end of my long, railway journey. My body ached and cried out in thirst. Dust clung to my shirt, pants and bags. I still had two miles to walk, but I saw no sign of beauty as I started out from the station. The country had a few low hills, but I could see nothing but a long, flat stretch of fields covered with grass or corn. Harebells and pink campion grew on the banks, and the meadows were full of ox-eye daisies, but I saw nothing else that was in the least attractive, and certainly nothing worth painting.
A family from York came on the same train, and I learned from their conversation that they had rented rooms for a month at Runswick Bay. The children, two boys of ten and twelve, and a little fair-haired girl a year or two younger, were excited about being there.
“Father, where is the sea?” they cried. “We can’t wait to see the ocean.”
“Run on,” said their father, “and you’ll soon see it.”
I ran with them, for I felt like a child again as I watched them, and if I lagged behind, one or other of them would turn round and call, “Come on, come hurry up; we’ll soon see it.”
Then, suddenly, we came to the edge of the high cliff, and the sea in all its beauty was in view. The small bay was shut in by rocks on either side, and the little fishing village was built on the slope of the steep cliff. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier place.
The children went running down the steep, rocky path which led down to the sea while I followed more slowly behind them. It was a very curiously built place. The fishermen’s cottages were perched on the rock, wherever a ledge or flat place could be found. Steep, narrow paths, or small flights of rock-hewn steps, led from one to another. There was no street in the whole place; there could be none, for there were hardly two houses which stood on the same level. To take a walk through this quaint village was to go up and down stairs the whole time.
At last, after a long, downward scramble, I found myself on the shore, and then I looked back at the cliff and the irregular little village. I was no longer surprised to find artists here. I counted four as I came down the hill, perched on different platforms on the rock, and all hard at work at their easels.
It was certainly a picturesque place, and I was glad that I had come. The coloring was charming: there was red rock in the background, here and there covered with grass, and ablaze with flowers. Wild roses and poppies, pink-thrift and white daisies, all contributed to make the whole rocky area cheerful. But the yellow ragwort was all over; great patches of it grew even on the edge of the sand, and its bright flowers gave the whole place a golden coloring. There seemed to be yellow everywhere, and the red-tiled cottages, the fishermen in their blue jerseys, and the countless flights of steps, all appeared to be framed in bright gold.
Now, I felt sure I would find something to paint in Runswick Bay. I wasn’t disappointed in Tom’s suggestion.