The road from Church Stretton to Craven Arms traverses a pleasant, smiling vale, with the Quenny brook wimpling along amidst water meadows, and broad breezy hillslopes stretching up and away beyond the rich, rolling woodlands that nestle around their flanks. A short mile out of the village we strike up an isolated knoll, whose summit is seamed with the green ramparts of Brockhurst Castle, an ancient stronghold keeping ward over the Watling Street, of whose history very little is known. Brockhurst was a royal foundation, and in Henry the Second's reign was held by Engelard de Pitchford, the famous Hubert de Burgh being Castellan in the year 1226. As early as Queen Elizabeth's time the place, it is evident, was already deserted; for Camden, writing at that period, finds there 'are still remaining the ruins of an ancient castle, called Brocard's castle, surrounded by verdant meads which anciently were fishponds.' But the site is an ideal spot for the genus picnicker, by whom its bowery nooks and secluded, fern-clad dingles are often-times frequented. On descending to the highroad, we notice the level strath where doubtless the fishponds lay. Soon afterwards we come to Little Stretton, a tranquil hamlet charmingly located in a nook of the Longmynd, over against the beautifully-wooded hill of Ragleth. The cottagers, we observe, take a curious delight in garnishing their doorways with derelict cannon-shot, which they find in the neighbouring gullies after artillery practice on the Longmynd. Blackleaded and brightly polished, they stand sentinel on either side the rustic porch; an innocent billet indeed for these truculent bullets! At the farther end of the village two humble inns, the Green Dragon and the Crown, stand vis-à-vis on either side the highway; and, in these modest hostelries, visitors may possibly identify the rival 'houses' that figure in Beatrice Harraden's story of Shropshire life, entitled 'At the Green Dragon.' Pushing on now to Marsh Brook, we turn sharp to the left at the rural post-office, and work our way up-hill to Acton Scott, a high-lying place some 700 feet above sea level--'Acton-super-Montem' it is called in ancient documents. Passing through the churchyard wicket, we pause beneath an enormous hollow yew tree to scan the rare prospect over the rolling Stretton hills, and a glimpse down the vale towards Ludlow. Of the church itself there is little to be said, save that it has a good plain old oak roodscreen; so we stroll on beneath an avenue of noble beech trees, and presently come in sight of Acton Scott Hall. [Illustration: Acton Scott Hall.]