two o'clock
From the church door we mounted our carriage ; and crossing the Avon on a bridge which the lord mayor of London built four hundred years ago , we start on one of the most memorable rides of our life . The country looked fresh and luxuriant from recent rains . The close-trimmed hedges , the sleek cattle , the snug cottages , the straggling villages with their historic inns , the castle from whose park Shakspeare stole the deer , the gate called `` Shakspeare 's stile , '' curious in the fact that it looks like ordinary bars of fence , but as you attempt to climb over , the whole thing gives way , and lets you fall flat , righting itself as soon as it is unburdened of you ; the rabbits darting along the hedges , undisturbed , because it is unlawful , save for licensed hunters , to shoot , and then not on private property ; the perfect weather , the blue sky , the exhilarating breeze , the glorious elms and oaks by the way , -- make it a day that will live when most other days are dead . At two o'clock we came in sight of Kenilworth Castle . Oh , this is the place to stir the blood . It is the king of ruins . Warwick is nothing ; Melrose is nothing , compared with it .