Gilsland, with its green daisy-starred mounds, its streams and glades and waterfalls, its Stepping-stones, and Popping-stone, and Kissing-bush, and generally romantic associations, is the greatest possible contrast to the wild fells which we have so lately left, but which can still be seen along the eastern horizon. The very name of Gilsland speaks of softness, and verdure, and tinkling streams. Here it was, so says history, that Sir Walter Scott wooed and won his life-partner, and the scenes of the different stages of his wooing are pointed out with brazen assurance. It therefore seemed most appropriate, when first I visited Gilsland in a search for rooms, to be mistaken for a member of a wedding-party, and to be greeted with the words, "Ye're just in time to see the bride!" Gilsland was full of "the bride." It was hopeless to try and get any attention to business until she had passed down the street on her father's arm, amid whispers of, "It's _real_ crêpe de chine,"--"Did ye see how it's cut?" etc. When I had finished my business, "the bride" still pursued me. I picked up a halfpenny, and was looking round for some child who might have dropped it, when the butcher at his shop door called {235} out, "That's a looky ha'-penny, cast at the bride. Ye'll be the next. Ye must keep it." There must be something in the very air of Gilsland! I had no intention of being "the next," so I gave it to a small boy for his money-box, while the butcher looked his disapproval. It evidently was not "the thing" to have done in sentimental Gilsland. It was from Gilsland, later, that I visited Bewcastle, and walked back along the Roman road known as the Maiden Way. Bewcastle is 11 miles from Gilsland, right away across the Bewcastle Waste. At first we could not get a car to take us, but finally the butcher came to the rescue, and said that if we did not mind the car in which he sent round the meat, he would have it very thoroughly cleaned. It was easily convertible into a sort of motor-waggonette, to hold six people, and was really quite comfortable. The only drawback was that we caused great disappointment to all the dogs of the villages we went through. They recognized the front of the vehicle, and the driver, and came up wagging their tails, to receive a nasty shock on finding that the contents of the rear portion were human beings and not meat. It was a lovely run; past the ruin of Triermain Castle, then to Askerton Castle, a beautiful old Border fortification, which we stopped and viewed, {236} copying down two inscriptions, scratched, one on the lead of the roof, and the other on the staircase. The first was: "Geo Taylr Novb 9th, 1745 the day that the rebels Came to the Border." The other was: "The familie Spoeller refuge from to War 1914."