The quiet little market town lies pleasantly among green meadows almost at the foot of the Cheviots; its low substantial stone houses, with few gardens in front, give the place a somewhat monotonous appearance, but the newer streets try to make amends by blossoming out into brilliant flower-plots in summer-time. Still, one would not quarrel with the older buildings; solid and unpretentious, they must look much the same as in the days of Border turmoil, when the first requisite in house or town was strength, not beauty. Near to Wooler are many interesting places; within the limits of quite a short stroll one may visit the Pin Well, a wishing well of which there are so many examples to be found wherever one may travel; the King’s Chair, a porphyry crag on the hill above the Pin Well; Maiden Castle, or, less euphoniously, Kettles Camp, an ancient British encampment on the same hill, the Kettles being pot-like cavities in the ravines surrounding it; and the Cup and Saucer Camp, just half a mile distant from Wooler. The Golf Course is now laid out on these same heights. To reach the Cheviots from Wooler, the most usual way is by the beautiful glen in which lies Langleeford. The bright streamlet known as the Wooler Water runs through it from Cheviot on its way to the town from which it has taken its present name; formerly it was known as Caldgate Burn. It was at Langleeford that Sir Walter Scott stayed, as a youth, in 1791, with his uncle, after they had vainly attempted to find accommodation in Wooler. Here they rode, fished, shot, walked, and drank the goat’s whey for which the district was famous in those days and for long afterwards. Cheviot itself, or “The Muckle Cheviot,” is a huge cumbrous-looking mass, with rounded sides and flat top, boggy and treacherous, where, nevertheless, many wild berries brighten the marshy flats in their season. The name “Cheviot” is said to mean “Snowy Ridge” and well does this highest summit of the range merit the name, for on its marshy top and in the rocky chasms of Henhole and Bazzle, the winter’s snow often lies until far into the summer. Down through the weird and fairy-haunted cleft of Henhole, as we have seen, the little brown stream of Colledge Water splashes its way, breaking into golden foam between mossy banks as it reaches the outlet, and turns northward to join the Till.