of taking the car any farther.  He did not think the ruin was worth going to see, anyhow; it had been cared for by no one and within his memory the walls had fallen in and crumbled away.  Either his remarks or the few miles walk discouraged me, and after having traveled fully thirty miles to find this castle, I turned about and went on without going to the place at all, and of course I now regret it as much as anything I failed to do on our whole tour.  I shall have to go to Fast Castle yet—­by motor car.

After regaining the main road, it was only a short run along the edge of the ocean to Berwick-on-Tweed, which we reached early in the evening.  I recall no more delightful day during our tour.  It had been fresh and cool, and the sky was perfectly clear.  For a great part of the way the road had passed within view of the ocean, whose deep unruffled blue, entirely unobscured by the mists which so often hang over the northern seas, stretched away until it was lost in the pale, sapphire hues of the skies.  The country itself was fresh and bright after abundant rains, and as haymaking was in progress in many places along the road, the air was laden with the scent of the newly mown grasses.  Altogether, it was a day long to be remembered.

Berwick-on-Tweed lies partly in England and partly in Scotland, the river which runs through it forming the boundary line.  An odd bridge built by James I connects the two parts of the town, the highest point of its archway being nearest the Scottish shore and giving the effect of “having its middle at one end,” as some Scotch wit has expressed it.  The town was once strongly fortified, especially on the Scottish side, and a castle was built on a hill commanding the place.  Traces of the wall surrounding the older part of the city still remain; it is easy to follow it throughout its entire course.  When the long years of border warfare ended, a century and a half ago, the town inside of the wall must have appeared much the same as it does today.  It is a town of crooked streets and quaint buildings, set down without the slightest reference to the points of the compass.  The site of the castle is occupied by the railway station, though a few crumbling walls of the former structure still remain.  The station itself is now called The Castle and reproduces on a smaller scale some of the architectural features of the ancient fortress.

We started southward from Berwick the following morning over the fine road leading through Northumberland.  About ten miles off this road, and reached by narrow byways, is the pleasant little seacoast village of Bamborough, and the fame of its castle tempted us to visit it.  I had often wondered why some of the old-time castles were not restored to their pristine magnificence—­what we should have if Kenilworth or Raglan were re-built and to their ancient glory there were added all the modern conveniences for comfort.  I found in Bamborough Castle a case exactly to the