Mountain Scenery—The Rhyadr—Wonderful Feat.
After walking about a mile with the cataract always in sight, I emerged
from the glen into an oblong valley extending from south to north, having
lofty hills on all sides, especially on the west, from which direction
the cataract comes. I advanced across the vale till within a furlong of
this object, when I was stopped by a deep hollow or nether vale into
which the waters of the cataract tumble. On the side of this hollow I
sat down, and gazed before me and on either side. The water comes
spouting over a crag of perhaps two hundred feet in altitude between two
hills, one south-east and the other nearly north. The southern hill is
wooded from the top, nearly down to where the cataract burst forth; and
so, but not so thickly, is the northern hill, which bears a singular
resemblance to a hog’s back. Groves of pine are on the lower parts of
both; in front of a grove low down on the northern hill is a small white
house of a picturesque appearance. The water of the cataract, after
reaching the bottom of the precipice, rushes in a narrow brook down the
vale in the direction of Llan Rhyadr. To the north-east, between the
hog-backed hill and another strange-looking mountain, is a wild glen,
from which comes a brook to swell the waters discharged by the Rhyadr.
The south-west side of the vale is steep, and from a cleft of a hill in
that quarter a slender stream rushing impetuously joins the brook of the
Rhyadr, like the rill of the northern glen. The principal object of the
whole is of course the Rhyadr. What shall I liken it to? I scarcely
know, unless to an immense skein of silk agitated and disturbed by
tempestuous blasts, or to the long tail of a grey courser at furious
speed. Through the profusion of long silvery threads or hairs, or what
looked such, I could here and there see the black sides of the crag down
which the Rhyadr precipitated itself with something between a boom and a
roar.
After sitting on the verge of the hollow for a considerable time I got
up, and directed my course towards the house in front of the grove. I
turned down the path which brought me to the brook which runs from the
northern glen into the waters discharged by the Rhyadr, and crossing it
by stepping-stones found myself on the lowest spur of the hog-backed
hill. A steep path led towards the house. As I drew near, two handsome
dogs came rushing to welcome the stranger. Coming to a door on the
northern side of the house I tapped and a handsome girl of about thirteen
making her appearance I enquired in English the nearest way to the
waterfall; she smiled, and in her native language said that she had no
Saxon. On my telling her in Welsh that I was come to see the Pistyll she
smiled again, and said that I was welcome, then taking me round the house
she pointed to a path and bade me follow it. I followed the path which
led downwards to a tiny bridge of planks, a little way below the fall. I
advanced to the middle of the bridge, then turning to the west looked at
the wonderful object before me.
There are many remarkable cataracts in Britain and the neighbouring
isles, even the little Celtic Isle of Man has its remarkable waterfall;
but this Rhyadr, the grand cataract of North Wales, far exceeds them all
in altitude and beauty, though it is inferior to several of them in the
volume of its flood. I never saw water falling so gracefully, so much
like thin beautiful threads as here. Yet even this cataract has its
blemish. What beautiful object has not something which more or less mars
its loveliness? There is an ugly black bridge or semicircle of rock,
about two feet in diameter and about twenty feet high, which rises some
little way below it, and under which the water, after reaching the
bottom, passes, which intercepts the sight, and prevents it from taking
in the whole fall at once. This unsightly object has stood where it now
stands since the day of creation, and will probably remain there to the
day of judgment. It would be a desecration of nature to remove it by
art, but no one could regret if nature in one of her floods were to sweep
it away.
As I was standing on the planks a woman plainly but neatly dressed came
from the house. She addressed me in very imperfect English, saying that
she was the mistress of the house and should be happy to show me about.
I thanked her for her offer and told her that she might speak Welsh,
whereupon she looked glad and said in that tongue that she could speak
Welsh much better than Saesneg. She took me by a winding path up a steep
bank on the southern side of the fall to a small plateau, and told me
that was the best place to see the Pistyll from. I did not think so, for
we were now so near that we were almost blinded by the spray, though, it
is true, the semicircle of rock no longer impeded the sight; this object
we now saw nearly laterally rising up like a spectral arch, spray and
foam above it, and water rushing below. “That is a bridge rather for
ysprydoedd {397} to pass over than men,” said I.
“It is,” said the woman; “but I once saw a man pass over it.”
“How did he get up?” said I. “The sides are quite steep and slippery.”
“He wriggled up the side like a llysowen, {398} till he got to the top,
when he stood upright for a minute, and then slid down on the other
side.”
“Was he any one from these parts?” said I.
“He was not. He was a dyn dieithr, a Russian; one of those with whom we
are now at war.”
“Was there as much water tumbling then as now?”
“More, for there had fallen more rain.”
“I suppose the torrent is sometimes very dreadful?” said I.
“It is indeed, especially in winter; for it is then like a sea, and roars
like thunder or a mad bull.”
After I had seen all I wished of the cataract, the woman asked me to come
to the house and take some refreshment. I followed her to a neat little
room where she made me sit down and handed me a bowl of buttermilk. On
the table was a book in which she told me it was customary for
individuals who visited the cataract to insert their names. I took up
the book which contained a number of names mingled here and there with
pieces of poetry. Amongst these compositions was a Welsh englyn on the
Rhyadr, which though incorrect in its prosody I thought stirring and
grand. I copied it, and subjoin it with a translation which I made on
the spot.
“Crychiawg, ewynawg anian—yw y Rhyadr
Yn rhuo mal taran;
Colofn o dwr, gloyw-dwr glan,
Gorwyllt, un lliw ag arian.”
“Foaming and frothing from mountainous height,
Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls;
Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight,
Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.”