east side, lies the
village of Alleaume where there remain the ivy-grown ruins of the castle in
which Duke William was residing when the news was brought to him of the
insurrection of his barons under the Viscount of the Cotentin. It was at
this place that William's fool revealed to him the danger in which he
stood, and it was from here that he rode in hot haste to the castle of
Falaise, a stronghold the Duke seemed to regard as safer than any other in
his possession.

Still farther southwards lies the town of Carentan, in the centre of a
great butter-making district. It is, however, a dull place--it can scarcely
be called a city even though it possesses a cathedral. The earliest part of
this building is the west front which is of twelfth century work. The spire
of the central tower has much the same appearance as those crowning the two
western towers at St Lo, but there is nothing about the building that
inspires any particular enthusiasm although the tracery of some of the
windows, especially of the reticulated one in the south transept, is
exceptionally fine.

CHAPTER IX

Concerning St Lo and Bayeux

The richest pasture lands occupy the great butter-making district that lies
north of St Lo. The grass in every meadow seems to grow with particular
luxuriance, and the sleepy cows that are privileged to dwell in this choice
country, show by their complaisant expressions the satisfaction they feel
with their surroundings. It is wonderful to lie in one of these sunny
pastures, when the buttercups have gilded the grass, and to watch the
motionless red and white cattle as they solemnly let the hours drift past
them. During a whole sunny afternoon, which I once spent in those pastoral
surroundings, I can scarcely remember the slightest movement taking place
among the somnolent herd. There was a gentle breeze that made waves in the
silky sea of grass and sometimes stirred the fresh green leaves of the
trees overhead. The birds were singing sweetly, and the distant tolling of
the cathedral bells at Carentan added a richness to the sounds of nature.
Imagine this scene repeated a thousand times in every direction and you
have a good idea of this strip of pastoral Normandy.

About four miles north of St Lo, the main road drops down into the pleasant
little village of Pont Hebert and then passes over the Vire where it flows
through a lovely vale. In either direction the brimming waters of the river
glide between brilli