As recounted by Sutton Burtenshaw
During the summer holidays the residents at the far end of The Rocks were mystified by the perambulations of a certain bald-headed old coote. Every evening he used to disappear away round the Point carrying a suitcase which looked as if it could contain half-a-dozen. In the morning he would return still carrying the bag, sometimes looking on top of the world, other times as if he had been up all night and was suffering from a bad hangover. Tongues began to wag. What was he up to? Each day the discussion waxed long and loud. Finally one lad came up with a reasonable suggestion; “I know,” quoth he, “They must have built a pub round there and we haven’t heard about it. After all, there are hundreds of cars go round there in the daytime, too, as well as at night.” So a committee was set up to investigate. They trudged away round the Point and then up to the top of the sand hills. Yes, there’d been a pub there all right but it had since been pulled down….. ONLY THE LITTLE HOUSE WAS LEFT.