The Manor of Lea formed, in early days, the largest feudal Lordship in Shropshire held by the Bishop of Hereford. Owing to the exigences of his position, and the turbulence of those remote times, the Bishop was often called upon to relinquish the crozier for the sword, and to lead his lieges against the wild Welshmen; for, in connexion with Bishop's Castle, Lea formed an important link in the cordon of border fortresses. The tenant of Lea, indeed, appears to have been under obligation of doing suit and service at Bishop's Castle, when called upon by the constable of the latter.

The old farmhouse alongside has evidently been added to and altered at various times in a very haphazard fashion. On its staircase is a piece of timber quartering ornamented with a rude shield on which appear the words anno. do. 1560, proving that the place can boast a respectable antiquity.

Amidst a chorus of 'come-back! come-back!' from the galeney-fowls in the farmyard, we set out once again upon our travels. Giving preference to the meadow paths, we presently happen upon a huge block of stone, as big as a good-sized cart, lying stranded in the middle of a grass field. How it came there is the puzzle, so we take counsel with an old fellow breaking stones by the wayside, a furlong farther on. 'Oh,' says he, in reply to our questions, 'they 'ud used to tell us, when we was childern, as the Devil fell lame one day a-walkin' by here, and throwed that there old stwun out of's shoe, and then fled away up to Stiperstones yander. But that was afore my time, like, and behappen there's never a one now as can tell the rights on it.' And the country folk have a saying that the Lea Stone, as it is called, turns itself around 'every time the clock strikes thirteen.'

When Henry II. mounted the throne, Bishop's Castle was held by Hugh de Mortimer of Wigmore, but was regained for the see by the energy of Bishop Gilbert Ffoliot. In the year 1263, the castle was stormed and its constable slain by the rebellious John FitzAlan and his followers. A visitation of Bishop Swinfield, about thirty years later, was long remembered in the locality, on account of the sumptuous style in which that prelate lived; indeed his Lordship and his retinue seem to have 'eaten the good people out of house and home,' as the saying goes.

In Leland's time the Castle was 'well maintenid, and set on a stronge Rokke, not very hi,' but seems to have been already reduced to ruins before the time of the Civil Wars.

Perched on a tall green mound, high above the old town, the position is certainly a commanding one, affording a fine prospect over the adjacent country, though now somewhat obscured by trees. Close at hand rises the old Market House, now the Powis Institute and Reading Room, with the borough arms carved upon its gable, and the date of its erection, 1781. Over the door of an adjacent shop we espy the curious surname of Gotobed, a clan which should be widely represented, one would suppose, in this Sleepy Hollow! Another old lintel retains some ancient lettering, with the figures 1685. Then, turning down the steep High Street, we get a backward view of the town; the prim façade of an eighteenth-century Town Hall, topped by a slender belfry, seeming to block up the roadway, and some oldfashioned shops and dwellings flanking the narrow footpath.

Presently we come to the church at the farther end of the town, though tradition avers that, once upon a time, the church stood in the very middle of it; not that the church has moved, but the town shrunk up into itself—but that is as it may be. An ancient ivy-clad tower is about the only relic of the older church which has survived, for, during the troubles of the Civil Wars, the sacred edifice fell a prey to the flames, and has only within the last forty years been rebuilt and renovated. There are some very ancient yews in the churchyard: and a tombstone near the belfry door bears the following inscription: 'A la mémoire de Louis Paces, Lieut.-Colonel de Chevaux legers, chevalier des ordres militaires des deux Siciles et d'Espayne. Mort à Bishop's Castle le 1^re Mai 1814, age de 40 ans.' This must have been one of the French prisoners who, at the time of the Peninsular War, were billeted at Bishop's Castle.

Bishop's Castle forms a good starting-point for exploring a little-frequented, rural country. Northwards lie Lydham and More, Lydham church standing, as is so frequently the case in this border district, cheek-by-jowl with a prehistoric tumulus. More is the ancestral home of the ancient family of that ilk, whose forbears 'came over from Normandy with the Conqueror.'

Then there is Linley, with its stately avenues leading up towards hills which have been mined for lead ever since the Romans were there. Amongst these hills stands Hyssington, which we will take leave to visit, though it lies away outside our county, over the Welsh frontier.

Anent the church at Hyssington there is a curious tradition. Long, long ago, in the old Popish days, an enormous Bull made his appearance at Hyssington, and grew bigger and bigger every day, until the good people of the neighbourhood went in fear of their lives by reason of the dreaded monster. At last things came to such a pass that the parson made up his mind to try heroic measures. So with book, bell and candle, he sallied forth in quest of the Bull, and, by reading of appropriate texts, managed to reduce the uncanny beast to such dimensions as would admit of his being driven into the church. But alack! before the creature could be finally extinguished, parson's candle had burnt out; and ere morning came, when the reading could be resumed, the Bull had swelled out again, until his huge body cracked the church walls from top to bottom!

Such is the veracious legend; but whether this Bull hailed from the Emerald Isle, or belonged to that species known as Papal Bulls, history recordeth not; but the cracks in the church walls long remained to confound the incredulous.

Continuing our perambulation we come presently to Church-Stoke, a pleasant looking village of half-timbered houses seated on the river Camlad, one of them bearing upon its gable-end the inscription, what . is . here . by . man . erected : let . it . be . by . god . protected : iohn . middleton . gent . an . do . 1685 : ætatis . suæ . 27 . r . t . c :

Returning direct across the hills to Bishop's Castle, we pass through Broughton, where, it is believed, the Romans had a station. Offa's Dyke, crossing the hills to the westward, runs near to Mainstone, a village supposed to acquire its name from a large granite stone standing near the west gate of the churchyard. From time immemorial it has been the custom for the village youths to test their strength by heaving this stone aloft, and then casting it backwards over the left shoulder. The name of Mainstone, it may be observed, shews the tendency to reduplication in place-names, for Maen is the Welsh for stone. A still more curious instance is that of Dollymase-meadow, near Gloucester, each of the three syllables in this case having exactly the same signification.

The old road from Bishop's Castle to Clun traverses a rough, hilly country, with scarce a place big enough to be called a village all the way. On the outskirts of the town stands Blunden Hall, a timbered mansion, old, but much modernized. Anon our way lies up-hill, with the tree-crowned summit of Bury Ditches rising boldly ahead.

After surmounting a sort of col amidst the dimpled hills, we begin to drop downwards into the vale of Clun, and the little town, with its grey old guardian castle, is seen nestling at the foot of dark, heather-clad hills, where the drifting cloud shadows linger. By-and-bye, as we march past the castle and enter the town, the westward-looking houses are painted in crimson and gold by the glow from the setting sun, while we dusty wayfarers bear away for the Buffalo Inn, whose hospitable roof is to be our shelter to-night.

So taking up our quarters in the Blue Room, we will give the benefit of the doubt to the local legend, and hold that this is the chamber in which Sir Walter Scott once slept, and yonder table the very one upon which the 'Wizard of the North' wrote the first three chapters of 'The Betrothed'—there is nothing like being precise in matters such as these.

Seated upon the banks of the river Clun, on the outskirts of that wild, hilly district to which it gives its name, the quiet market town of Clun forms the chief rendezvous for such slender commerce as goes forward in this isolated part of our County, which time-out-of-mind has acquired the name of Clun Forest.

In early Norman days this remote inaccessible region became a sort of semi-independent Barony, called the 'Honour of Clun,' whose over-lords obtained the royal license to make conquest on the Welsh, and appear to have done pretty much as they liked with the goods and chattels of their unlucky vassals. Nay more, in those 'good old times,' the Lord of Clun claimed the right to inflict capital punishment, for we read of a certain William Kempe holding a messuage and croft on tenure of carrying to Shrewsbury the heads of felons, in order to prove that the right person had been executed.

Save for its ruined Castle and ancient saddle-backed bridge, the townlet is featureless enough; indeed its prim, grey, sober-fronted dwellings look as though they had stepped across from the other side the Welsh border. Yet in bygone times the town must have been a place of no little importance, for we read that, at a survey held in 1605, it was found that 'the town of Clun, through the whole time whereof the memory of man does not exist to the contrary, is an ancient Borough Incorporate, with two Bailiffs, and Burgesses; and the Lord of the town has two Leet Courts, with a View of Frankpledge, held annually by the Seneschal for the time being.'

With the exception of the keep-tower above mentioned, little remains of Clun Castle save two ruined circular bastions overlooking the river, and certain tall green mounds that give a clue to the original extent of the fortress. The outer bailey with its enclosing vallations is a broad, tree-shaded grassplot, where nowadays the townsfolk go a-pleasuring on high-days and holiday times.

Clun Castle formed a very important link in the chain of fortresses planted by the Normans along the Welsh frontier, to secure their hard-won territory and control the turbulent natives. Towards the close of the twelfth century Rhys, Prince of South Wales, swooped down from his mountain fastnesses, and after many a fierce onslaught stormed and set fire to the castle. At a later period the place fell a prey to that scourge of the Welsh Marches, 'the irregular and wild Glendower,' and was finally dismantled by the Parliamentarians during the Civil Wars. So early, indeed, as the reign of Henry VIII., when that ubiquitous antiquary John Leland journeyed this way, 'Clunne Castell' was 'sumewhat ruinus,' 'though it hath bene,' he adds, 'bothe Stronge and well builded.'

The following lines from 'The Betrothed' have been associated with the Castle of Clun: 'A place strong by nature, and well fortified by art, which the Welch prince had found it impossible to conquer, either by open force or stratagem; and which, remaining with a strong garrison in his rear, often chequed his invasions by rendering his retreat precarious. The river, whose stream washes on three sides the base of the proud eminence on which the castle is situated, curves away from the fortress and its corresponding village on the west, and the hill sinks downward to an extensive plain, so extremely level as to indicate its alluvial origin.

'The bridge, a high narrow combination of arches of unequal size, was about half a mile distant from the castle, in the very centre of the plain. The river itself ran in a deep, rocky channel, was often unfordable, and at all times difficult of passage, giving considerable advantage to the defenders of the Castle.'

Over the old bridge in question lies our way towards Clun church; and, as the local saw has it, 'Whoever crosses Clun Bridge comes back sharper than he went.' The bridge itself, with its five uneven arches and bold sparlings, is still a picturesque object, and in former days was a favourite subject with artists: though the old cordwainer and his ancient timber dwelling beside the bridge have long since passed away.

The chancel is lighted by well proportioned windows with Purbeck marble shafts. Suspended from the chancel roof hangs a curious fifteenth-century canopy, nicely constructed of oak fashioned into panels, and adorned with three small carved wooden angels. Its purpose is uncertain, but it bears some resemblance to the canopied structure called a baldacchino found in some continental churches.

In the vestry is a mural tablet to Sir Robert Howard: and the rough old staircase leading up into the tower is worth a moment's notice, for the rude simplicity of its construction. The Churchwarden's accounts here shew that, in the year 1741, the sum of ten shillings was paid 'for whipping the Doggs out of y^e church, serviss time, and keeping people from sleeping in church During divine serviss.'

According to an ordinance duly advertised upon the wall of the dining hall, each poor man is entitled to receive yearly, on Founder's Day, 'a gown ready made of strong cloth or kersey, of a sad colour, to wear upon Week Days; and also every fourth year, upon Trinity Sunday, have delivered unto him to wear, such a livery gown of blue cloth lined with bayes, with the Founder's cognizance set on the sleeve, to wear upon Sundays and Festival Days.' In the dining hall, too, is preserved an ancient cross-bow, and a large two-handed double-edged sword about five feet in length.

Such, then, is the old Hospital at Clun; so now, after a moonlight stroll around the environs, we turn in for the night at the 'Buffalo'; and, far removed from the din of railroad shrieks, or bustle of passing traffic, sleep the sleep of the just until morning looks in at the casement.

ROUND ABOUT CLUN FOREST. TO KNIGHTON AND LUDLOW.

glance at the map at the end of this volume will reveal, down in the south-western extremity of the county, a remote outlying cantle of Shropshire wedged in, as it were, between the Welsh counties of Montgomery and Radnor. It is a wild, hilly, somewhat inaccessible district, even in these days; but in Leland's time the 'faire Forest of Clunne' was 'a great Forest of redde Dere and Roois,' extending over many thousand acres, with much timber growing upon it, and 'very faire and good Game' amongst its holts and hollows.

In and out through this sequestered region wind the clear waters of the Clun, rippling along past rustic crofts and breadths of gorse and fernbrake, and giving its name to a group of quiet villages and hamlets upon its banks:

'Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun,
Are the sleepiest places under the sun'—

as the saying goes, though one may vary the epithet ad lib., and substitute drunkenest, dirtiest, etc., as fancy dictates. Towards the south the country falls away to the broader valley of the Teme, which, flowing past Knighton and Coxwall Knoll, forms the southern boundary of the Forest, and parts England from Wales.

Camps, earthworks, etc., dotted plentifully throughout the locality, bear witness to the days when might was the only right, and every man's hand was against his neighbour. Tradition avers that Caractacus made his last stand against the Romans amidst the fastnesses of Clun Forest; and Offa's Dyke, the ancient boundary of Mercia, traverses the district from south to north on its way from Severn to Dee:

'There is a faymous thinge
Calde Offa's Dyke, that reacheth farre in lengthe:
All kinds of Ware people might thither bringe;
It was free ground, and calde the Britain's strengthe.'

But it is time to be up and doing, for we must measure many a mile over hill and dale to-day. Old Sol is already abroad, and a light sou'westerly breeze is rustling the fresh young foliage as we fare forth upon our peregrinations; while the thirsty soil emits a grateful smell after the rain of yesternight.

Down the village street, then, we take our way, noticing the legend 'Ironmonger, Dahlia Grower and Poultry Breeder,' over an enterprising tradesman's door. Setting a course up the vale of Clun, we drop into a meadow path that, keeping company with a hollow, waterworn gipsy lane, affords glimpses of the ruined castle, and so brings us presently to Whitcot. Near Whitcot we notice an old grey maenhir, or standing-stone, eight feet high, nearly as broad, and only about six inches in thickness.

With the hills closing in upon either hand we push onwards along the valley, falling into a leisurely pace as the sun warms to his work. Another mile and we come to Offa's Dyke, a huge green mound overshadowed by beech trees, whose course can be easily traced as it crosses the valley and climbs the shaggy hill slope beyond. 'Aye, that's Awf's Ditch, right enough,' says an old fellow tilling the hedgerow, 'and now you be in Wales a'this side, like, but it's a cankersome country to live in, I can tell yer.'

At Newcastle we find ourselves in a scattered hamlet overshadowed by certain round green hills, whose topmost crests are scarped with ancient camps or earthworks, whereof the name is legion hereabouts. This part of the Forest, west of Offa's Dyke, was known in olden days as the Manor, or Honour, of Tempseter, a district of Shropshire won from the Welsh before Edward I. was King.

Presently we take leave of the Newtown road, and, crossing the infant Clun at a place called Dyffryn, march away through leafy lanes en route for Bettws-y-Crwyn. Our road goes from bad to worse as it straggles up the bank, degenerating at last into a downright Welsh byway, so that, like Agag of old, we have to 'walk delicately' amidst the ruts and rivulets which do duty as a thoroughfare.

Passing two or three outlying cottages where shock-headed children are playing around the doorways, we come in sight of Bettws-y-Crwyn church, a little lonely fane perched so high aloft on its hill-top as to look down, so to speak, upon every other church throughout the county; indeed with one or two exceptions it is, we believe, the most loftily situated church in England.

The name of this place affords an interesting clue to its history. For Bettws-y-Crwyn, being interpreted, signifies the Bede-house of the Skins; having been so called since, in ancient times, the shepherds who frequented these lonesome hills had a Bede-house or Chapel here, and paid their tribute of skins or hides to Chirbury Priory.

Up here in the churchyard we get a wonderful outlook over the hills and dales of south Shropshire, which are seen stretching away for many a league in picturesque gradation, with Brown Clee Hill bringing up the rear beyond the dark ridges of Wenlock Edge.

We now step inside the church, an ancient timeworn structure whose low grey stone walls, narrow windows and simple bell-cot, look thoroughly in keeping with the circumjacent landscape. The old font, once the pride of the church, was broken into pieces when the church was 'restored' about half a century ago, and used, it is said, to repair the churchyard walls!

This lofty screen rises to the tie-beam of the roof, whose curved principals, moulded brackets and quatrefoil panels are fashioned, as tradition tells, from Spanish-chestnut wood. Solid oaken benches of the most primitive construction occupy the nave; their ends displaying the names of various farmhouses, locally termed Halls, such as Hall-of-the-Forest, Moor Hall, Cow Hall, etc.

Following a bridle track, we descend into a secluded dell which holds the head waters of the Clun. Then, mounting up through a pine wood, we come out upon the open braeside over against the Cantlin Cross, or Cantlin Stone as it is sometimes called, whose counterfeit presentment appears in our sketch. The cross itself, though handsomely carved, has no particular claims to antiquity, having been erected, as we are informed, about forty years ago by the late Mr. Beriah Botfield, sometime M.P. for Ludlow. The design, however, is evidently an antique one; and on the ground in front of the cross stands a low, flat slab of grey limestone, rudely inscribed with the legend W . C: decsed . here : bvried . 1691 . at . Betvs:

The initials are those of a certain William Cantlin, who, travelling through the wilds of Clun Forest in the above mentioned year, met his death at this spot, and was buried at Bettws-y-Crwyn. It is said that upon one occasion the stone itself was produced in a court of law, in order to prove that the place where Cantlin died was situated in the parish of Bettws.

Upon passing through a gate in the adjacent coppice our eyes are gladdened by a vision of folding hills, green fertile vales, and distant cloud-capped mountains, the giants of Wild Wales—a glorious panorama!

Presently we hie away once more upon our travels, retracing our steps to the main road, and swinging along at a good round pace, favoured by the downward grade. Past Hall-of-the-Forest we go, not much of a place, despite its imposing name, though originally built by Anne, Lady Mautravers, some time in the sixteenth century, and hence formerly called Ladye's Hall.

At Newcastle we strike up the hills to the southwards, recrossing old Offa's Dyke and following the crest of the ridge. 'Weather's looking very brewin',' remarks a brother tramp; for storm-clouds, gathering in the west, hover grand and gloomily above the darkening ridges of Radnor Forest; so, putting the best foot foremost, we spin along the grass-grown bridle-path under the lee of the wind-tossed hedgerow. Out leaps the lightning, the thunder rolls, and the tempest swoops down in a whirl of seething rain-scuds; but what care we, for here in the nick of time is the Buffalo Inn at Clun, with a good meat-tea piping hot on the parlour table, and a cheery fire sparkling in the grate.

So while the elements work their will abroad, and the rain drops patter at the casement, we sit within bien and cosy, canopied like gods in clouds of tobacco-smoke; 'fighting our battles o'er again,' and discussing plans of campaign for future excursions amidst 'fresh woods and pastures new.'

The morrow, then, sees us early astir, and taking the road ere the city man has opened his morning paper. And before the first mile is left behind, we find reason to congratulate ourselves on having made an early start, for the way is parlous steep, and the sun already rejoicing like a giant to run his course. So at a leisurely pace we breast the ascent—'chi va piano va sano,' as the Italians say—with big, rounded hills rising upon either hand, one of them having a strange sort of quarry-like chasm, called the Rock of Woolberry, scored deep in its wooded flank. This collar-work continuing for a matter of two miles or more, brings us to a moorland crest about a thousand feet above sea-level, whence the eye ranges over leagues of broken country, with the play of shine and shadow chequering its varied surface.

At a place bearing the euphemistic title of New Invention, we quit the hard highroad and make a bee-line up the open hillside, until we find ourselves in the vast, prehistoric encampment, known as Gaer Ditches, or Caer Caradoc. The camp proves a fine example of an early British earthwork, being oval, or rather pear-shaped, in form, and protected upon its most vulnerable western flank by three concentric lines of entrenchment; while upon the east, where the natural declivity is more abrupt, there are but two, with traces of an entrance way in each of these faces.

Tradition has been busy about this interesting spot. We are to believe that once, in days remote, Caractacus stood here at bay against his enemies. Nay, is not the stream at the foot of the hill still called Redlake river, because for three whole days its waters ran red with the blood of the combatants? And down yonder in the vale is Lurkinghope, where tradition tells the vanquished Britons 'lurked in hope' of retrieving their fortunes, while lying in ambush near the defile at Garn Gap.

However that may have been, we now lay our course for Stow, a tiny hamlet nestling in a wild rocky cirque called Ragged Kingdom. Our route lies over Stow Hill, whose summit is marked by the blackened cairn of the 'Diamond Jubilee' bonfire.

But lusty appetites, begotten of fresh air and hours of steady tramping, now demand instant satisfaction. So down we sit, and, whilst feasting our eyes on the beauties of the landscape, we regale the inner man on more material fare: the pile of sandwiches becoming 'small by degrees, and beautifully less,' as the moments flit by. A drink of clear water under Holloway Rocks, and a pipe or two as we lie on the short, warm turf, and like giants refreshed we go our ways in search of new adventures.

Here we board the first up-train that comes along; the railway line hugging the frontier, and affording glimpses of the hill country amidst which we have recently wandered. Near Bucknall station we catch sight of Coxwall Knoll, an isolated tree-clad monticle surrounded by ancient entrenchments, where some authorities locate the scene of Caractacus's last tussle with Ostorius. Bucknall village is close at hand on the brink of the Redlake river, its grey church tower just peeping over the trees that clothe the hills in the background. There is a curious old font in Bucknall church with a sort of interlacing pattern carved around its bowl, the date whereof is uncertain.

Running past Bedstone, we alight at Hopton Heath station, shoulder sketching gear, etc., and trudge away to Heath House, which lies a short mile to the southward. Heath House, the residence of Chas. Seaton, Esq., is a large, substantial edifice, dating mainly from the latter part of the seventeenth century, and seated in a broad park-like demesne.

On a sunny bank overlooking the river Clun stands Clungunford House, the residence of J. C. L. Rocke, Esq., Lord of the Manor. Half a mile away upstream is Abcott Manor-house, a large old half-timbered structure now used as a farmhouse. A big, curiously moulded chimney stack, is a noticeable object as we draw near; and, being shewn within, we pass from one old dilapidated chamber to another, admiring its wainscoted walls and plastered ceilings, which, beautiful even in decay, still display queer heraldic monsters, lions, stags, unicorns, goats, parrots, etc., engaged amidst interlacing strapwork. One or two old lattice-paned windows here retain their original wrought-iron fastenings.

Abcott was for many generations the abode of the Princes, a family now extinct in this locality, though there are monuments in plenty to them in Clungunford church.

The Rocke Arms at the end of the village is a rustic inn of the homely, oldfashioned sort, quite equal to providing a pint and a chop, or finding, at a pinch, a night's lodging for the passing traveller. So here we call a halt awhile to refresh the inner man, before tackling the cross-country lanes that are to lead us to Hopton Castle. Pleasant it is, as one jogs along these rural byways, to see the country children curtseying to the stranger as he passes, a custom all too rapidly falling into desuetude in these 'independent' days, when young brains are crammed with undigested facts, while the character is left to make shift as best it may.

In a nook of the hills to the westward stands Hopton Castle, a grey old Norman keep-tower, seated in a curiously low exposed position near the banks of a stream. Traces of ruined outworks indicate that the place was much more extensive in former days, when it figured in some stirring episodes of March-land history. By Camden's account, Hopton was presented by Henry II., to Walter de Clifford, of Clifford Castle in Herefordshire; and towards the end of the thirteenth century we find Roger, Lord Mortimer, of Wigmore, in possession of the Castle. Passing later to the Corbets and the Wallops, Hopton Castle held out stubbornly for the King at the time of the Civil Wars, but in 1644 was captured and demolished by the Parliamentarians, its garrison put to the sword, and Samuel Moor the Governor marched off to prison at Ludlow Castle.

A curious old grant, by right of which the 'Heyres-mayle of y^e Hoptons' held this Manor of William the Conqueror, runs to the following effect:

'I, Will, King, the third of my reign,
Give to the Northern Hunter,
To me that art both Luine and Deare,
The Hoppe, and the Hoptoune,
And all the bounds, up and downe,
Under the Earth to Hell,
Above the Earth to Heaven,' etc.

Returning by a different route direct to Hopton Heath station, we pass through Broome, 'change' upon arriving at Craven Arms, and run down past Stokesay Castle to Onibury, whose church has an ancient, possibly pre-Norman, chancel arch, and one or two other good features. On the outskirts of the village stands Stokesay Court, the handsome modern residence of H. J. Allcroft, Esq., Lord of the Manor, and owner of large estates in this locality.

Alighting at Bromfield station we make our way to the village, as picturesque a spot as one could wish to see, situated in a pleasant, fertile vale, close to the place where Onny and Teme unite. At the end of the village street we traverse an old, grey, many-arched bridge, spanning the lively Onny, near which rises a row of lofty, storm-rent poplars, still known as the 'Twelve Apostles,' though several veterans have succumbed to the gales in recent years.

A furlong further on we espy a picturesque old building pierced by a wide stone archway, and chequered with timber quarterings, over which a fine elm tree casts its dappled shadow. This was the Gatehouse of Bromfield Priory, a Benedictine monastery, whose history carries us very far back into the 'queer old crumpled-up past,' for the annals of Domesday Book shew that, even in the Conqueror's time, Bromfield was a place of some consequence.

Originally a college of secular canons, the monastery became later on an establishment of Canons regular of the Benedictine order; receiving benefits at the hands of King Henry II., in whose reign Bromfield Priory became affiliated to St. Peter's Abbey at Llanthony Secunda, near Gloucester.

Bromfield church, whether regarded as a prominent feature in a fair landscape, or examined in the details of its architecture, cannot but afford the visitor much pleasant matter for contemplation. Seated upon one of those waterside meads the monks of old so frequently selected, its broad, massive tower and weather-stained gables are seen mirrored in the stream that winds around the churchyard, and with the ancient Priory ruins, flanked by a group of dark firs rising clear against the sky, makes a charming study for the artists' brush.

Internally, too, the church has many points of interest. The chancel arch of the old Priory church may be discerned in the eastern wall, the chancel itself having been pulled down when the parish came into possession. A remarkably handsome modern triptych is a noticeable feature of the church, contrasting favourably with the plaster ceiling overhead, whose colour-decorations have been aptly described as 'the best specimen of the worst period of ecclesiastical art.'

Crossing the Teme by an old stone bridge, we enter Oakley Park, a glorious stretch of ferny glades and secluded woodland dingles, boasting such Druid oaks as it would be hard to match elsewhere. Right ahead rise the richly timbered slopes of Bringwood Chase, a picturesque range of hills, whose topmost crests are crowned by three conspicuous clumps of trees, landmarks for miles around. Oakley Hall, a red-brick Georgian mansion, lies off upon our left, and is chiefly remarkable for its uncommonly beautiful situation on the banks of the Teme, overlooking some of the choicest scenery in the district.

Away towards Downton lie certain parcels of land known to this day as 'Crawl Meadows,' and thereby hangs the following tale. Once upon a time, a certain fair maid having plighted her troth with a valiant but impecunious knight, the angry sire vowed her sole dower should be just so much land as his daughter could crawl over, on hands and knees, between sunset and dawn of day. Commencing her journey at Bromfield, the young lady travelled with such vigour that, by the time old Sol peeped over the hills again, she was well on her way to Downton, a good four miles, as the crow flies, from her starting-place at Bromfield.

But the waning daylight warns us to be astir, while the towers of Ludlow Castle, rising darkly against the eastward sky, tell we are within a measurable distance of our journey's end.

So betwixt fields and hedgerows we now hasten along, exchanging a 'good e'en' with the cottagers as we trudge through a wayside hamlet, and coming to a bridge over Teme, where the last of the daylight flickers upon the waters of a rushing weir. Then up a steep way through Dinham, passing a dusky old building, now a coach-house, but once a Gothic chapel, and rounding the outskirts of the castle: the homing rooks in the elms overhead announcing our arrival in their own vociferous fashion.

Thus through narrow, crowded, oldfashioned street, we come to our night's bivouac at Ludlow; promising ourselves a treat on the morrow in exploring the memory-haunted precincts of this historic border-town.