When the time arrives to descend, dip westwards, curve round by the water, and through the fields which lead into the Disley road, thence into Pott Shrigley village. No description can convey a perfect idea of the loveliness of this part of the walk at the season indicated. The long-extended survey of hill and dale, the innumerable trees, clothing the slopes at agreeable distances with the most picturesque of little woodlands, bright and cheerful in their unsullied raiment of leaves that are only yet learning the sweetness of sunshine; the rise and fall of the ground; the incessant turns and sinuosities of the pathway, every separate item is a treat, and yet the ravishing spectacle of all, at the season referred to, has still to be named. This consists in the inexpressible, the infinite multitude of the bluebells, which far surpasses that of the old Reddish valley. They saturate every slope and recess that is in any degree shady, and diffuse themselves even upon the otherwise bare hill-sides, not in a thin and niggardly way, but with the semblance of an azure mist. In many parts, at the edges of the little groves, where the ground is steep, they seem to be flowing in streams into the meadows beneath, and where there are breaks among the nearer trees they actually illuminate the opening. When the spectacle of the bluebells comes to an end, the walk continues along a beautiful green arcade, straight, level, and uninterrupted into the village. By whichever of the two routes we prefer to go to Macclesfield, that ancient and celebrated town becomes in itself a new and excellent starting point. If desiring to go beyond, the London and North-Western should be chosen. The massive heights on the way to Buxton, including the well-known and far-conspicuous mamelon called Shutlings Low, are accessible only by carriage or on foot. North Rode, on the other hand, is but a few minutes' continued railway journey, and for this, if we come at all, the longest day is all too short. Just in front rises Cloud-end, the mighty promontory seen from the fields near Butts Clough (p. 23), covered with trees, the _Vitis Idæa_ filling the open spaces, and plenty of nuts in the neighbouring hedgerows. Keeping the mountain to the left, descending the green lane, and passing, "on sufferance," through North Rode Park, agreeable scenery on each side all the way, the end is that _beau-ideal_ of a rural retreat, pretty Gawsworth. The ancient trees, the venerable church, the dignified old residences, all speak at once of a long-standing and undisturbed respectability such as few villages can now assert. In the graveyard stand patriarchal yews, one of them, reduced to a torso, encased in ivy, and protected on the weaker side by a little wall of steps, intended seemingly to make it useful as a tree-pulpit. Six great walnut-trees form part of the riches of the Hall, another pleasing old "magpie;" water also is near at hand,