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are few inhabited places in Southern Britain more inaccessible than. This arises rather from the difficulties which frequently attend the passage to or from the island than from its remoteness. For its northern extremity is less than two miles from Trwyn-y-Gwyddel, the nearest point of the mainland of Lleyn, while the passage from Aberdaron, where you take boat, to the landing-place, Cefn Enlli, extends over only about five miles. But Bardsey derives its ancient Welsh name, Enlli, from the fierce current which rages between it and the mainland, and it is only at certain states of the tide that a crossing can be made. Moreover, if it blows hard, as it so often does on this windy coast, winter and summer, it is altogether impossible to cross the sound in an open boat, in one direction or the other, and most likely in both; so that it is commonly said that no one should go to Bardsey who is not prepared to stay a week. I started about noon on the 23rd May, 1901, to cross to the island, in calm weather. But as in my hurry to set foot on the famous isle (having been baulked of my desire the year before) I had persuaded the boatmen to start too early, we were caught under Bardsey cliffs by the last of the tide, and our boat was tossed about somewhat like a cork in a pot of boiling water—and this in a dead and stifling calm. I intended to get away again on the morning tide the following day. But at night it came on to blow; at daybreak, I was told, no boat could cross, and, true to its character, Bardsey kept me a prisoner until the next tide. This did not matter, and I had so much more time with the birds. We got off finally about half-past one, with the wind nearly ahead, light to moderate, and coming rather squally off the land. We had borrowed an extra sail and taken in a small cartload of big stones for additional ballast. We rowed