Wild Moors—The Guide—Scientific Discourse—The Land of Arthur—The
Umbrella—Arrival at Bala.
When I had rested myself and finished the buttermilk, I got up, and
making the good woman a small compensation for her civility, inquired if
I could get to Bala without returning to Llan Rhyadr.
“Oh yes,” said she, “if you cross the hills for about five miles you will
find yourself upon a road which will take you straight to Bala.”
“Is there anyone here,” said I, “who will guide me over the hills,
provided I pay him for his trouble?”
“Oh yes,” said she, “I know one who will be happy to guide you whether
you pay him or not.”
She went out and presently returned with a man about thirty-five, stout
and well-looking, and dressed in a waggoner’s frock.
“There,” said she, “this is the man to show you over the hills; few know
the paths better.”
I thanked her, and telling the man I was ready, bade him lead the way.
We set out, the two dogs of which I have spoken attending us, and
seemingly very glad to go. We ascended the side of the hog-backed hill
to the north of the Rhyadr. We were about twenty minutes in getting to
the top, close to which stood a stone or piece of rock, very much
resembling a church altar, and about the size of one. We were now on an
extensive moory elevation, having the brook which forms the Rhyadr a
little way on our left. We went nearly due west, following no path, for
path there was none, but keeping near the brook. Sometimes we crossed
water-courses which emptied their tribute into the brook, and every now
and then ascended and descended hillocks covered with gorse and whin.
After a little time I entered into conversation with my guide. He had
not a word of English.
“Are you married?” said I.
“In truth I am, sir.”
“What family have you?”
“I have a daughter.”
“Where do you live?”
“At the house of the Rhyadr.”
“I suppose you live there as servant?”
“No, sir, I live there as master.”
“Is the good woman I saw there your wife?”
“In truth, sir, she is.”
“And the young girl I saw your daughter?”
“Yes, sir, she is my daughter.”
“And how came the good woman not to tell me you were her husband?”
“I suppose, sir, you did not ask who I was, and she thought you did not
care to know.”
“But can you be spared from home?”
“Oh yes, sir, I was not wanted at home.”
“What business are you?”
“I am a farmer, sir.”
“A sheep farmer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who is your landlord.”
“Sir Watkin.”
“Well, it was very kind of you to come with me.”
“Not at all, sir; I was glad to come with you, for we are very lonesome
at Rhyadr, except during a few weeks in the summer, when the gentry come
to see the Pistyll. Moreover, I have sheep lying about here which need
to be looked at now and then, and by coming hither with you I shall have
an opportunity of seeing them.”
We frequently passed sheep feeding together in small numbers. In two or
three instances my guide singled out individuals, caught them, and
placing their heads between his knees examined the insides of their
eyelids, in order to learn by their colour whether or not they were
infected with the pwd or moor disorder. We had some discourse about that
malady. At last he asked me if there was a remedy for it.
“Oh yes,” said I; “a decoction of hoarhound.”
“What is hoarhound?” said he.
“Llwyd y Cwn,” said I. “Pour some of that down the sheep’s throat twice
a day, by means of a horn, and the sheep will recover, for the
bitterness, do you see, will destroy the worm {11} in the liver, which
learned men say is the cause of the disorder.”
We left the brook on our left hand and passed by some ruined walls which
my guide informed me had once belonged to houses but were now used as
sheepfolds. After walking several miles, according to my computation, we
began to ascend a considerable elevation covered with brown heath and
ling. As we went on the dogs frequently put up a bird of a black colour,
which flew away with a sharp whirr.
“What bird is that?” said I.
“Ceiliog y grug, the cock of the heath,” replied my guide. “It is said
to be very good eating, but I have never tasted it. The ceiliog y grug
is not food for the like of me. It goes to feed the rich Saxons in Caer
Ludd.”
We reached the top of the elevation.
“Yonder,” said my guide, pointing to a white bare place a great way off
to the west, “is Bala road.”
“Then I will not trouble you to go any further,” said I; “I can find my
way thither.”
“No, you could not,” said my guide; “if you were to make straight for
that place you would perhaps fall down a steep, or sink into a peat hole
up to your middle, or lose your way and never find the road, for you
would soon lose sight of that place. Follow me, and I will lead you into
a part of the road more to the left, and then you can find your way
easily enough to that bare place, and from thence to Bala.” Thereupon he
moved in a southerly direction down the steep and I followed him. In
about twenty minutes we came to the road.
“Now,” said my guide, “you are on the road; bear to the right and you
cannot miss the way to Bala.”
“How far is it to Bala?” said I.
“About twelve miles,” he replied.
I gave him a trifle, asking at the same time if it was sufficient. “Too
much by one-half,” he replied; “many, many thanks.” He then shook me by
the hand, and accompanied by his dogs departed, not back over the moor,
but in a southerly direction down the road.
Wending my course to the north, I came to the white bare spot which I had
seen from the moor, and which was in fact the top of a considerable
elevation over which the road passed. Here I turned and looked at the
hills I had come across. There they stood, darkly blue, a rain cloud,
like ink, hanging over their summits. Oh, the wild hills of Wales, the
land of old renown and of wonder, the land of Arthur and Merlin!
The road now lay nearly due west. Rain came on, but it was at my back,
so I expanded my umbrella, flung it over my shoulder and laughed. Oh,
how a man laughs who has a good umbrella when he has the rain at his
back, aye and over his head too, and at all times when it rains except
when the rain is in his face, when the umbrella is not of much service.
Oh, what a good friend to a man is an umbrella in rain time, and likewise
at many other times. What need he fear if a wild bull or a ferocious dog
attacks him, provided he has a good umbrella? He unfurls the umbrella in
the face of the bull or dog, and the brute turns round quite scared, and
runs away. Or if a footpad asks him for his money, what need he care
provided he has an umbrella? He threatens to dodge the ferrule into the
ruffian’s eye, and the fellow starts back and says, “Lord, sir! I meant
no harm. I never saw you before in all my life. I merely meant a little
fun.” Moreover, who doubts that you are a respectable character provided
you have an umbrella? You go into a public-house and call for a pot of
beer, and the publican puts it down before you with one hand without
holding out the other for the money, for he sees that you have an
umbrella and consequently property. And what respectable man, when you
overtake him on the way and speak to him, will refuse to hold
conversation with you, provided you have an umbrella? No one. The
respectable man sees you have an umbrella, and concludes that you do not
intend to rob him, and with justice, for robbers never carry umbrellas.
Oh, a tent, a shield, a lance, and a voucher for character is an
umbrella. Amongst the very best friends of man must be reckoned an
umbrella. {12}
The way lay over dreary, moory hills; at last it began to descend, and I
saw a valley below me with a narrow river running through it, to which
wooded hills sloped down; far to the west were blue mountains. The scene
was beautiful but melancholy; the rain had passed away, but a gloomy
almost November sky was above, and the mists of night were coming down
apace.
I crossed a bridge at the bottom of the valley and presently saw a road
branching to the right. I paused, but after a little time went straight
forward. Gloomy woods were on each side of me and night had come down.
Fear came upon me that I was not on the right road, but I saw no house at
which I could inquire, nor did I see a single individual for miles of
whom I could ask. At last I heard the sound of hatchets in a dingle on
my right, and catching a glimpse of a gate at the head of a path, which
led down into it, I got over it. After descending some time I hallooed.
The noise of the hatchets ceased. I hallooed again, and a voice cried in
Welsh, “What do you want?” “To know the way to Bala,” I replied. There
was no answer, but presently I heard steps, and the figure of a man drew
nigh, half undistinguishable in the darkness, and saluted me. I returned
his salutation, and told him I wanted to know the way to Bala. He told
me, and I found I had been going right. I thanked him and regained the
road. I sped onward, and in about half-an-hour saw some houses, then a
bridge, then a lake on my left, which I recognised as the lake of Bala.
I skirted the end of it, and came to a street cheerfully lighted up, and
in a minute more was in the White Lion Inn.