Departure for South Wales—Tregeiriog—Pleasing Scene—Trying to Read—Garmon
and Lupus—The Cracked Voice—Effect of a Compliment—Llan Rhyadr.
The morning of the 21st of October was fine and cold; there was a rime
frost on the ground. At about eleven o’clock I started on my journey for
South Wales, intending that my first stage should be Llan Rhyadr. My
wife and daughter accompanied me as far as Plas Newydd. As we passed
through the town I shook hands with honest A—, whom I saw standing at the
door of a shop, with a kind of Spanish hat on his head, and also with my
venerable friend old Mr. Jones, whom I encountered close beside his own
domicile. At the Plas Newydd I took an affectionate farewell of my two
loved ones, and proceeded to ascend the Berwyn. Near the top I turned
round to take a final look at the spot where I had lately passed many a
happy hour. There lay Llangollen far below me, with its chimneys
placidly smoking, its pretty church rising in its centre, its blue river
dividing it into two nearly equal parts, and the mighty hill of Brennus,
overhanging it from the north. I sighed, and repeating Einion Du’s verse
“Tangnefedd i Llangollen!”
turned away.
I went over the top of the hill, and then began to descend its southern
side, obtaining a distant view of the plains of Shropshire on the east.
I soon reached the bottom of the hill, passed through Llansanfraid, and
threading the vale of the Ceiriog, at length found myself at Pont y
Meibion, in front of the house of Huw Morris, or rather of that which is
built on the site of the dwelling of the poet. I stopped, and remained
before the house, thinking of the mighty Huw, till the door opened, and
out came the dark-featured man, the poet’s descendant, whom I saw when
visiting the place in company with honest John Jones—he had now a spade
in his hand, and was doubtless going to his labour. As I knew him to be
of a rather sullen, unsocial disposition, I said nothing to him, but
proceeded on my way. As I advanced the valley widened, the hills on the
west receding to some distance from the river. Came to Tregeiriog, a
small village, which takes its name from the brook; Tregeiriog signifying
the hamlet or village on the Ceiriog. Seeing a bridge which crossed the
rivulet at a slight distance from the road, a little beyond the village,
I turned aside to look at it. The proper course of the Ceiriog is from
south to north; where it is crossed by the bridge, however, it runs from
west to east, returning to its usual course, a little way below the
bridge. The bridge was small, and presented nothing remarkable in
itself: I obtained, however, as I looked over its parapet towards the
west, a view of a scene, not of wild grandeur, but of something which I
like better, which richly compensated me for the slight trouble I had
taken in stepping aside to visit the little bridge. About a hundred
yards distant was a small watermill, built over the rivulet, the wheel
going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of pigs, the generality of
them brindled, were either browsing on the banks, or lying close to the
sides, half immersed in the water; one immense white hog, the monarch
seemingly of the herd, was standing in the middle of the current. Such
was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life
well suited to the brushes of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or
to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own
style—Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour
had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old
Huw Morris, brought to my recollection by the sight of his
dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads.
I admired the vigour, but disliked the principles which they displayed;
and admiration on the one hand, and disapproval on the other, bred a
commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way
and wind blows another. The quiet scene from the bridge, however,
produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I
had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers.
I reached Llanarmon, another small village, situated in a valley, through
which the Ceiriog, or a river very similar to it, flows. It is half-way
between Llangollen and Llan Rhyadr, being ten miles from each. I went to
a small inn, or public-house, sat down, and called for ale. A waggoner
was seated at a large table with a newspaper before him on which he was
intently staring.
“What news?” said I in English.
“I wish I could tell you,” said he in very broken English; “but I cannot
read.”
“Then why are you looking at the paper?” said I.
“Because,” said he, “by looking at the letters I hope in time to make
them out.”
“You may look at them,” said I, “for fifty years without being able to
make out one. You should go to an evening school.”
“I am too old,” said he, “to do so now; if I did the children would laugh
at me.”
“Never mind their laughing at you,” said I, “provided you learn to read;
let them laugh who win!”
“You give good advice, mester,” said he; “I think I shall follow it.”
“Let me look at the paper,” said I.
He handed it to me. It was a Welsh paper, and full of dismal accounts
from the seat of war.
“What news, mester?” said the waggoner.
“Nothing but bad,” said I; “the Russians are beating us and the French
too.”
“If the Rusiaid beat us,” said the waggoner, “it is because the Francod
are with us. We should have gone alone.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said I; “at any rate, we could not have fared
worse than we are faring now.”
I presently paid for what I had had, inquired the way to Llan Rhyadr, and
departed. The village of Llanarmon takes its name from its church, which
is dedicated to Garmon, an Armorican bishop, who, with another called
Lupus, came over into Britain in order to preach against the heresy of
Pelagius. He and his colleague resided for some time in Flintshire, and
whilst there enabled, in a remarkable manner, the Britons to achieve a
victory over those mysterious people the Picts, who were ravaging the
country far and wide. Hearing that the enemy were advancing towards
Mold, the two bishops gathered together a number of the Britons, and
placed them in ambush in a dark valley, through which it was necessary
for the Picts to pass in order to reach Mold, strictly enjoining them to
remain quiet till all their enemies should have entered the valley, and
then do whatever they should see them, the two bishops, do. The Picts
arrived, and when they were about half-way through the valley, the two
bishops stepped forward from a thicket, and began crying aloud,
“Alleluia!” The Britons followed their example, and the wooded valley
resounded with cries of “Alleluia! alleluia!” The shouts and the
unexpected appearance of thousands of men caused such terror to the
Picts, that they took to flight in the greatest confusion, hundreds were
trampled to death by their companions, and not a few were drowned in the
river Alan {371} which runs through the valley.
There are several churches dedicated to Garmon in Wales, but whether
there are any dedicated to Lupus I am unable to say.
After leaving Llanarmon I found myself amongst lumpy hills, through which
the road led in the direction of the south. Arriving where several roads
met, I followed one, and became bewildered amidst hills and ravines. At
last I saw a small house close by a nant, or dingle, and turned towards
it for the purpose of inquiring my way. On my knocking at the door, a
woman made her appearance, of whom I asked in Welsh whether I was in the
road to Llan Rhyadr. She said that I was out of it, but that if I went
towards the south I should see a path on my left which would bring me to
it. I asked her how far it was to Llan Rhyadr.
“Four long miles,” she replied.
“And what is the name of the place where we are now?” said I.
“Cae Hir” (the long inclosure), said she.
“Are you alone in the house?” said I.
“Quite alone,” said she; “but my husband and people will soon be home
from the field, for it is getting dusk.”
“Have you any Saxon?” said I.
“Not a word,” said she, “have I of the iaith dieithr, nor has my husband,
nor any one of my people.”
I bade her farewell, and soon reached the road, which led south and
north. As I was bound for the south, I strode forward briskly in that
direction. The road was between romantic hills; heard Welsh songs
proceeding from the hill fields on my right, and the murmur of a brook
rushing down a deep nant on my left. I went on till I came to a
collection of houses which an old woman, with a cracked voice and a small
tin milk-pail, whom I assisted in getting over a stile into the road,
told me was called Pen Strit—probably the head of the street. She spoke
English, and on my asking her how she had learnt the English tongue, she
told me that she had learnt it of her mother, who was an English woman.
She said that I was two miles from Llan Rhyadr, and that I must go
straight forward. I did so, till I reached a place where the road
branched into two, one bearing somewhat to the left, and the other to the
right. After standing a minute in perplexity I took the right-hand road,
but soon guessed that I had taken the wrong one, as the road dwindled
into a mere footpath. Hearing some one walking on the other side of the
hedge, I inquired in Welsh whether I was going right for Llan Rhyadr, and
was answered by a voice in English, apparently that of a woman, that I
was not, and that I must go back. I did so, and presently a woman came
through a gate to me.
“Are you the person,” said I, “who just now answered me in English after
I had spoken in Welsh?”
“In truth I am,” said she, with a half laugh.
“And how came you to answer me in English, after I had spoken to you in
Welsh?”
“Because,” said she, “it was easy enough to know by your voice that you
were an Englishman.”
“You speak English remarkably well,” said I.
“And so do you Welsh,” said the woman; “I had no idea that it was
possible for any Englishman to speak Welsh half so well.”
“I wonder,” thought I to myself, “what you would have answered if I had
said that you speak English execrably.” By her own account, she could
read both Welsh and English. She walked by my side to the turn, and then
up the left-hand road, which she said was the way to Llan Rhyadr. Coming
to a cottage, she bade me good-night, and went in. The road was horribly
miry; presently, as I was staggering through a slough, just after I had
passed a little cottage, I heard a cracked voice crying, “I suppose you
lost your way?” I recognised it as that of the old woman whom I had
helped over the stile. She was now standing behind a little gate, which
opened into a garden before the cottage. The figure of a man was
standing near her. I told her that she was quite right in her
supposition.
“Ah,” said she, “you should have gone straight forward.”
“If I had gone straight forward,” said I, “I must have gone over a hedge,
at the corner of a field which separated two roads; instead of bidding me
go straight forward, you should have told me to follow the left-hand
road.”
“Well,” said she, “be sure you keep straight forward now.”
I asked her who the man was standing near her.
“It is my husband,” said she.
“Has he much English?” said I.
“None at all,” said she, “for his mother was not English, like mine.” I
bade her good-night, and went forward. Presently I came to a meeting of
roads, and to go straight forward it was necessary to pass through a
quagmire; remembering, however, the words of my friend the beldame, I
went straight forward, though in so doing I was sloughed up to the knees.
In a little time I came to a rapid descent, and at the bottom of it to a
bridge. It was now very dark; only the corner of the moon was casting a
faint light. After crossing the bridge I had one or two ascents and
descents. At last I saw lights before me, which proved to be those of
Llan Rhyadr. I soon found myself in a dirty little street, and,
inquiring for the inn, was kindly shown by a man to one which he said was
the best, and which was called the Wynstay Arms.