The “Knights Templar” of Quenington were famous in times gone by.  There is a fine entrance gate and porch on the roadside, which no doubt led to the abbey.

There is little else left to remind us of these Knights Templar.  Here and there are an old lancet window or a little piece of Gothic tracery on an ancient wall, an old worm-eaten roof of oak or a heap of ruined stones on a moat-surrounded close,—­these are all the remnants to be found of the days of chivalry and the monks of old.

We have now two rather uneventful miles to traverse between Coln-St.-Aldwyns and Bibury, for we must once more leave the valley and set out across the bleak uplands.  On the high ground we have the advantage of splendid bracing air at all events.  The hills have a charm of their own on a fine day, more especially when the fields are full of golden corn and the old-fashioned Cotswold men are busy among the sheaves.

And very soon we get a view which we would gladly have walked twenty miles to see.  Down below us and not more than half a mile away is the fine old Elizabethan house of Bibury, standing out from a background of magnificent trees.  Close to the house is the grey Norman tower of the village church, which has stood there for mote than six centuries.  Nestling round about are the old stone-roofed cottages, like those we have seen in the other villages we have passed through.  A broad reach of the Coln and a grand waterfall enhance the quiet and peaceful beauty of the scene.  But this description falls very short of conveying any adequate idea of the truly delightful effect which the old grey buildings set in a framework of wood and water present on a fine autumnal afternoon.

Never shall I forget seeing this old place from the hill above during one September sunset.  There was a marvellous glow suffused over the western sky, infinitely beautiful while it lasted; and immediately below a silvery mist had risen from the surface of the broad trout stream, and was hanging over the old Norman tower of the church.  Amid the rush of the waterfall could be heard the distant voices of children in the village street.  Then on a sudden the church clock struck the hour of six, in deep, solemn tones.  Against the russet-tinted woods in the background the old court house stood out grey and silent under the shadow of the church tower, preaching as good a sermon as any I ever heard.

     “An English home, grey twilight poured
        On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
      Softer than sleep,—­all things in order stored,
        A haunt of ancient peace.”

Bibury Court is a most beautiful old house.  Some of it dates back to Henry VIII.’s time.  The most remarkable characteristic of its interior is a very fine carved oak staircase.  The greater part of this house was built in the year 1623 by Sir Thomas Sackville.  It was long the seat of the Creswell family, before passing by purchase to the family of the present owner—­Lord Sherborne.