Streets,” which one finds all over England—­a broad, finely kept high way, leading through a delightful country.  Northwich, famous for its salt mines, was the only town of any consequence until we reached Chester.  We had travelled a distance of about one hundred and twenty miles—­our longest day’s journey, with one exception—­not very swift motoring, but we found that an average of one hundred miles per day was quite enough to thoroughly satisfy us, and even with such an apparently low average as this, a day’s rest now and then did not come amiss.

[Illustration:  Sunset on the moor.

From Painting by Termohlen.]

It would be better yet if one’s time permitted a still lower daily mileage.  Not the least delightful feature of the tour was the marvelous beauty of the English landscapes, and one would have a poor appreciation of these to dash along at forty or even twenty-five miles per hour.  There were many places at which we did not stop at all, and which were accorded scant space in the guide-books, that would undoubtedly have given us ideas of English life and closer contact with the real spirit of the people than one could possibly get in the tourist-thronged towns and villages.

V

THE BORDER TOWNS, SHREWSBURY AND LUDLOW

I shall say but little of Chester, as of every other place on the line of our journey so well known as to be on the itinerary of nearly everybody who makes any pretensions at touring Britain.  The volumes which have been written on the town and the many pages accorded it in the guide-books will be quite sufficient for all seekers after information.  Frankly, I was somewhat disappointed with Chester.  I had imagined its quaintness that of a genuine old country town and was not prepared for the modern city that surrounds its show-places.  In the words of an observant English writer:  “It seems a trifle self-conscious—­its famous old rows carry a suspicion of being swept and garnished for the dollar-distributing visitor from over the Atlantic, and of being less genuine than they really are.  However that may be, the moment you are out of these show-streets of Chester, there is a singular lack of charm in the environment.  The taint of commerce and the smoke of the north hangs visibly on the horizon.  Its immediate surroundings are modern and garish to a degree that by no means assists in the fiction that Chester is the unadulterated old-country town one would like to think it.”  Such a feeling I could not entirely rid myself of, and even in following the old wall, I could not help noting its carefully maintained disrepair.  I would not wish to be understood as intimating that Chester is not well worth a visit, and a visit of several days if one can spare the time; only that its charm was, to me, inferior to that of its more unpretentious neighbors, Shrewsbury and Ludlow.  Our stay was only a short one, since our route was