A light breeze carried us into Babbicombe Bay, and we were again becalmed off some curiously-shaped rocks, which lie off a point called Bob's Nose.  It was rather tantalising not to be able to get in to see more of the scenery of that most picturesque bay.  We could, however, distinguish the houses among the rich groves on the top of the cliffs, in which were openings, with pretty cottages perched on projecting ledges, while others were built close down to the water.  Two yachts were at anchor in the bay, which we agreed must be a capital yachting place, as a vessel can get in or out at all times, and it is sheltered from every wind except from the east.  We had our mackerel lines out whenever the vessel was moving through the water.  Though, as before, we at first baited with pieces of white linen, yet as soon as a mackerel was caught, we put a bit of it on to our hooks, at which its relatives eagerly bit.  The ends of the lines were fastened either to the backstay or the taffrail, allowing them to pass over our finger, so that the moment a mackerel took the bait we could feel it.  We then hauled in, the fish appearing at the surface skipping and jumping like a mass of silver.  We caught a dozen fine fish before breakfast, and they were immediately frizzing away on the fire.  As we could not move along, we amused ourselves with our spy-glasses, observing what was going forward on shore.