Retracing our steps to Tenbury station, a two-mile walk brings us to Boraston, scenes of rural industry enlivening the way. In yonder upland field the harvesters are busy carting the wheat, the golden shocks shewing up sharp and clear against the purple background of the Clee Hills; while the wavering hum of a threshing-machine drones a homely accompaniment. Then we descend into a vale, and trudge along the green alleys of a hop-yard, the fragrant bines drooping beneath their wealth of fruit and foliage, and clinging each to its neighbour with slender, outstretched tendrils. Boraston comprises a handful of rustic dwellings, scattered about a little church, one or two of the older ones displaying half-timbered gables towards the road. Boraston church has been much restored, but retains several early-cusped windows, and an old roof whose rafters are carried half-way down the southward wall. On either side the nave is a curious, plain, arched recess, the use whereof is not apparent; and there are traces of a very ancient doorway, now built up. The apsidal east end, a south porch, and a shingled bell-turret above the western gable, are the most salient points of the exterior. Nash chapel, a mile or so to the north, is almost a replica of Boraston. This church has been quaintly described by Mr. Cranage as, 'a "Decorated" building which is _not decorated_.' Court-of-Hill is the most interesting house in this locality. In the broken country west of Boraston lies the hamlet of Greete, with a small, aisle-less church, dedicated to St. James, of Norman and Early English date. The pleasant rural vicarage and oldfashioned Court-house farm are almost its only neighbours, but about a mile to the west stands Stoke House, a plain but good example of a brick-built Tudor residence. Very rustic and unsophisticated are the country folk hereabouts, even in these fin-de-siecle days; and it is within living memory that Parson J----, coming to take up his new duty in a neighbouring parish, walked into the village driving his cow before him! Time was when some of these country parsons were mighty hunters before the Lord. There is a story of one of them who, when about to start for the meet, got wind that his Bishop was coming to pay him a visitation. Jumping into bed, scarlet jacket and all, he leaves word with his old housekeeper that he is ill upstairs, and the tale is repeated to his lordship. 'Dear me, I'm very sorry; tell him I'll walk up and see how he's getting on,' says the Bishop. The message is duly delivered, whereupon our Nimrod sends back his reply, 'No, no, it's quite impossible; I'm down with a shocking bad attack of _scarlet_ fever!' The road ascends as we make our way northwards, with quarries and lime-works defacing the heights that buttress Clee Hill on this side. After a stiffish bit of collar work we come to Whitton Chapel, a simple, solitary building, with a good though plain Norman south doorway, and a primitive-looking old tower.