ALTHOUGH it was springtide by the calendar, and already some little way advanced, the snow time was by no means over in that wild Border country. The exact date was April 19. I fix it by the fact that my birthday falls on the 18th, and that I spent that one, the twenty-third, in an old-fashioned hotel at Wooler, and celebrated it by treating myself at dinner to the best bottle of wine the house afforded. It may have been the bottle of wine—but more likely it was sheer ignorance and presumption—that prompted me next morning to attempt what proved to be an impossible feat of pedestrianism. I set out immediately after breakfast intending before nightfall to make a complete circuit of the country which lies between Wooler and the Scottish border, going round by Kirknewton, Coldburn, and the Cheviot, and getting back to my starting-point by Hedgehope Hill and Kelpie Strand.
