The Hospice—The Two Rivers—The Devil’s Bridge—Pleasant Recollections.
I arrived at the Devil’s Bridge at about eleven o’clock of a fine but
cold day, and took up my quarters at the inn, of which I was the sole
guest during the whole time that I continued there, for the inn, standing
in a lone, wild district, has very few guests except in summer, when it
is thronged with tourists, who avail themselves of that genial season to
view the wonders of Wales, of which the region close by is considered
amongst the principal.
The inn, or rather hospice, for the sounding name of hospice is more
applicable to it than the common one of inn, was built at a great expense
by the late Duke of Newcastle. It is an immense lofty cottage with
projecting eaves, and has a fine window to the east which enlightens a
stately staircase and a noble gallery. It fronts the north and stands in
the midst of one of the most remarkable localities in the world, of which
it would require a far more vigorous pen than mine to convey an adequate
idea.
Far to the west is a tall, strange-looking hill, the top of which bears
no slight resemblance to that of a battlemented castle. This hill, which
is believed to have been in ancient times a stronghold of the Britons,
bears the name of Bryn y Castell or the hill of the castle. To the
north-west are russet hills, to the east two brown paps, whilst to the
south is a high, swelling mountain. To the north and just below the
hospice is a profound hollow with all the appearance of the crater of an
extinct volcano; at the bottom of this hollow the waters of two rivers
unite; those of the Rheidol from the north, and those of the Afon y
Mynach, or the Monks’ River, from the south-east. The Rheidol falling
over a rocky precipice at the northern side of the hollow forms a
cataract very pleasant to look upon from the middle upper window of the
inn. Those of the Mynach which pass under the celebrated Devil’s Bridge
are not visible, though they generally make themselves heard. The waters
of both, after uniting, flow away through a romantic glen towards the
west. The sides of the hollow, and indeed of most of the ravines in the
neighbourhood, which are numerous, are beautifully clad with wood.
Penetrate now into the hollow above which the hospice stands. You
descend by successive flights of steps, some of which are very slippery
and insecure. On your right is the Monks’ River, roaring down its dingle
in five successive falls, to join its brother the Rheidol. Each of the
falls has its own peculiar basin, one or two of which are said to be of
awful depth. The length which these falls with their basins occupy is
about five hundred feet. On the side of the basin of the last but one is
the cave, or the site of the cave, said to have been occupied in old
times by the Wicked Children, the mysterious Plant de Bat, two brothers
and a sister, robbers and murderers. At present it is nearly open on
every side, having, it is said, been destroyed to prevent its being the
haunt of other evil people: there is a tradition in the country that the
fall at one time tumbled over its mouth. This tradition, however, is
evidently without foundation, as from the nature of the ground the river
could never have run but in its present channel. Of all the falls the
fifth or last is the most considerable: you view it from a kind of den,
to which the last flight of steps, the ruggedest and most dangerous of
all, has brought you; your position here is a wild one. The fall, which
is split into two, is thundering beside you; foam, foam, foam is flying
all about you; the basin or cauldron is boiling frightfully below you;
hirsute rocks are frowning terribly above you, and above them forest
trees, dank and wet with spray and mist, are distilling drops in showers
from their boughs.
But where is the bridge, the celebrated bridge of the Evil Man? From the
bottom of the first flight of steps leading down into the hollow you see
a modern-looking bridge bestriding a deep chasm or cleft to the
southeast, near the top of the dingle of the Monks’ River; over it lies
the road to Pont Erwyd. That, however, is not the Devil’s Bridge—but
about twenty feet below that bridge and completely overhung by it, don’t
you see a shadowy, spectral object, something like a bow, which likewise
bestrides the chasm? You do! Well! that shadowy, spectral object is the
celebrated Devil’s Bridge, or, as the timorous peasants of the locality
call it, the Pont y Gwr Drwg. It is now merely preserved as an object of
curiosity, the bridge above being alone used for transit, and is quite
inaccessible except to birds, and the climbing wicked boys of the
neighbourhood, who sometimes at the risk of their lives contrive to get
upon it from the frightfully steep northern bank, and snatch a fearful
joy, as, whilst lying on their bellies, they poke their heads over its
sides worn by age, without parapet to prevent them from falling into the
horrid gulf below. But from the steps in the hollow the view of the
Devil’s Bridge, and likewise of the cleft, is very slight and
unsatisfactory. To view it properly, and the wonders connected with it,
you must pass over the bridge above it, and descend a precipitous dingle
on the eastern side till you come to a small platform in a crag. Below
you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the
Monks’ River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil
and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the
country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly
tremendous. On your right is a slit, probably caused by volcanic force,
through which the waters after whirling in the cauldron eventually
escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow considering its altitude, which
is very great, considerably upwards of a hundred feet—nearly above you,
crossing the slit, which is partially wrapped in darkness, is the
far-famed bridge, the Bridge of the Evil Man, a work which though
crumbling and darkly grey does much honour to the hand which built it,
whether it was the hand of Satan or of a monkish architect, for the arch
is chaste and beautiful, far superior in every respect, except in safety
and utility, to the one above it, which from this place you have not the
mortification of seeing. Gaze on these objects, namely, the horrid
seething pot or cauldron, the gloomy volcanic slit, and the spectral,
shadowy Devil’s Bridge for about three minutes, allowing a minute to
each, then scramble up the bank and repair to your inn, and have no more
sight-seeing that day, for you have seen enough. And if pleasant
recollections do not haunt you through life of the noble falls and the
beautiful wooded dingles to the west of the Bridge of the Evil One, and
awful and mysterious ones of the monks’ boiling cauldron, the long,
savage, shadowy cleft, and the grey, crumbling spectral bridge, I say
boldly that you must be a very unpoetical person indeed.