The Valley of Stones, about half a mile to the north-west of Lynton, occupied my pencil the ensuing morning. […]

On entering the Valley of Stones the eye is offended by a quadrangular wall built with the small stones which lie scattered about; having been lately erected, not a single blade of grass rises on it, to break its natural deformity and relieve the sight from so disgusting an object. The entrance of the valley is very narrow, its sides incline about an angle of forty-five degrees with the horizon, and are covered with rocks increasing in magnitude to the summit, where they lie in the most extraordinary confusion, and apparent insecurity, almost requiring a similar precaution as in those awful passes of the Alps, where the guides impose silence on those whom they conduct, lest the vibration of their voices should shake from their fragile foundation the impending avalanches, and crush beneath their enormous weight the unfortunate and ill-fated travellers.

[Text may be taken from a different source or edition than that listed as the source by Somers Cocks.]