A quiet, unpretentious old border town is Hereford, pleasantly located on the banks of the always beautiful Wye.  The square tower of the cathedral is the most conspicuous object when the town first comes into view.  Though dating in part from the Eleventh Century, work on the cathedral occupied the centuries until 1530, when it was practically completed as it now stands.  The vandal Wyatt, who dealt so hardly with Salisbury, had the restoration of the cathedral in hand early in the Eighteenth Century.  He destroyed many of its most artistic features, but recently his work was undone and a second restoration was completed in about 1863.  The structure as it now stands is mainly Norman in style, built of light-brown stone, and remarkably beautiful and imposing.

Hereford Castle has entirely vanished, though a contemporary writer describes it as “one of the fairest, largest, and strongest castles in England.”  The site which it occupied is now a public garden, diversified with shrubbery and flowers.  An ornamental lake indicates where once was the moat, but the outlines of the walls are shown only by grass-covered ridges.  Its history was no doubt as stirring as that of others of the border castles, which more fortunately escaped annihilation.

Despite its present atmosphere of peace and quietude, Hereford saw strenuous times in the fierce warfare which raged between the English and Welsh, though few relics of those days remain.  The streets are unusually wide and with few exceptions the buildings are modern.  Surrounding the town is a stretch of green, level meadow, upon which graze herds of the red and white cattle whose fame is wider than that of their native shire.  No doubt there are many familiar with the sleek Herefords who have no idea from whence they take their name.

Our hotel, the Green Dragon, had recently been re-furnished and brightened throughout, and its excellent service was much better than we often found in towns the size of Hereford.  Its well planned motor garage, just completed, showed that its proprietors recognized the growing importance of this method of touring.

Our run from Hereford up the Wye Valley to the sea, we agreed was one of our red-letter days.  We passed through greatly varied scenery from the fertile, level country around Hereford to the rough, broken hills near the river’s source, but the view was always picturesque in the highest degree.  The road runs along the edge of the hills, and the glorious valley with its brawling river spread out before us almost the entire day.  At times we ran through forests, which cover the immense parks surrounding the country estates along the river.  We saw many fine English country-seats, ranging from old, castellated structures to apparently modern mansions.  There are also a number of ruins along the valley, each with its romantic legends.  At Hay, on the hill overlooking the town, is the castle, partly in ruins and partly in such state of repair as to be the summer home of the family that owns it.  A little farther, upon a knoll directly overhanging the river, are crumbling piles of stone where once stood Clifford Castle, the home of Fair Rosamond, whose melancholy story Tennyson has woven into one of his dramas.