Southward, along the cliffs, a high steeple rock--the Old
Man of Hoy--stood like a sentinel guarding the coast, his head on a
level with the cliff behind him; and rounding Rora Head were the
brown sails of a few fishing craft making for Stromness.
"Come, Robbie," I said, when we had feasted our eyes on this scene.
"Come, we must be getting home. The tide has turned this long while
past, and we'll be hungry before we're back to Stromness."
We were, indeed, already somewhat hungry, and regretted we had not
brought food with us instead of the climbing ropes, which had not
so far been required. To think of getting anything to eat where we
were was needless, for we were on the most desolate part of the Hoy
island, and not a house was there for miles away.
The walk back along the ridge of the cliffs was easy, the ground
sloping downward in our favour. About a mile further on we came to
the cliffs below which our boat was moored. But, alas! we had been
sadly out in our reckoning. The boat was afloat, deep down there,
tugging desperately at her rope and grinding her sides against a
rock. To get down to her was now a problem. From our high position
we could see how the tide had risen well above the rocks by which
we had climbed from one bay to the other, and our only course was
to descend by the steep precipice surrounding the creek wherein the
boat was moored.
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