From Gloucester to Ross runs an excellent highway, though rather devoid
of interest. It was thronged with motorists who generally dashed along
in sublime disregard of the speed limits. We passed several who were
occupied with "roadside troubles" and we were in for an hour or so
ourselves, due to a refractory "vibrator." The Welsh farmers who passed
joked us good-naturedly and one said he would stick to his horse until
he had money to buy a motor--then, he added, he wouldn't buy it, but
would live on the income of the money. We told him that he was a man
after Solomon's own heart. Suddenly the evil spirit left the car and she
sprang away over the beautiful road in mad haste that soon landed us in
Ross.
Ross is a pretty village, situated on a green hillside overlooking the
Wye, and the tall, graceful spire of its church dominates all views of
the town. Although it was growing quite late, we did not stop here, but
directed our way to Monmouth, twelve miles farther on, which we reached
just as the long twilight was turning into night.
[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF ROSS, SOUTH WELSH BORDER.]