ON THE WRONG ROAD.

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locally called the Castle Hill, though there is no castle there, and probably never was—at least history gives no record of any. The hill consists of a singular and mighty rounded mound of earth, grass-grown now, with very steep sides, and over a hundred feet in height; manifestly the remains of an ancient British stronghold of much importance in its day. These prehistoric remains interested us much; the construction of them must have been a vast undertaking in those far-off times. The mound is now crowned by trees; the climb to the top of it over the short grass we found, even with the help of a stick, to be a task. Properly defended, in an age before gunpowder, this mighty earthwork must have been almost impregnable.

We had a delightful day on which to continue our journey. The thunder had cleared the air, and the weather, though cool and cloudy, gave every promise of being fine; the rain moreover had laid whatever dust there might have been. As we found by glancing at our maps that we were only an easy stage from the ancient and historic town of Bury St. Edmunds, we determined to make our way thither in order to see the notable ruins of its once magnificent abbey.

Leaving Thetford we managed to get on the wrong road at starting. Not a difficult matter in the absence of sign-posts, and owing to the fact that few people one meets nowadays are able to direct the stranger as to his way out of towns. Natural enough this in an age when everybody travels by train. was provoking getting wrong thus, as we much wished to see the famous ruins at Bury. Had it not

It

been for this fact, we should simply have contentedly continued on the wrong road, and have let it lead us whither it would, for there is a certain fascination in wandering along an unknown road, through an unknown country, with only the vaguest of notions as to whither it will eventually take you. We followed a road thus once whilst touring in the wilds of Devon, and we thoroughly enjoyed the excitement of the thing, but for such exploits fine weather is most desirable. It is not very pleasurable to be caught amongst the winding mazes of country lanes in the wet, and perchance find yourself miles from anywhere, with no friendly inn within a reasonable distance. But given a fine day, there is a certain charm in striking upon a strange road and letting it take you whither it will; and often it does lead you unexpectedly into the most strange out-of-the-way spots and odd places, that you would never have otherwise come upon, for it is just these very unexplored nooks and quaint corners of the land that never get described in the average run of guidebooks. Well do I remember on another occasion, whilst exploring an unknown road in the West of England, my delight on suddenly coming upon a curious, old-fashioned, little decayed coaching town, full of quaint and curious old buildings, delightful to look upon singly or grouped as a whole. In the sleepy, spacious main street of the little town stands a grand old coaching inn, a perfect picture of an oldtime hostelry. The ancient building has its traditions too, and there is a chamber shown in which Cromwell slept. As this charming old English town is six miles from a railway station, I think that I may safely

reveal its name without the danger of spoiling it, especially as its charms are of the poetic and unsensational kind and consequently have but little attraction in the eyes of the genus excursionist. The name of the place is Broadway, and it is in Worcestershire. The town abounds in pictures and picturesque 'bits' that so please the eye of an artist, and I frequently see in exhibitions paintings of its ancient and time-toned buildings. Strangely enough, attracted by the name of Broadway,' some American artists once visited it, and so fell under the influence of the place with its old-world charm, that they have come to it year after year since, and now and again in 'Harper's Magazine' I recognise a quaint gable, an odd nook, and even once the old inn of Broadway itself, appearing amongst the illustrations of that popular periodical.

But I have wandered far afield from our Suffolk road, for on leaving Thetford we said good-bye to picturesque Norfolk. It is a most picturesque county, and the quiet beauty of its scenery is none the less beautiful because so little famed, and to us all the more delightful because of the marked absence of the professional tripper. Once having discovered the right road to Bury (we found that the country people for brevity omitted the St. Edmunds), we were careful by constantly consulting our maps to keep to it. What a blessing it would be were the useful old-fashioned sign-posts to be re-erected on the roads! but I fear that there is but little chance of this now.

Again we found ourselves driving through a wild