Old Windmill at Lyth Hill.
[FROM SHREWSBURY TO PITCHFORD, ACTON BURNELL, AND CHURCH STRETTON.]
silvery mackerel sky, serene and calm, gives promise of a bright Spring day, as, drawn by the iron horse, we spin along betwixt fields and hedgerows en route for Dorrington Station.
Half-way out we skirt the wooded slopes of Lythwood, once upon a time a royal forest, whence Henry the Third permitted the Hospitallers of St. Giles's to draw wood for their firing. Presently the gently-flowing river Cound is seen, travelling Severn-wards through a pleasant, agricultural country; and then, detraining at the next station, we shoulder our knapsacks and trudge away in the direction of Stapleton.
Old hawthorn hedges fling their scented sprays athwart the dusty highway, and the verdant wheat-fields beyond them are fringed with feathery cow's-parsley, looking for all the world like green carpets edged with white lace. The oaks are beating the ash trees this Spring in their race for precedence, and in yonder grounds a copper beech rears its magnificent purple dome against the deep blue of the sky—a sight for sair e'en!
