The Wall-ditch runs along the fields, in splendid condition, down to the valley of the Tipalt. The path lies along the north margin of the ditch. It led me over a fence at the bottom of the second field into a beautiful little tree-filled glade, with great swelling undulations in the surface of the ground as it sloped rapidly down to the Tipalt. At the bottom of this glade Thirlwall Castle came suddenly into view, and I must confess I was greatly struck by the beauty of its situation. Thirlwall Castle (shown in the Frontispiece) dates from the Middle Ages, and has figured largely in border warfare. It is built entirely of Roman stones from the Wall. It is now in a very ruined state, all its eastern side having fallen into the river Tipalt, above which it stands. A little wooden bridge crosses the stream just below the Castle, and on this I sat to paint the picture. Behind me was Holmhead farm-house where there is a Roman inscribed stone built upside-down into the back premises, and where a dear old lady lives, the patter of whose wooden clogs I could hear most of the time as she went about her work. She used to visit me at intervals, and brought me cushions to sit upon every day I was there. I spent some happy times on the bridge, with the life of the little hamlet going on around me: {156} the sound of the dirling-pin on washing-day, the beating of the bucket to summon the calves to be fed, the laughter of the children as they played in the stream, and the tap, tap of the hammer of the old man at the cottage of Dooven Foot opposite. He was busy making an erection by the side of the stream to keep his fowls within bounds. One evening I saw something white, high up on the walls of the Castle, and went to see what it was. Two little girls, about nine years old, had climbed adventurously up the walls. They came down and talked to me; told me how some day "teacher" was going to take them to the source of the Tipalt, where it rose in the hills. We got out my map and studied it. We talked of the lonely farms "out-by," with their picturesque names, such as Far-Glow, and Hope-Alone, and Seldom-Seen; and we pictured the solitary lights shining out in the darkness, and the long, quiet winter evenings they must spend, sometimes cut off by snow from all communication with the outer world; until at last a voice from below called, in shocked tones, "Nora, don't ye know it's nine o'clock?" And so they hurried off to bed. Holmhead is a typical Northumbrian farm-house, built of Roman stones from the Wall.