The lane by which we are now travelling, though sufficiently rough-and-tumble, is one over which it is possible to push a bicycle; the writer himself has done it. It is not, in fact, the least strange feature of these Manx hills that they are thus traversed by high-level roads--not actually, indeed, climbing to the tops of the mountains, but winding in and out among them not far below their summits. One of these, between Douglas and Ramsey, and immediately under the shadow of Snaefell itself, has been engineered, I fancy, of quite recent years. One is reminded a little of the many new upland roads that the French are now constructing in Auvergne among the mountains of Mont Dore. Climbing along the south breast of Sart Fell, with the Rhenass stream below us on the right (which flows ultimately down Glen Helen), we come presently to the slight _col_ between the valleys of the Rhenass and the Sulby, just before surmounting which the heavy, dome-like top of Snaefell starts suddenly up through the nick of the pass, with its castellated hotel on its summit. The electric rail from Laxey--a hideous double line--almost completely encircles the bare, flattened cone of the hill as it winds round it in gradual ascent, exactly in the fashion in which the line from Clermont-Ferrand (though this is served by an ugly monster that vomits out volumes of smoke) winds up the Puy de Dôme, almost like the peel of an orange. It must be pleaded, however, in excuse of the tram-road up Snaefell--if any plea may be heard to extenuate its bare existence--that at least it has not scarred harsh lines round the hill, as is the case with its central French rival--lines that are plainly visible, on a reasonably clear day, eighteen miles away, or thereabouts, from the top of the Puy de Sancy. The view now opens on the left into the head of Sulby Glen--more properly Glen Mooar, the Big Glen--the strength of which lies further to the north, where it deepens beyond the inn at Tholt-y-Wilt. This is usually reckoned the finest in the island, and has certainly best pretensions to recognized mountain grandeur--if any spot, indeed, in the whole of the Isle of Man may properly be styled either mountainous or grand. Hereabouts, in succession, two rough roads turn down, to the south, to Injebreck, deep in the green valley between Colden and Carraghan (1,520 feet), and the terminus of a good driving-road from Douglas. Neither can be ridden on a bicycle, and one at least, when we descended it--but we speak of now two years ago--was rapidly being swept away by the fury of mountain torrents. Thus Injebreck is practically a _cul-de-sac_, secluded in the greenest of dale-heads; and those who are lucky enough to drop down into it, as the writer dropped down, just towards sunset on a mild February evening, with nearly a score of croaking ravens circling above his head, will reckon it perhaps the most beautiful spot in the island, and one that still