Those who have not been there would
scarcely believe that the town possesses a castle perched upon towering
cliffs, or that its splendid old church of Saint-Jacques is the real glory
of the place. Granville cannot boast of quite so much in the way of
antiquities, but there is something peculiarly fascinating about its dark
church, in which the light seems unable to penetrate, and whose walls
assume almost the same tones as the rocks from which the masonry was hewn.
I should like to describe the scenery of the twenty miles of country that
lie between Granville and Coutances, but I have only passed over it on one
occasion. It was nine o'clock in the evening, and the long drawn-out
twilight had nearly faded away as I climbed up the long ascent which
commences the road to Coutances, and before I had reached the village of
Brehal it was quite dark. The road became absolutely deserted, and although
one or two people on bicycles passed me about this time, they were carrying
no lamps as is the usual custom in France, where the rules governing the
use of a _bicyclette_ are so numerous and intricate, but so absolutely
ignored.
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