The road runs level for a third of a mile, then (leaving aside a branch that stays on the upland to service a golf club) it swoops down to the right and around a headland called Dragon's Hill, under tall trees. You are tumbling off the inland plateau. Emerging from the trees, you see the shining, towering sea.

The picture is somewhat idealized in that there is no such actual viewpoint (unless you scramble over a bank of nettles). You do, on your way down the hill, seem to have a view over the sea and the little town beside it, but your mental sensation is a composite of glimpses between the continuing trees. (That is the way of pictures as opposed to photographs: they show what the mind sees.)

Something slender stretches from the town into the sea. And down in the foreground, looking like white tiles, is a caravan park.

You are now certainly on the way to Lyme—you're on the literal brink of reaching it. You've extricated yourself from the fore-maze, or gate-maze, made by the little network of lanes around Penn Cross.

Of course, if you took too direct a way, missing that foremaze and the interesting remarks I had to make about it (the old roads sidelined by modern ones, the lost bridge, the way to the hinterland), you can always go back into it, then later find your way again to the top of Dragon's Hill. Otherwise, go on down.