to the fact that the finest scenery in the Peninsula, of Lleyn, is in
the north. From Pwllheli we should drive across to Llanaellraiarn under
the great brow of Yr Eifl, and then, turning to the right, follow the
road between the wild, craggy hills and the sea to Clynnogfawr. Here
lived and died the great St. Beuno, and the church that bears his name
is of a size and importance quite unusual in so tiny a place: “almost
as bigge as St. Davides,” says Leland. This large church only dates
from the fifteenth century, but the little chapel where St. Beuno is
buried is connected with it by a covered way, and was founded by the
saint himself in the seventh century. His tomb was still to be seen
in Pennant’s day, and had the gift of working miracles, but now both
monument and miracles are no more. In the larger church is carefully
preserved a strange old chest that is said to have belonged to St.
Beuno.
To reach the Traeth Mawr from Clynnog our best way is to go on to
Pont-y-Croes, then strike across to Pen-y-Groes, and thence descend
to Tremadoc. There is not much to be said in favour of this road’s
surface, but the beauty of it increases every moment, and for the
last few miles, as we drop gently down on to that plain of gorse that
lies like a sheet of flame between two ranges of purple mountains, we
have as fine a sight above, below, and before us as any we shall find
in Wales. A few minutes later we are in Portmadoc, and from the long
embankment there look up the valley of the Glaslyn across the Traeth
Mawr to that gate of Gwynedd through which we came a little while ago.
Presently we cross the estuary of the river Dwryd by a toll-bridge.
I think this river-bank must be the scene of a touching incident
described by Giraldus. He and his Archbishop, recruiting for the
Crusades, were met “at the passage of a bridge” between the Traeth
Mawr and Llanbedr near Harlech by Meredyth ap Conan, a prince of this
country. He brought with him a large suite, and then and there by the
river-side the Archbishop preached to them, and “many persons were
signed with the Cross.” Among these ardent souls was a personal friend
of the young prince. Meredyth, seated higher on the bank than his
suite, looked on while the symbolic cross was sewn upon the cloaks of
the new crusaders, till it came to the turn of his own friend. Then
Meredyth, says Giraldus, “observing that the cloak on which the cross
was to be sewn was of too thin and too common a texture, with a flood
of tears threw him down his own.”
From the banks of the Dwryd a very level road soon brings us within
sight of Harlech. It is a very distant glimpse of it that we have
first; an irregular outline, a grey mass of towers standing out against
the sky, raised grandly upon a rock above a plain that is nearly as
flat as the sea beyond it. Then trees hide it, and we climb through the
woods to the level of the great gate before which so many armies have
stood before us--armies of Owen and of Henry, of Edward IV., and of
Oliver.
[Illustration: NEAR BEDD GELERT.]
[Illustration: GATEWAY OF HARLECH CASTLE.]
Long, long before Henry de Elfreton, king of architects, built this
grand fortress at Edward’s command, a royal castle stood upon this
rock. So, at least, says one of the “Mabinogion,” and here, under the
spell of the land that created those old romances, I would fain believe
that Branwen, the daughter of Llyr, lived at Harlech with her royal
brother Bendigeid Vran, and that Matholwch, King of Ireland, came
across the sea to woo her, with thirteen ships flying beautiful flags
of satin. At the wedding, unfortunately, there was trouble between
the two kings; but after a certain amount of friction the banquet was
“carried on with joyousness,” and the happy pair journeyed towards
Ireland with their thirteen ships. In Ireland Branwen “passed her
time pleasantly, enjoying honour and friendship,” which she owed to
the fact--we are given to understand--that she presented each of her
visitors with a clasp, or a ring, or a royal jewel, “such as it was
honourable to be seen departing with.”[8] By and by mischief was
made between Matholwch and his wife, and she was sent to the kitchen
to cook for the Court, which seems a drastic way of treating a Queen
Consort. Then came Bendigeid Vran, her brother, to avenge her, with the
hosts of seven score countries and four, and there was war between the
two islands because of her. And only seven men of the Welsh escaped,
and in Ireland none were left alive except five women. And Branwen went
with the seven men of Wales to Mona, and she “looked towards Ireland
and towards the Island of the Mighty, to see if she could descry them.
‘Alas!’ said she, ‘woe is me that I was ever born; two islands have
been destroyed because of me!’ Then she uttered a loud groan and there
broke her heart. And they made her a four-sided grave, and buried her
upon the banks of the Alaw.” And her name still lives upon this rock of
Harlech in Branwen’s Tower.
Bendigeid Vran, the son of Llyr, was not the last Welsh prince who held
his Court here within sight of Snowdon. For Glyndwr made his way in
between those great towers after a long siege, during which Henry’s
garrison, who were at last reduced to sixteen, locked up their governor
because they did not trust his constancy. Glyndwr brought his family
here, and held a parliament, and gathered a little Court round him;
but after another long siege he lost more than the castle, for his
son-in-law Mortimer was killed, and his wife and grandchildren were
taken prisoners to London. But it was that later siege by Edward IV.’s
army that was the most fierce of all. It was then that the March of the
Men of Harlech first stirred the sea-breeze and the hearts of men; and
it was then that the blood of six thousand men flowed here where we are
standing before the gates. Still later on Harlech held very obstinately
for Charles I.
At Harlech we look our last on Snowdon, for the road, high above the
sea, soon turns a corner, then dips to the shore at Llanbedr. At this
pretty village those who are prepared to face a road that finally
becomes little more than a track, and are, moreover, tolerably
good walkers, may leave the high-road and drive up into a very wild
and beautiful bit of country to Cwm Bychan. I freely admit that the
enterprise is more suitable for bicycles than for motors, and I further
confess that I have never undertaken it in a car myself; but I should
be extremely happy to make the attempt on the first fine day. For Llyn
Cwm Bychan is a lovely lake lying among moors and steep, rocky hills;
it has the wildness of a loch in Galloway. And the only way out of this
hollow in the hills, except the track by which we enter it, is a mighty
staircase of stone slabs set regularly in the hillside--a staircase a
mile in length, which has withstood time and weather since the feet of
the Romans passed this way.
Even the best-advertised car could hardly climb the Roman Steps; so we
must rejoin the coast road at Llanbedr and go on our way to Barmouth.
There was once a time very long ago, it is said, when all the bay that
lies upon our right was a fertile plain, the Plain of Gwaelod, with
cities and fortresses thick upon the ground, and a great and busy
population, and a king called Gwyddno Longshanks. And because the land
lay so low and the sea so close at hand a mighty embankment of stone
was built along the shore, and all went well for many a year. But there
came a time when the chief overseer of this great dyke was Seithenyn ap
Seithyn Saidi, and he, unfortunately, has been known ever since as one
of the “three immortal drunkards of the Isle of Britain.” It is easy
to imagine the result: the decay of the dyke, and the terrible night
when the waters swept all before them and drowned the whole Cantref of
Gwaelod. The point of Mochras near Llanbedr was at one extremity of the
drowned cantref; and still, when the tide is low, you may sometimes
see the long line of the broken dyke. As late as the year 1824 there
was a stone in existence which had been found below the sea a hundred
yards beyond the shore, and bore an inscription meaning, “Here lies the
boatman to King Gwynddo.”[9] I do not know if the stone still exists,
but as it was used as a footbridge it probably does not. At the
beginning of the nineteenth century this seems, in Wales, to have been
considered the best way of using up old monuments. It was certainly the
quickest.
Eight miles from Llanbedr is Barmouth. The town itself is becoming
every year more entirely a prey to the family group. Every year there
are more hotels, more bathing-boxes, more wooden spades. But I doubt
if anywhere in England or Wales a town is built in a more beautiful
spot. You cannot drive across the long bridge that spans the estuary
at its mouth, but you will be a thousandfold repaid if you leave your
car and cross the bridge on foot, for the best view--I think I am not
too rash in saying the best view in Wales--is from about the middle of
the bridge. The Mawddach winds away between two ranges of mountains, on
whose grand slopes the brilliant greens and purples, the rich browns
and far-away faint blues change every moment under the varying sky.
Cader Idris rises on the right in gloomy dignity from the soft drapery
of foliage that is flung about his feet. And in the foreground, when
the tide is low--and that, I maintain, is the loveliest time--the blue
sea is riven with the rosy gold of wet sands, dotted with countless
sea-gulls.
A great deal of this we can see as we drive up the estuary on its
northern bank to Dolgelley, by an excellent road that clings close
under the hills. Every moment the scene changes, and all the changes
are good; whether we look across at Cader’s grand shoulder against the
sky, or up the valley at the winding water and the distant hills, or
overhead on our left at the mountain-sides that rise so steeply from
the very road, or even when, the trees hemming us in for a moment,
we see only glimpses through them of purple rock or shining river.
At Llanelltyd the Mawddach meets the Wnion, and our way lies to the
right over the bridge. As we cross the bridge the ruins of Cymmer
Abbey lie upon our left on the river-bank--a Cistercian abbey, as we
may easily guess, since we know the pretty taste in scenery possessed
by that sagacious Order. If the truth were known, I fear we might
find that their motive in choosing, as they always did, the loneliest
and loveliest spots in the country, was one of self-denial, for the
mountainous solitude that we love was in their day regarded with little
less than terror. This particular abbey was founded in the last years
of the twelfth century, and it was patronised by Llewelyn the Great.
Behind it, about two miles away, are the slopes of Nannau, where Owen
Glyndwr once went for a walk with his cousin and came back without him.
Owen, as I have already said, was a man of swift and extremely complete
vengeance, and treachery made his gorge rise. His cousin, Howel Sele,
the lord of Nannau, lived on that hill at the foot of Moel Offrwm,
and had little sympathy--so far and so safe was he from the Marcher
Lords--with Owen’s overbearing ways. Their relations had been strained,
therefore; but when Howel asked his kinsman to visit him at Nannau Owen
consented without hesitation--yet not without a coat of mail beneath
his outer garment. As they walked in the park with a few retainers
they saw a buck at some distance among the trees, and Owen, anxious to
please, suggested that Howel should show his well-known prowess with
the bow. Howel raised his bow, took aim, paused a moment; then suddenly
turned upon his traitor’s heel and shot the arrow straight at the heart
of his kinsman. One can picture Owen’s smile as the arrow rang upon the
coat of mail that he wore unseen.
Howel went home no more. What dreadful fate befel him no one knows for
certain; for probably all his own retainers were killed and Owen’s were
too busy to talk. But long afterwards a skeleton was found in a hollow
tree quite near the spot where the famous bowman had drawn his bow for
the last time. The house of Nannau was burnt to ashes.
Before we cross the bridge to Dolgelley I should like to call attention
to a very beautiful drive over the hills between this spot and
Maentwrog. Beautiful as it is, it must on no account be substituted
for the route by Harlech and the Barmouth Estuary, by those who are
travelling in this neighbourhood for the first time; but those who know
the estuary well, or those who are staying at Dolgelley and wish for a
circular drive, could not do better than go up the Vale of Ganllwyd and
over the hills to Trawsfynydd and Maentwrog, lunch at the Tan-y-Bwlch
hotel, and return by Harlech.
For the first few miles the road rises through lovely woods; the
tempestuous Mawddach shines behind the trees, and beyond it, bounding
the narrow valley, are steep and craggy slopes. At Tyn-y-Groes is
a charming little hotel, much frequented by fishermen, with a fine
view of the Mawddach and the peak of Moel Offrwm; a delightful place
to spend a week in summer, since it is within a drive of many of the
loveliest parts of Wales, and has itself an outlook of very striking
beauty.
Beyond Tyn-y-Groes the scenery grows wilder and the hills more bare;
the road rises rather steeply and the surface is not all that could
be wished. Presently we pass a turning on the left that would lead
us, if we followed it, to the top of that strange colossal flight
of steps whose lower end we saw at Cwm Bychan, the way by which the
Romans climbed this mountain-side; and soon, as we reach the summit of
the hill, the many peaks of the Snowdon range come into sight. After
this, as is only to be expected, the view is continuously fine till we
drop into Maentwrog on a precipitous gradient, and find ourselves in a
valley famed for its beauty.
But we must return to Dolgelley.
“Dolgethle,” says Leland, who favoured phonetic spelling, “is the
best village in this commote.” There is not much, if any, of Leland’s
Dolgelley left, I imagine; but within the memory of this generation
there was still standing a battered little cottage, built half of
irregular stone-work and half of timber and plaster, that Leland may
well have seen, though very likely it did not interest him nearly as
much as it would interest us. It has been replaced by an ironmonger’s
shop, and we now supply ourselves with petrol on the spot where
“Owen, by the Grace of God Prince of Wales,” held his council, and
drew up the instrument that allied him formally with the French. It
was now some little time since Henry IV.’s council had written to him
scornfully that the power of the rebels was not so great as it was
heretofore reported, and that the people of Wales were but of little
reputation; for which reason it seemed good to Henry, he said, “not
to go thither in person, but by one of our Lords to do punishment on
our said rebels.” Henry had said that just three years ago, yet the
rebels were still unpunished. The chief rebel, indeed, was now become
“our illustrious and most dread Lord, Owen, Prince of Wales,” signing
alliances with his royal hand and seal, and receiving a gilded helmet
as a gift from the King of France.
At Dolgelley we turn eastwards and make our way back to the English
border. As a matter of fact we have not actually reached the limits
of North Wales, which is divided from South Wales by the river Dyfi,
or Dovey. But for our present purpose it will be more convenient to
consider a strip of the North--overlapping our present route--together
with a strip of the South, as Mid-Wales, and to return to the border by
the laborious but beautiful pass that rises between Dolgelley and Dinas
Mawddy.
We have six miles of climbing before us, close under the heights of
Cader Idris, through one of the wildest tracts of country in wild
Wales, where the road at last rises steeply between rough stone
walls across a desolate moor, and a mountain stream dashes below us
on the right, and in all probability a flock of little Welsh sheep
makes excitedly for the nearest gap. For the Welsh sheep, unlike the
sheep of England, has somewhere in its round, woolly head a glimmer
of intelligence, and instead of rushing madly past every turning and
every gap, knows where it wants to go and goes there with all possible
despatch.
At a point six miles above Dolgelley we reach the summit of this
precipitous pass, the Bwlch Oerdrws, and the valley lies below us like
a gulf. It is a fine scene and a very wild one--wild even when the sun
is shining, but still wilder when the great bare hills are looming
through driving clouds of rain, and wildest and most beautiful of all
when the April snow is glistening upon the April gorse.
The steepest part of the descent, the average gradient of which is
between 1 in 7 and 1 in 8, is about two miles long. For the rest of
the journey, through Dinas Mawddy and Mallwyd, and up the long climb
to Cann Office, and so by Llanfair Caereinion to Welshpool, there is
nothing to pause for, except tea at Cann Office. This mysterious name,
oddly enough, does not appear on Bartholomew’s map where the place it
denotes is called Llangadfan. The little inn there is very popular
with fishermen, who seem to have a wonderful knack of securing homely
comfort.
Between Cann Office and Welshpool the scenery gradually becomes more
English in character, for Welshpool, though not actually on the border,
is very near it. “The grounde about the bankes and valley of Severn
there is most pleasunt,” says Leland; and “most pleasant,” I think,
describes this country perfectly. I cannot do better than end in his
words. “And wille I passid this way within a iii miles of Walsch Pole
I saw a veri notable hille beyound the valley on the lift hond having
iii toppes as iii heddes rising owt of one body.... Communely thei be
caullid Brethin Hilles. Not far from thes hilles enterith Shropshir.”
[Illustration: THE MAWDDACH, FROM TYN-Y-GROES HOTEL.]
[Illustration: LLANIDLOES.]
THROUGH THE HEART OF WALES
One may enter Mid-Wales by the Severn Valley, or by Knighton and the
Teme. The probability is that one’s action in this matter is entirely
regulated by circumstances, but if haply it were possible to be guided
simply by charm the road across the wild hills would be the road to
choose. For wide moorlands, whatever the season, whatever the weather,
never fail to be attractive; whereas the valley of the Upper Severn
is extremely variable in its appearance. Indeed, I have seen it
look almost uninteresting: though in the spring, when on every hill
the fruit blossom is mingled with the piercing green of the budding
larches, I know no place where the youth of the year has a more
engaging air.
In any case, we must pass through Newtown. Despite its name, despite
its modern appearance, the newness of this town is only comparative;
for its prosperity waxed, I believe, as that of Caersws waned;
and Caersws, a little higher up the valley, was at its zenith in
the days of the Romans. We pass it by and by on our right: a mere
village now, of no particular attractions on the surface, though no
doubt a sufficiently interesting past is buried beneath its soil,
for hypocausts have been found here and tesselated pavement, and
coins bearing the magic name of Marcus Aurelius and other names less
honoured. Less authentic, but more moving, are the associations of the
broad meadow on our left, the traditional scene of Sabrina’s flight
from--
“the mad pursuit
Of her enragéd stepdame Guendolen,”
and therefore connected for ever with Milton’s exquisite lyric,
“Sabrina fair.” This is the “glassy, cool, translucent wave” beneath
which the goddess sits; this is “the rushy-fringéd bank” from
which--they say--she still sometimes rises at twilight; and here are
the cowslips on which she sets “her printless feet” so lightly that
they “bend not as she treads.”
Between Llandinam and Llanidloes the scene begins to grow wilder;
abrupt hills bare, or patched with gorse, rise from the roadside on our
left; we are drawing nearer to the slopes of Plynlimmon. At Llanidloes
there is a picturesque old market-place, and the church, founded in the
seventh century, has some interesting and beautiful fragments from the
Abbey of Cwm Hir; a row of fine Early English arches and some quaint
figures on the beams that support the roof.
At Llanidloes we leave the banks of the Severn, and, climbing all the
way, pass through a prettily wooded gorge into the valley of another
famous river--the river that is more renowned for beauty than any other
in England--the Wye. But here at Llangurig the Wye has few charms, for
we are at the foot of bleak Plynlimmon, and the river flows through
a somewhat dull country that is neither fertile nor wild. Llangurig
itself is a desolate, chilly little place, but it has a nice inn; and
I believe the fishing is good. About eight miles beyond it we leave
the Wye, now a mere mountain stream, at a point that is only four
miles from its source, and after this the scenery grows more and more
austere, as we skirt the bare sides of Plynlimmon.
Upon those wind-swept slopes the red dragon of Wales was once unfurled;
for here Owen Glyndwr, with only five hundred men, was surprised and
surrounded by fifteen hundred of the Flemings of Pembrokeshire. He cut
his way through them, and left two hundred of them behind him, and left
behind him, too, an unshakable belief that he was a wizard indeed.
These heights are not without grandeur. At one point, indeed, there
is a very striking and unusual view, where the road is high upon the
hillside, and the river, very far below, twists and curls away into
the distance through a narrow but extremely level plain. The surface
of this main road to Aberystwith is above reproach, but after we turn
off to the left on the road to the Devil’s Bridge it is not so good and
there are some rather steep hills.
“If pleasant recollections,” says George Borrow, “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.”
The falls, and the wooded dingles, and the monks’ boiling cauldron
are still beautiful enough to rouse any poetical feelings that we may
possess; but the bridge, alas! is neither crumbling, nor spectral,
nor in the least poetical. Three bridges now span the rushing waters
of the Mynach, built closely one above the other. The lowest of all,
dapper and shining with the cement of the restorer, is the original
bridge built by the monks of Strata Florida in the eleventh century and
ascribed to the Devil, not from any uncomplimentary feeling towards
the monks, but merely because the bridging of the Mynach was no easy
matter and demanded a simple explanation. The bridge above this is the
one that Borrow calls modern, though it was built in 1735, and now
looks older than the first; the topmost and newest of all is quite a
recent achievement, and might well appropriate the name of the original
structure, since it entirely destroys all the picturesqueness of the
scene. No doubt, however, its existence is necessary, for this is the
only way across the gorge: and these beautiful wooded hills and deep
valleys, with the two tempestuous streams, the Rheiddol and the Mynach,
are by no means dependent for their charm on the famous bridge.
The road from this spot to Aberystwith is of a most striking and
uncommon character. It is raised high on one side of the bare hill, and
overlooks a deep valley, through which the Rheiddol twists and curves.
The great hills beyond the valley are richly green in summer, but in
the spring are chiefly reddish brown, with streaks of the vivid larch,
and here and there a shining patch of gorse. A run of twelve miles,
mostly downhill, brings us to Aberystwith.