The little village of Falstone is set amongst trees, in the midst of pleasant meadows, a welcome relief from the bare fells and moorlands around it; yet this wild scenery has a distinct fascination of its own, and adds not a little to the charm of the varied landscape within the bounds of our northern county.  At Falstone a fragment of an ancient cross was discovered, with an inscription carved upon it—­in Roman letters on one side and in the Runes of the Anglo-Saxons on the other.  The inscription states that a certain Eamer set up the cross in memory of his uncle Hroethbert, and asks for prayers for his soul.  The existence of a similarly inscribed cross is not known, so that the Society of Antiquaries, in whose keeping this cross rests, has in it probably a unique treasure.

The Tarset Burn, upon which stands the village of Thorneyburn, runs into the Tyne not far from Falstone, and reminds us of the old Border-riding days, when the rallying-cry of the men of the district in many a feud with neighbouring clans was—­“Tarset and Tarret Burn, Hard and heather-bred, yet-yet-yet.”  Near the spot where the Tarset Burn joins the Tyne is a grassy hill on which once stood Tarset Castle, a stronghold of that Red Comyn whom Bruce slew in the little chapel at Dumfries, and of whose death Bruce’s friend Kirkpatrick said he would “mak’ siccar”!

The village of Charlton, on the north bank of the Tyne, and the mansion of Hesleyside on the other, carry the mind back to the old reiving plundering days, for it was at Hesleyside that the incident of the ancient spur of the Charlton’s took place, doubtless many a time and oft, when the good lady of Hesleyside served up the spur at dinner as a gentle hint that the larder was empty, and it behoved her lord to mount and away to replenish the same, preferably with stock from the Scottish side of the border, or if not, a neighbour’s cattle would serve equally well.

The Charltons, Robsons (possibly the lineal descendants of “Hroethbert” of the ancient cross) and Armstrongs, held almost undisputed sway over this region, and the district teems with reminders of their prowess and traditions of their exploits.  The men of Tynedale (the North Tyne) and Redesdale were known as the fiercest and most lawless in all that wild district.  Redesdale is a district of monotonous, almost dreary, moorlands, and wild, bare fells, where sheep graze on what scanty provender the bleak hills afford, finding better fare, however, in the valleys near the river banks, where the pasture is fresh and green.

Bellingham is to-day the most considerable village of the neighbourhood; it stands conveniently at the foot of the hills where the little Belling Burn, or Hareshaw Burn, joins the main stream.  In Hareshaw woods is the beautiful Hareshaw Linn, where the stream falls down through a break in the sandstone cliffs, and forms a picturesque waterfall, fringed with ferns and trees and cool mosses.  It well repays one for the walk of a mile or so through tangled underwoods by the side of the burn.  Bellingham gives its mime to the family of de Bellingham, whose chief seat, however, is now in Ireland and no longer in the little north-country town.