A walk across the park and over a couple of fields southward brings us to the village of Thimbleby, which consists of a “street” of small cottages and two or three larger dwelling-houses. There is here an old manor, called “Hall-garth,” with an interesting old house with gables, thatched roof, some panelled rooms, a large fish pond, an old-time garden with yew hedges fantastically trimmed, and a fine old tree or two. In a field called “the Park,” at the east end of the parish, are some fine trees, remnants of a former avenue. The ancient well, said to be Roman, in the rectory grounds, has already been mentioned. The church was re-fashioned in 1879, and an old, nondescript, flat-ceiled structure was converted into a substantial and well-designed edifice of Early Decorated style, with clock-tower and good clock, which gives out its notes of time to the neighbourhood. We are now within a mile of Horncastle; somewhat weary after our long explorations, let us wend our way on to the old town, and seek rest and refreshment at the well-appointed and almost historic hostel which is ready to welcome us beneath “ye Signe of ye Bull.” CHAPTER X. Re-invigorated, after the prolonged explorations of the last chapter, by a much-needed rest at the hostel of “The Bull,” we now prepare for our final round of visitation among the still remaining objects of interest in the neighbourhood. And first we may seek enlightenment as to the meaning of “the sign” of our inn, for such signs are ofttimes significant. For this we have not far to go. Looking out of the window of the snug little parlour we are occupying, we see before us what an Irishman might call a triangular square—a sort of “Trivium,” where three ways meet, and where men not seldom congregate for trivial converse, although on market days it is the scene of busy barter, and at mart, or fair, transactions in horse, and other, flesh are negotiated with dealers of many kindreds, peoples, and tongues; but more of this anon. On the far side of this open space, “the Red Lion” bravely faces us, lashing its tail in rivalry. In the centre we notice a large lamppost (recently erected by the Urban Council; in 1897). At this spot, well within living memory, was to be seen a large iron ring, securely embedded in a stone in the pavement, of goodly dimensions. This was “the Bull King,” and the open space still perpetuates the name. Here the ancient sport of bull-baiting was practised annually for the brutal, but thoughtless, delectation of the people of town and country side. {178} I find a note that on April 21, 1887, I conversed with an old woman, and, as a link with what is passed, never to return, I may here give her name,—Judith Thornley, daughter of W. Elvin, farmer, of Baumber,—and then 84 years of age, who remembered the Bull ring, as I also do, and who, as a child, raised on her father’s shoulders to see over the crowd, witnessed more than one bull-baiting.