172 WILD WHITE CATTLE OF GREAT BRITAIN. 



My own visit to Chillingham was paid something 

 more than a twelvemonth later. At half-past seven in 

 the morning of Angnst 25th, 1874, I started for 

 Chillingham from the very comfortable "Blue Bell" Inn, 

 at Belford, accompanied by the Rev. C. S. Holthouse 

 and Mr. Jacob Wilson. Immediately after leaving 

 Belford in a rather south-westerly direction, the ground 

 begins to rise with considerable rapidity, till at the 

 distance of two or three miles you get high above the 

 sea-level, and a magnificent prospect opens. Seawards, 

 we saw the vast expanse of the German Ocean, studded 

 near the coast with the Fern Islands, Holy Island, 

 Lindisfarne, and the Long Stone — the scene of the 

 heroic exploit of the brave young maiden, Grace 

 Darling, the saviour of the shipwrecked crew of the 

 Forfarshire. All these lay like a map beneath us, 

 while Northumbrian rocky shore, fringed with feudal 

 castles, extended far in both directions. A little 

 further on, and when we had got to the height of 

 Chatton Moor, bare and cold even on that fine August 

 morning, there broke on us the inland view, the grand 

 amphitheatre of the cloud-capped Cheviots — " The 

 Cheviot" himself, far to the north, their gigantic leader 

 — while between us and them stretched for miles the 

 lovely valley, Glendale, every part of it teeming with 

 historic reminiscences. Yeavering Bell, formerly sacred 

 to the mystic rites of the Druids; Ford, Wark, and 

 other Border castles, the sites of a hundred skirmishes 

 and battles ; above all, Flodden's ever memorable field : 

 all these were seen in that glorious picture, full of 

 every kind of form and colour, every variety of light 

 and shadow, which was then presented to our view. 

 We made a bend in a southerly direction and right in 



