Long Entry has become a tarmac path, and going on down it—
        But wait, what's the matter with those three gulls on the grassy slope to your left? They are pattering with both webbed feet, like soldiers very rapidly marking time. Then each of them moves to another spot and does the same pattering dance. They know that this action will bring worms up to the surface!
        The path ends on a sharp cape, which I call Broken Point, above the tide-washed rocks. The sea has taken, and is still taking, a bite out of the land, and by 1750 Long Entry had been broken off.



        The breaking goes on. Look at the high corner of the grassy slope behind you, topped by a fence and bushes: there is what looks like a path steeply down the actual corner — but it is an erosion gully; its latest cascade of earth lies at the bottom.
        On the parapet are some interesting signboards, telling you about the nature of the coast that stretches ahead. The nearest huge mass is called Timber Hill, or its top is; in the dip beyond it is Charmouth, of which only one white building pokes into view; then the next hill, Stonebarrow; the next and most memorable in outline is Golden Cap; and others fade into the distance.
        Down below you, if it's a low or partly low tide, the beach is almost too fantastic to describe: a congeries of seaweed and inlets and ripple-crinkled sand and rock pavements and crowds of errant rocks on which may perch gulls and a cormorant.
        If you're down here early, you may encounter our friend the crow lady. She'll say “Excuse me, I'm going to make a horrible noise. 'AAGHKKH!'” Crows come flying (sometimes they don't deign to come) from the cliffs for the snack she has for them, and she'll tell you about the admirable qualities of these intelligent birds. And down on the other, outward-facing side of the point, there's a tough man who takes a swim no matter how cold the dawn.
        You can double back around the sides of the cape to left, or right.