They took me through the garden, and then through a plantation, to see the "Giant's Grave," a trough cut out of the solid rock, 12 feet long, 4½ feet wide, and 2 feet deep; and the housekeeper held stoutly to the opinion that its original purpose had been the brewing of beer. "Giant's Grave, indeed!" said she; "better call it the Giant's Bath!" Before leaving, I traced the general outlines of the fort. With its southern gateway and ramparts, {56} it can be easily made out, between the farm-buildings and the road, the road itself probably representing its _via principalis_. The house, farm-buildings and field-fences are mostly built of stones from the Wall and fort. A mediæval pele-tower was the nucleus of the present house. I took my leave of Rudchester much refreshed, and grateful that my experience had been the exact opposite of old Hutton's, for this is the verse with which he commemorates his visit: "I saw old Sir at dinner sit, Who ne'er said, 'Stranger, take a bit,' Yet might, although a Poet said it, Have sav'd his beef, and rais'd his credit." The site of another mile-castle is recognizable by the gate into a field a little farther on; and then comes "The Iron Sign," once an inn, with Roman-inscribed stones built into the front. The old lady who lived here had recently been killed by a passing motor-car, while crossing the road, so I was told. Harlow Hill then came into sight, and glad I was to see it, for I hoped to spend the night there. It was Hutton's first stage from Newcastle. I had written to the Temperance Hotel there (mentioned by Dr. Bruce), asking if I could have a bed, and enclosing a post-card for reply; and although I had received no answer, at least I had not had an unfavourable one. The Wall-ditch showed very clearly ahead, running {57} up to Harlow Hill, on the right of the road; and the Vallum, diverging from the road, could be seen on the left. Arrived at the village, I inquired at once for the Temperance Hotel, only to be told I was several years too late! It had been closed during the war. A day or two later I received my post-card, which had been pursuing me. It bore no signature, and only this sad legend: "No temperance at Harlow Hill." The hotel, where Hutton had spent one night, was still there, a substantial stone building, but it was now occupied by a private family. I made inquiries from end to end of the village street, but no one could give me a bed, so I found I must walk on a mile or so farther to the next Inn, the "Robin Hood." Passing the Whittledene Reservoirs, I noticed the houses of Welton (Wall-town), and turned aside to the south for half a mile, to try my chance there. The road runs along the very brink of the reservoir. Several anglers were seated on the steep banks, very much preoccupied, and their cars were waiting for them in the road.