These sandhills are called "dunes." Here and there at intervals you
will see a number of little towns, each town standing by itself on the
shore, and separated from its neighbour by a row of dunes and a
stretch of sand.
This is your first view of the little country called Belgium, which is
bounded on the east by Holland, and on the west by France. It is, from
end to end, about half the size of Ireland.
There are no cliffs or rocks, no shingle or stones covered with
seaweed. There are no trees. It is all bare sand, with moss and rushes
on the higher ground above the beach. In winter the wind rages with
terrific violence along the coast. The sand is blown in all
directions, and the waves dash fiercely on the shore. It is cold and
stormy, with mist and dark clouds, and sometimes violent showers of
hail. But in summer all is changed. Often, week after week, the waves
roll gently in, and break in ripples on the beach. The sky is blue,
and the sands are warm. It is the best place in the world for digging
and building castles. There are very few shells to gather; but there
are no dangerous rocks or slippery places, and children can wade about
and play in perfect safety.
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