Proceed on Journey—The Lad and Dog—Old Bala—The Pass—Extensive View—The
Two Men—The Tap Nyth—The Meeting of the Waters—The Wild Valley—Dinas
Mawddwy.
The Monday morning was gloomy and misty, but it did not rain, a
circumstance which gave me no little pleasure, as I intended to continue
my journey without delay. After breakfast I bade farewell to my kind
hosts and also to the freckled maid, and departed, my sachel o’er my
shoulder and my umbrella in my hand.
I had consulted the landlord on the previous day as to where I had best
make my next halt, and had been advised by him to stop at Mallwyd. He
said that if I felt tired I could put up at Dinas Mawddwy, about two
miles on this side of Mallwyd, but that if I were not he would advise me
to go on, as I should find very poor accommodation at Dinas. On my
inquiring as to the nature of the road he told me that the first part of
it was tolerably good, lying along the eastern side of the lake, but that
the greater part of it was very rough, over hills and mountains belonging
to the great chain of Arran, which constituted upon the whole the wildest
part of all Wales.
Passing by the northern end of the lake I turned to the south and
proceeded along a road a little way above the side of the lake. The day
had now to a certain extent cleared up, and the lake was occasionally
gilded by beams of bright sunshine. After walking a little way I
overtook a lad dressed in a white great coat and attended by a tolerably
large black dog. I addressed him in English, but finding that he did not
understand me I began to talk to him in Welsh.
“That’s a fine dog,” said I.
_Lad_.—Very fine, sir, and a good dog; though young, he has been known to
kill rats.
_Myself_.—What is his name?
_Lad_.—His name is Toby, sir.
_Myself_.—And what is your name?
_Lad_.—John Jones, sir.
_Myself_.—And what is your father’s?
_Lad_.—Waladr Jones, sir.
_Myself_.—Is Waladr the same as Cadwaladr?
_Lad_.—In truth, sir, it is.
_Myself_.—That is a fine name.
_Lad_.—It is, sir; I have heard my father say that it was the name of a
king.
_Myself_.—What is your father?
_Lad_.—A farmer, sir.
_Myself_.—Does he farm his own land?
_Lad_.—He does not, sir; he is tenant to Mr. Price of Hiwlas.
_Myself_.—Do you live far from Bala?
_Lad_.—Not very far, sir.
_Myself_.—Are you going home now?
_Lad_.—I am not, sir; our home is on the other side of Bala. I am going
to see a relation up the road.
_Myself_.—Bala is a nice place.
_Lad_.—It is, sir; but not so fine as old Bala.
_Myself_.—I never heard of such a place. Where is it?
_Lad_.—Under the lake, sir.
_Myself_.—What do you mean?
_Lad_.—It stood in the old time where the lake now is, and a fine city it
was, full of fine houses, towers and castles, but with neither church nor
chapel, for the people neither knew God nor cared for Him, and thought of
nothing but singing and dancing and other wicked things. So God was
angry with them, and one night, when they were all busy at singing and
dancing and the like, God gave the word and the city sank down into
Unknown, and the lake boiled up where it once stood.
_Myself_.—That was a long time ago.
_Lad_.—In truth, sir, it was.
_Myself_.—Before the days of King Cadwaladr.
_Lad_.—I dare say it was, sir.
I walked fast, but the lad was a shrewd walker, and though encumbered
with his great coat contrived to keep tolerably up with me. The road
went over hill and dale, but upon the whole more upward than downward.
After proceeding about an hour and a half we left the lake, to the
southern extremity of which we had nearly come, somewhat behind, and bore
away to the south-east, gradually ascending. At length the lad pointing
to a small farm-house on the side of a hill told me he was bound thither,
and presently bidding me farewell turned aside up a footpath which led
towards it.
About a minute afterwards a small delicate furred creature with a white
mark round its neck and with a little tail trailing on the ground ran
swiftly across the road. It was a weasel or something of that genus; on
observing it I was glad that the lad and the dog were gone, as between
them they would probably have killed it. I hate to see poor wild animals
persecuted and murdered, lose my appetite for dinner at hearing the
screams of a hare pursued by greyhounds, and am silly enough to feel
disgust and horror at the squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier,
which one of the sporting tribe once told me were the sweetest sounds in
“natur.”
I crossed a bridge over a deep gulley which discharged its waters into a
river in a valley on the right. Arran rose in great majesty on the
farther side of this vale, its head partly shrouded in mist. The day now
became considerably overcast. I wandered on over much rough ground till
I came to a collection of houses at the bottom of a pass leading up a
steep mountain. Seeing the door of one of the houses open I peeped in,
and a woman who was sitting knitting in the interior rose and came out to
me. I asked the name of the place. The name which she told me sounded
something like Tŷ Capel Saer—the House of the Chapel of the Carpenter. I
inquired the name of the river in the valley. Cynllwyd, hoary-headed,
she seemed to say; but here as well as with respect to her first answer I
speak under correction, for her Welsh was what my old friends the
Spaniards would call muy cerrado, that is close or indistinct. She asked
me if I was going up the bwlch. I told her I was.
“Rather you than I,” said she, looking up to the heavens which had
assumed a very dismal, not to say awful appearance.
Presently I began to ascend the pass or bwlch, a green hill on my right
intercepting the view of Arran, another very lofty hill on my left with
wood towards the summit. Coming to a little cottage which stood on the
left I went to the door and knocked. A smiling young woman opened it, of
whom I asked the name of the house.
“Tŷ Nant—the House of the Dingle,” she replied.
“Do you live alone?” said I.
“No; mother lives here.”
“Any Saesneg?”
“No,” said she with a smile, “S’sneg of no use here.”
Her face looked the picture of kindness, I was now indeed in Wales
amongst the real Welsh. I went on some way. Suddenly there was a
moaning sound, and rain came down in torrents. Seeing a deserted cottage
on my left I went in. There was fodder in it, and it appeared to serve
partly as a barn, partly as a cowhouse. The rain poured upon the roof
and I was glad I had found shelter. Close behind this place a small
brook precipitated itself down rocks in four successive falls.
The rain having ceased I proceeded and after a considerable time reached
the top of the pass. From thence I had a view of the valley and lake of
Bala, the lake looking like an immense sheet of steel. A round hill,
however, somewhat intercepted the view of the latter. The scene in my
immediate neighbourhood was very desolate; moory hillocks were all about
me of a wretched russet colour; on my left, on the very crest of the hill
up which I had so long been toiling, stood a black pyramid of turf, a
pole on the top of it. The road now wore nearly due west down a steep
descent, Arran was slightly to the north of me. I, however, soon lost
sight of it, as I went down the farther side of the hill which lies over
against it to the south-east. The sun, now descending, began to shine
out. The pass down which I was now going was yet wilder than the one up
which I had lately come. Close on my right was the steep hill’s side out
of which the road or path had been cut, which was here and there overhung
by crags of wondrous forms; on my left was a very deep glen, beyond which
was a black, precipitous, rocky wall, from a chasm near the top of which
tumbled with a rushing sound a slender brook seemingly the commencement
of a mountain stream which hurried into a valley far below towards the
west. When nearly at the bottom of the descent I stood still to look
around me. Grand and wild was the scenery. On my left were noble green
hills, the tops of which were beautifully gilded by the rays of the
setting sun. On my right a black, gloomy, narrow valley or glen showed
itself; two enormous craggy hills of immense altitude, one to the west
and the other to the east of the entrance; that to the east terminating
in a peak. The background to the north was a wall of rocks forming a
semicircle, something like a bent bow with the head downward; behind this
bow, just in the middle, rose the black loaf of Arran. A torrent tumbled
from the lower part of the semicircle, and after running for some
distance to the south turned to the west, the way I was going.
Observing a house a little way within the gloomy vale I went towards it
in the hope of finding somebody in it who could give me information
respecting this wild locality. As I drew near the door two tall men came
forth, one about sixty, and the other about half that age. The elder had
a sharp, keen look; the younger a lumpy and a stupid one. They were
dressed like farmers. On my saluting them in English the elder returned
my salutation in that tongue, but in rather a gruff tone. The younger
turned away his head and said nothing.
“What is the name of this house?” said I, pointing to the building.
“The name of it,” said the old man, “is Tŷ Mawr.”
“Do you live in it?” said I.
“Yes, I live in it.”
“What waterfall is that?” said I, pointing to the torrent tumbling down
the crag at the farther end of the gloomy vale.
“The fountain of the Royal Dyfi.”
“Why do you call the Dyfy royal?” said I.
“Because it is the king of the rivers in these parts.”
“Does the fountain come out of a rock?”
“It does not; it comes out of a lake, a llyn.”
“Where is the llyn?”
“Over that crag at the foot of Aran Vawr.”
“Is it a large lake?”
“It is not; it is small.”
“Deep?”
“Very.”
“Strange things in it?”
“I believe there are strange things in it.” His English now became
broken.
“Crocodiles?”
“I do not know what cracadailes be.”
“Efync?”
“Ah! No I do not tink there be efync dere. Hu Gadarn in de old time
kill de efync dere and in all de lakes in Wales. He draw them out of the
water with his ychain banog his humpty oxen, and when he get dem out he
burn deir bodies on de fire, he good man for dat.”
“What do you call this allt?” said I, looking up to the high pinnacled
hill on my right.
“I call that Tap Nyth yr Eryri.”
“Is not that the top nest of the eagles?”
“I believe it is. Ha, I see you understand Welsh.”
“A little,” said I; “are there eagles there now?”
“No, no eagle now.”
“Gone like avanc?”
“Yes, gone like avanc, but not so long. My father see eagle on Tap Nyth,
but my father never see avanc in de llyn.”
“How far to Dinas?”
“About three mile.”
“Any thieves about?”
“No, no thieves here, but what come from England,” and he looked at me
with a strange, grim smile.
“What is become of the red-haired robbers of Mawddwy?”
“Ah,” said the old man, staring at me, “I see you are a Cumro. The
red-haired thieves of Mawddwy! I see you are from these parts.”
“What’s become of them?”
“Oh, dead, hung. Lived long time ago; long before eagle left Tap Nyth.”
He spoke true. The red-haired banditti of Mawddwy were exterminated long
before the conclusion of the sixteenth century, after having long been
the terror not only of these wild regions but of the greater part of
North Wales. They were called the red-haired banditti because certain
leading individuals amongst them had red foxy hair.
“Is that young man your son?” said I, after a little pause.
“Yes, he my son.”
“Has he any English?”
“No, he no English, but he plenty of Welsh—that is if he see reason.”
I spoke to the young man in Welsh, asking him if he had ever been up to
the Tap Nyth, but he made no answer.
“He no care for your question,” said the old man; “ask him price of pig.”
I asked the young fellow the price of hogs, whereupon his face brightened
up, and he not only answered my question, but told me that he had a fat
hog to sell. “Ha, ha,” said the old man; “he plenty of Welsh now, for he
see reason. To other question he no Welsh at all, no more than English,
for he see no reason. What business he on Tap Nyth with eagle? His
business down below in sty with pig. Ah, he look lump, but he no fool;
know more about pig than you or I, or any one ’twixt here and
Mahuncleth.”
He now asked me where I came from, and on my telling him from Bala, his
heart appeared to warm towards me, and saying that I must be tired, he
asked me to step in and drink buttermilk, but I declined his offer with
thanks, and bidding the two adieu returned to the road.
I hurried along and soon reached a valley which abounded with trees and
grass; I crossed a bridge over a brook, not what the old man had called
the Dyfi, but the stream whose source I had seen high up the bwlch, and
presently came to a place where the two waters joined. Just below the
confluence on a fallen tree was seated a man decently dressed; his eyes
were fixed on the rushing stream. I stopped and spoke to him.
He had no English, but I found him a very sensible man. I talked to him
about the source of the Dyfi. He said it was a disputed point which was
the source. He himself was inclined to believe that it was the Pistyll
up the bwlch. I asked him of what religion he was. He said he was of
the Church of England, which was the Church of his father and his
grandfather, and which he believed to be the only true Church. I
inquired if it flourished. He said it did, but that it was dreadfully
persecuted by all classes of dissenters, who though they were continually
quarrelling with one another agreed in one thing namely to persecute the
Church. I asked him if he ever read. He said he read a great deal,
especially the works of Huw Morris, and that reading them had given him a
love for the sights of nature. He added that his greatest delight was to
come to the place where he then was, of an evening, and look at the
waters and hills. I asked him what trade he was. “The trade of Joseph,”
said he smiling. “Saer. Farewell, brother,” said I; “I am not a
carpenter, but like you I read the works of Huw Morris and am of the
Church of England.” I then shook him by the hand and departed.
I passed a village with a stupendous mountain just behind it to the
north, which I was told was called Moel Vrith or the party-coloured moel.
I was now drawing near to the western end of the valley. Scenery of the
wildest and most picturesque description was rife and plentiful to a
degree: hills were here, hills were there; some tall and sharp, others
huge and humpy; hills were on every side; only a slight opening to the
west seemed to present itself. “What a valley!” I exclaimed. But on
passing through the opening I found myself in another, wilder and
stranger, if possible. Full to the west was a long hill rising up like
the roof of a barn, a enormous round hill on its north-east side, and on
its south-east the tail of the range which I had long had on my
left—there were trees and groves and running waters, but all in deep
shadow, for night was now close at hand.
“What is the name of this place?” I shouted to a man on horseback, who
came dashing through a brook with a woman in a Welsh dress behind him.
“Aber Cowarch, Saxon!” said the man in a deep guttural voice, and lashing
his horse disappeared rapidly in the shades of night.
“Aber Cywarch!” I cried, springing half a yard into the air. “Why that’s
the place where Ellis Wynn composed his immortal _Sleeping Bard_, the
book which I translated in the blessed days of my youth. O no wonder
that the _Sleeping Bard_ is a wild and wondrous work, seeing that it was
composed amidst the wild and wonderful scenes which I here behold.”
I proceeded onwards up an ascent; after some time I came to a bridge
across a stream which a man told me was called Avon Gerres. It runs into
the Dyfi, coming down with a rushing sound from a wild vale to the
north-east between the huge barn-like hill and Moel Vrith. The barn-like
hill I was informed was called Pen Dyn. I soon reached Dinas Mawddwy
which stands on the lower part of a high hill connected with the Pen Dyn.
Dinas, though at one time a place of considerable importance, if we may
judge from its name which signifies a fortified city, is at present
little more than a collection of filthy huts. But though a dirty squalid
place, I found it anything but silent and deserted. Fierce-looking
red-haired men, who seemed as if they might be descendants of the
red-haired banditti of old, were staggering about, and sounds of drunken
revelry echoed from the huts. I subsequently learned that Dinas was the
head-quarters of miners, the neighbourhood abounding with mines both of
lead and stone. I was glad to leave it behind me. Mallwyd is to the
south of Dinas—the way to it is by a romantic gorge down which flows the
Royal Dyfi. As I proceeded along this gorge the moon rising above Moel
Vrith illumined my path. In about half-an-hour I found myself before the
inn at Mallwyd.