The Valley of Gelert—Legend of the Dog—Magnificent Scenery—The
Knicht—Goats in Wales—The Frightful Crag—Temperance House—Smile and
Curtsey.
Bethgelert is situated in a valley surrounded by huge hills, the most
remarkable of which are Moel Hebog and Cerrig Llan; the former fences it
on the south, and the latter, which is quite black and nearly
perpendicular, on the east. A small stream rushes through the valley,
and sallies forth by a pass at its south-eastern end. The valley is said
by some to derive its name of Beddgelert, which signifies the grave of
Celert, from being the burial-place of Celert, a British saint of the
sixth century, to whom Llangeler in Carmarthenshire is believed to have
been consecrated; but the popular and most universally received tradition
is that it has its name from being the resting-place of a faithful dog
called Celert, or Gelert, killed by his master, the warlike and
celebrated Llywelyn ab Jorwerth, from an unlucky misapprehension. Though
the legend is known to most people, I shall take the liberty of relating
it.
Llywelyn, during his contests with the English, had encamped with a few
followers in the valley, and one day departed with his men on an
expedition, leaving his infant son in a cradle in his tent, under the
care of his hound Gelert, after giving the child its fill of goat’s milk.
Whilst he was absent, a wolf from the neighbouring mountains, in quest of
prey, found its way into the tent, and was about to devour the child,
when the watchful dog interfered, and after a desperate conflict, in
which the tent was torn down, succeeded in destroying the monster.
Llywelyn, returning at evening, found the tent on the ground, and the
dog, covered with blood, sitting beside it. Imagining that the blood
with which Gelert was besmeared was that of his own son, devoured by the
animal to whose care he had confided him, Llywelyn, in a paroxysm of
natural indignation, forthwith transfixed the faithful creature with his
spear. Scarcely, however, had he done so, when his ears were startled by
the cry of a child from beneath the fallen tent, and hastily removing the
canvas, he found the child in its cradle quite uninjured, and the body of
an enormous wolf, frightfully torn and mangled, lying near. His breast
was now filled with conflicting emotions; joy for the preservation of his
son, and grief for the fate of his dog, to whom he forthwith hastened.
The poor animal was not quite dead, but presently expired, in the act of
licking its master’s hand. Llywelyn mourned over him as over a brother,
buried him with funeral honours in the valley, and erected a tomb over
him as over a hero. From that time the valley was called Bethgelert.
Such is the legend, which, whether true or fictitious, is singularly
beautiful and affecting.
The tomb, or what is said to be the tomb, of Gelert, stands in a
beautiful meadow just below the precipitous side of Cerrig Llan; it
consists of a large slab lying on its side, and two upright stones. It
is shaded by a weeping willow, and is surrounded by a hexagonal paling.
Who is there acquainted with the legend, whether he believes that the dog
lies beneath those stones or not, can visit them without exclaiming, with
a sigh, “Poor Gelert!”
After wandering about the valley for some time, and seeing a few of its
wonders, I inquired my way for Festiniog, and set off for that place.
The way to it is through the pass at the south-east end of the valley.
Arrived at the entrance of the pass, I turned round to look at the
scenery I was leaving behind me; the view which presented itself to my
eyes was very grand and beautiful. Before me lay the meadow of Gelert,
with the river flowing through it towards the pass. Beyond the meadow
the Snowdon range; on the right the mighty Cerrig Llan; on the left the
equally mighty, but not quite so precipitous, Hebog. Truly, the valley
of Gelert is a wondrous valley—rivalling for grandeur and beauty any vale
either in the Alps or Pyrenees. After a long and earnest view, I turned
round again, and proceeded on my way.
Presently I came to a bridge bestriding the stream, which a man told me
was called Pont Aber Glâs Lyn, or the bridge of the debouchement of the
grey lake. I soon emerged from the pass, and after proceeding some way,
stopped again to admire the scenery. To the west was the Wyddfa; full
north was a stupendous range of rocks; behind them a conical peak,
seemingly rivalling the Wyddfa itself in altitude; between the rocks and
the road, where I stood, was beautiful forest scenery. I again went on,
going round the side of a hill by a gentle ascent. After a little time I
again stopped to look about me. There was the rich forest scenery to the
north, behind it were the rocks, and behind the rocks rose the wonderful
conical hill impaling heaven; confronting it to the south-east was a huge
lumpish hill. As I stood looking about me, I saw a man coming across a
field which sloped down to the road from a small house. He presently
reached me, stopped and smiled. A more open countenance than his I never
saw in all the days of my life.
“Dydd dachwi, sir,” said the man of the open countenance, “the weather is
very showy.”
“Very showy, indeed,” said I; “I was just now wishing for somebody, of
whom I might ask a question or two.”
“Perhaps I can answer those questions, sir?”
“Perhaps you can. What is the name of that wonderful peak sticking up
behind the rocks to the north?”
“Many people have asked that question, sir, and I have given them the
answer which I now give you. It is called the ‘Knicht,’ sir; and a
wondrous hill it is.”
“And what is the name of yonder hill opposite to it, to the south, rising
like one big lump?”
“I do not know the name of that hill, sir, farther than that I have heard
it called the Great Hill.”
“And a very good name for it,” said I; “do you live in that house?”
“I do, sir, when I am at home.”
“And what occupation do you follow?”
“I am a farmer, though a small one.”
“Is your farm your own?”
“It is not, sir; I am not so far rich.”
“Who is your landlord?”
“Mr. Blicklin, sir. He is my landlord.”
“Is he a good landlord?”
“Very good, sir; no one can wish for a better landlord.”
“Has he a wife?”
“In truth, sir, he has; and a very good wife she is.”
“Has he children?”
“Plenty, sir; and very fine children they are.”
“Is he Welsh?”
“He is, sir! Cumro pur iawn.”
“Farewell,” said I; “I shall never forget you; you are the first tenant I
ever heard speak well of his landlord, or any one connected with him.”
“Then you have not spoken to the other tenants of Mr. Blicklin, sir.
Every tenant of Mr. Blicklin would say the same of him as I have said,
and of his wife and his children too. Good day, sir!”
I wended on my way; the sun was very powerful; saw cattle in a pool on my
right, maddened with heat and flies, splashing and fighting. Presently I
found myself with extensive meadows on my right, and a wall of rocks on
my left, on a lofty bank below which I saw goats feeding; beautiful
creatures they were, white and black, with long, silky hair, and long,
upright horns. They were of large size, and very different in appearance
from the common race. These were the first goats which I had seen in
Wales; for Wales is not at present the land of goats, whatever it may
have been.
I passed under a crag, exceedingly lofty, and of very frightful
appearance. It hung menacingly over the road. With this crag the wall
of rocks terminated; beyond it lay an extensive strath, meadow, or marsh,
bounded on the east by a lofty hill. The road lay across the marsh. I
went forward, crossed a bridge over a beautiful streamlet, and soon
arrived at the foot of the hill. The road now took a turn to the right,
that is, to the south, and seemed to lead round the hill. Just at the
turn of the road stood a small, neat cottage. There was a board over the
door with an inscription. I drew nigh and looked at it, expecting that
it would tell me that good ale was sold within, and read “Tea made here,
the draught which cheers but not inebriates.” I was before what is
generally termed a temperance house.
“The bill of fare does not tempt you, sir,” said a woman, who made her
appearance at the door, just as I was about to turn away with an
exceedingly wry face.
“It does not,” said I, “and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to have
nothing better to offer a traveller than a cup of tea. I am faint; and I
want good ale to give me heart, not wishy-washy tea to take away the
little strength I have.”
“What would you have me do, sir? Glad should I be to have a cup of ale
to offer you, but the magistrates, when I applied to them for a license,
refused me one; so I am compelled to make a cup of tea in order to get a
crust of bread. And if you choose to step in, I will make you a cup of
tea, not wishy-washy, I assure you, but as good as ever was brewed.”
“I had tea for my breakfast at Bethgelert,” said I, “and want no more
till to-morrow morning. What’s the name of that strange-looking crag
across the valley?”
“We call it Craig yr hyll ddrem, sir; which means— I don’t know what it
means in English.”
“Does it mean the Crag of the frightful look?”
“It does, sir,” said the woman; “ah, I see you understand Welsh.
Sometimes it is called Allt Traeth.”
“The high place of the sandy channel,” said I. “Did the sea ever come up
here?”
“I can’t say, sir; perhaps it did; who knows?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if there was once an arm of the sea
between that crag and this hill. Thank you! Farewell!”
“Then you won’t walk in, sir?”
“Not to drink tea,” said I; “tea is a good thing at a proper time, but
were I to drink it now it would make me ill.”
“Pray, sir, walk in,” said the woman, “and perhaps I can accommodate
you.”
“Then you have ale?” said I.
“No, sir; not a drop; but perhaps I can set something before you which
you will like as well.”
“That I question,” said I; “however, I will walk in.”
The woman conducted me into a nice little parlour, and, leaving me,
presently returned with a bottle and tumbler on a tray.
“Here, sir,” said she, “is something which, though not ale, I hope you
will be able to drink.”
“What is it?” said I.
“It is—, sir; and better never was drunk.”
I tasted it; it was terribly strong. Those who wish for either whiskey
or brandy far above proof should always go to a temperance house.
I told the woman to bring me some water, and she brought me a jug of
water cold from the spring. With a little of the contents of the bottle,
and a deal of the contents of the jug, I made myself a beverage tolerable
enough; a poor substitute, however, to a genuine Englishman for his
proper drink, the liquor which, according to the Edda, is called by men
ale, and by the gods, beer.
I asked the woman whether she could read; she told me that she could,
both Welsh and English; she likewise informed me that she had several
books in both languages. I begged her to show me some, whereupon she
brought me some half-dozen, and placing them on the table, left me to
myself. Amongst the books was a volume of poems in Welsh, written by
Robert Williams of Betws Fawr, styled in poetic language, Gwilym Du O
Eifion. The poems were chiefly on religious subjects. The following
lines, which I copied from “Pethau a wnaed mewn Gardd,” or things written
in a garden, appeared to me singularly beautiful:—
“Mewn gardd y cafodd dyn ei dwyllo;
Mewn gardd y rhoed oddewid iddo;
Mewn gardd bradychwyd Iesu hawddgar;
Mewn gardd amdowyd ef mewn daeār.”
“In a garden the first of our race was deceived;
In a garden the promise of grace he received;
In a garden was Jesus betray’d to His doom;
In a garden His body was laid in the tomb.”
Having finished my glass of “summut” and my translation, I called to the
woman and asked her what I had to pay.
“Nothing,” said she; “if you had had a cup of tea I should have charged
sixpence.”
“You make no charge,” said I, “for what I have had.”
“Nothing, sir; nothing.”
“But suppose,” said I, “I were to give you something by way of present,
would you—” and here I stopped.
The woman smiled.
“Would you fling it in my face?” said I.
“O dear, no, sir,” said the woman, smiling more than before.
I gave her something—it was not a sixpence—at which she not only smiled,
but curtseyed; then bidding her farewell I went out of the door.
I was about to take the broad road, which led round the hill, when she
inquired of me where I was going, and on my telling her to Festiniog, she
advised me to go by a by-road behind the house, which led over the hill.
“If you do, sir,” said she, “you will see some of the finest prospects in
Wales, get into the high road again, and save a mile and a half of way.”
I told the temperance woman I would follow her advice, whereupon she led
me behind the house, pointed to a rugged path, which with a considerable
ascent seemed to lead towards the north, and after, giving certain
directions, not very intelligible, returned to her temperance temple.