An hour’s drive brought us to Manchester.  The road by which we entered the city took us direct to the Midland Hotel, which is reputed to be the finest in the Kingdom.  Manchester is a city of nearly a million inhabitants, but its streets seemed almost like those of a country town as compared with the crowded thoroughfares of London.  It is a great center for motoring and I found many of the garages so full that they could not take another car.  I eventually came to one of the largest, where by considerable shifting they managed to accommodate my car.  But with all this rush of business, it seemed to me that the owners were in no danger of becoming plutocrats, for the charge for a day’s garage, cleaning the car, polishing the brass and making a slight repair, was five shillings.

For half the way from Manchester to Leeds, the drive was about as trying as anything I found in England.  The road is winding, exceedingly steep in places, and built up on both sides with houses—­largely homes of miners and mill operatives.  The pavement is of rough cobble-stones, and swarms of dogs and children crowded the way everywhere.  Under such conditions, the numerous steep hills, narrow places and sharp turns in the road made progress slow indeed.  It was evident that the British motorists generally avoid this country, for we met no cars and our own attracted attention that showed it was not a common spectacle.  However, the trip was none the less an interesting one as showing a bit of the country and a phase of English life not usually seen by tourists.

There is little to detain one within the city of Leeds itself, but there are many places of interest in its immediate vicinity.  There are few more picturesque spots in Yorkshire than Wharfdale, with its riotous little river and ruins of Bolton Abbey and Barden Tower.  This lies about fifteen miles to the northwest, and while for special reasons we went to Ilkley Station by train, the trip is a fine motor drive over good roads.  The park which contains the abbey and castle is the property of the Duke of Devonshire, who keeps it at all times open to the public.  The River Wharfe, rippling over shingly rocks, leaping in waterfalls and compressed into the remarkable rapids called the Strid, only five or six feet wide but very deep and terribly swift, is the most striking feature of the park.  The forest-clad cliffs on either side rise almost precipitously from the edges of the narrow dale, and from their summit, if the climb does not deter one, a splendid view presents itself.  The dale gradually opens into a beautiful valley and here the old abbey is charmingly situated on the banks of the river.  The ruins are not extensive, but the crumbling walls, bright with ivy and wall flowers, and with the soft green lawn beneath, made a delightful picture in the mottled sunshine and shadows of the English May day.