It lies at the end of a valley, with the sea beyond it, and in the
heart of it the castle tower stands up conspicuously to remind one
that Aberystwith was once something more interesting than a popular
watering-place. For once all the resources of England were combined
in an attack upon this castle. Guns came from Yorkshire, and timber
from the Forest of Dean; huge supplies of arms and various murderous
concoctions were sent from Hereford, and a shipload of carpenters
landed in the bay to turn the timber into machines of war. There was
not a young spark in the country, apparently, but thought it incumbent
on him as a man of fashion to join Prince Hal outside the walls of
Aberystwith.
Yet the end of all this effort and display was merely comic. Glyndwr’s
garrison at last, half starving, agreed to yield the castle upon a
certain day unless Owen meanwhile relieved it. The Prince, too hasty,
as he sometimes was, went off to London joyfully and received the
thanks of Parliament for having secured Aberystwith--at the very
moment, had he but known it, when Owen and a relieving force were
quietly entering the besieged castle!
This was but one of many sieges suffered by Aberystwith, which was
always regarded as a place of much importance; so much so, indeed, that
Strongbow’s castle on this spot had been battered into uselessness
before the days of Edward I., who had to build another. Prince Henry
and Oliver have left little enough of that. What there is of it--some
round towers and a piece of the curtain-wall--is more tidy than
romantic. To tell the truth, Aberystwith is not a romantic place.
It has been my happy fortune to read some manuscript letters written by
a lady from Mid-Wales towards the end of the eighteenth century. This
is what she says of Aberystwith--
“I have inquired about Aberystwith, where the Sea is very rough, and
no Apothecary near, and most ignorant people in regard to illness,
which they are so happy to know nothing of, as the Sea is their ownly
Physition.”
This might be useful as a house-agent’s advertisement, if the next
sentence were suppressed.
“I think the Sea fogs very unwholesom, but dare not say so, as they are
for ever talking about the purity of their air.”
The sea is no longer the only physician at Aberystwith; but the purity
of the air is still a topic of conversation.
One of its advantages is that it is only fifteen miles from Ystradfflur
or Strata Florida; and though this does not lie upon our route, so
short a run is but a slight tribute to pay to a place of such great
memories. The drive, moreover, will itself repay us. The road follows
the Ystwith most of the way, and crosses it at Trawscoed, where
splendid beeches overhang the river and masses of rhododendrons line
the banks. There is one formidable hill, with a gradient of 1 in 8,
from the top of which there is a fine view of winding river and wooded
hills. Soon after leaving the Ystwith we join the Teify near its
source.
In the Abbey itself there is little to see, but very much to remember.
It was founded in the twelfth century by some Cistercian monks on
land given by a Norman; but its foundation is often ascribed to that
great prince of South Wales, the Lord Rhys, who was one of its chief
benefactors. Once it was the grandest house of worship in all Wales,
the burial-place of her southern princes, the depository of her
archives; but there is little left to show its past greatness but the
unique west doorway and the remains of six side chapels--roofed now
with corrugated iron! Behind the south transept is a wedge-shaped strip
of ground that was the monks’ cemetery, where, under a stone carved
plainly with a cross, lies Cadell, the brother of the Lord Rhys. The
large cemetery that holds the dust of eleven Welsh princes is between
the Abbey and the river. “The cœmiteri wherin the cunteri about doth
buri is veri large,” says Leland, “and meanely waullid with stoone.
In it be xxxix great hue trees.” There were originally forty of these
yew-trees, and now there are but two or three, so it is hardly likely
that one of the survivors should be the tree underneath which Dafydd
ap Gwilym, the greatest of Welsh poets, was buried; the tree of which
Gruffydd Gryg, his rival, wrote--
“May lightnings never lay thee low
Nor archer cut from thee his bow.”
Mr. Baring-Gould tells us how these two bards were constantly in a
state of feud and bitter rivalry, till an ingenious friend put an
end to their quarrels by simply telling each of them that the other
was dead, and was to be buried at Strata Florida on such-and-such a
day--mentioning the same day in both cases. Each of the poets, in the
glow of generosity consequent on the death of a hated rival, composed a
beautiful ode in praise of his enemy, and proceeded to the churchyard
to read it beside the grave. There, of course, they met; and each,
determined to read his ode at any cost, forthwith read it to the hero
of it, and buried his enmity instead of his enemy.
It was somewhere within that “meanely waullid” cemetery that this
quaint scene took place; and it was somewhere within these precincts
that a thousand frightened children crowded together long ago, waiting
to be carried away from their parents and homes in Cardiganshire to
the exile in England to which Henry IV. had doomed them. That is an
ill-omened name in Ystradfflur--the name of Henry Bolingbroke--for in
his fury at the rebellion of Glyndwr he fell upon this sacred place and
ruined it, and drove out its monks, and stabled his horses at its High
Altar.
To reach Machynlleth, which is our object, we must return to
Aberystwith--but we may do this by a slightly different road, diverging
at Trawscoed. The surface is better than that of the other, and the
road is wider, but there is one bad hill, with a nominal gradient of
1 in 7. As we approach Aberystwith we see, beyond the river, a little
place called Llanbadarn Fawr. Here, in very early times, long before
the great days of Ystradfflur, there was a famous monastery, founded
by St. Padarn, a contemporary of St. David. Like St. David’s own
monastery, it was laid waste by the Danes.
[Illustration: ARCHWAY AT STRATA FLORIDA.]
[Illustration: NEAR GLANDOVEY.]
Passing through Aberystwith we climb out of it on the further side by
a long hill. Except the wide view from this hill there is nothing of
special attraction in any way till we have passed Tal-y-bont. Then
suddenly there comes into sight the headland beyond the Dyfi (Dovey).
Far away on the left is the sea, and between us and it lies a wide and
absolutely level plain, with Borth showing darkly on the shore. Soon
we pass Tre-Taliesin, named from the great bard of Arthur’s day, whose
grave is said by some to lie on this hillside to the right, and by
others to be beside the waters of Geirionydd. Beyond this village we
climb through lovely woods of birch and larch, and then we run down,
leaving the trees behind us, into the beautiful estuary of the Dyfi. A
wide sea of gorse is at out feet; the river winds through the shallows
beyond; and, bounding the valley and the view, rises the mighty wall of
North Wales.
This is on the left--a wide and splendid landscape; and meanwhile on
the right are wild hills rising from the road, cleft here and there by
narrow wooded gorges or tumbling mountain streams. At Ysgubor-y-coed
the water dashes down between sharp rocks, and makes a lovely picture
with the great mill-wheel and mossy-tiled building that stand beside
it; and just beyond Glan Dovey station we catch a momentary glimpse of
the steep sides of the beautiful Llyfnant Valley. Thence four level
miles bring us to Machynlleth.
There is a charm about Machynlleth. Its wide central street is planted
with trees. In most Welsh towns, History, though she has lived in them
so long, has rather an uneasy air: tales of valour, or of treachery on
a large scale, blend rather incongruously with prim grey houses and
slate roofs. But in Machynlleth we are quite prepared to learn that
these quaint and quiet streets--and some of the houses, even--are bound
up very closely with the picturesque life of the last of the Welsh
princes: so closely indeed, that Owen Glyndwr’s royal seal figures
in the arms of the town. In those low, whitewashed cottages he held
his first parliament; and in that little corner-house in the next
street he rested the uneasy head that wore a crown for such a brief
and troublous time. It is the oldest house in Wales, they say, but
much renovation and a new chimney have destroyed any picturesqueness
it ever had; and it is now neither as venerable nor as interesting in
appearance as the Old Mayor’s House, a timber-and-plaster building at
one end of the main street, with gables leaning in all directions.
Neither do the whitewashed Houses of Parliament show any signs of their
distinguished past--yet here Glyndwr accepted his crown and very nearly
lost his life. For among the members of this his first parliament was
one who was his enemy, and the sworn man of the House of Lancaster.
Davy Gam, “the Crooked,” a little red-haired, squinting man who,
whatever he was, was no coward, came to this house with the intention
of killing Glyndwr, but being betrayed, was thrown into prison for
ten years, while his house near Brecon was burnt to ashes. Owen, with
unusual forbearance, spared his life, perhaps in acknowledgment of
the man’s courage in coming among his enemies single-handed. He showed
his courage more honourably at Agincourt. “There are enough to kill,”
he said of the French just before the battle, “enough to be taken
prisoners, and enough to run away.” He died on that field, and was
knighted by Henry V. as he lay dying. “He lived like a wolf and died
like a lion,” it has been said of him.
Now, on leaving Machynlleth, supposing it to be our intention to go
on to Dolgelley and so to Bala, we have a choice of roads. All the
ways are so beautiful, however, that we can hardly go wrong; but those
who fix upon the shortest way, by Corris, should know that they will
find it well worth while to run down the estuary to Aberdovey and back
again. For this estuary of the Dyfi is second only to that of the
Mawddach in beauty.
Its best time, certainly, is in the summer, for the hills are thickly
wooded; but at all seasons there is a lovely view at every turn of
the road. One of those that haunt the memory is from the point where
the road to Aberdovey, after passing through Pennal, comes again
within sight of the river. In the foreground is a wide expanse of rich
colouring, of red and brown, green and gold and russet; beyond it
shines a thin line of silver; and beyond that again rise the hills of
South Wales--not so imposing by any means as that massive bulwark of
mountains that we saw from the other side and are now close under, but
yet very beautiful in colour and bold in outline. As the estuary widens
a succession of headlands stretch out before us, one beyond another,
and round these the road curves, sometimes very sharply. At the extreme
mouth of the estuary lies Aberdovey, in the shelter of the hills.
The same eighteenth-century lady whom I quoted before describes a visit
to “Aberdove Seaport,” as she calls it. “Down we set at the window,”
she says, “... to see the Sea hempty it self in to a Beautifull
serpentine river, at the beginning of which lay ten ships at harbour.”
One cannot marvel that any one should sit down at a window to watch
so strange a phenomenon as the sea emptying itself into a river.
Unfortunately this interesting sight cannot now be promised to visitors
at Aberdovey; but the “beginning” of the river still owes much of its
picturesque effect to the little quays that jut out into the stream,
and the ships of considerable size that lie “at harbour.” The best
hotel, and it is an extremely nice one, is a short distance beyond
the little town, and is perched on the hillside above the golf-links,
facing the sea.
It was somewhere in this estuary, probably on the shore of the Traeth
Maelgwyn, that a strange scene took place between thirteen and fourteen
hundred years ago. Maelgwyn, that King of Gwynedd whose name recurs so
often in the history of North Wales, that gigantic man of fitful valour
and still more fitful piety, determined to unite all the strength of
the west under one ruler, the better to oppose the conquering Saxons.
It was agreed that all the princes and knights who had any pretensions
should meet together in the estuary of the Dyfi, the dividing-line
between North and South Wales; that they should there seat themselves
on chairs upon the shore, and he who contrived to keep his seat the
longest should be the king. Then Maelgwyn, having settled these
preliminaries, had a wonderful chair made for himself of the wings of
birds, waxed. As the tide rose the seats of the other princes were
overturned, but Maelgwyn’s chair floated on the surface of the sea. So
Maelgwyn became chief of all the princes of the west.
From Aberdovey, as I said before, we may, if we choose, drive straight
on round the coast by Towyn and Fairbourne, and up the southern side of
the Barmouth estuary to Dolgelley. Or we may turn eastward at Towyn,
and reach Dolgelley by way of Tal-y-llyn. Or, thirdly, we may return to
Machynlleth and drive thence to Dolgelley by Corris.
No motorist should really rest satisfied till he has driven on all
these roads, so beautiful are the three. Towyn, I believe, has charms
for many, but on the surface it is singularly unattractive. It has a
very ancient church, however, built in the twelfth century by Gruffyd
ap Cynan, of whom it was said that he built so many that his country
“glittered with whitewashed churches as the heavens are bright with
stars.” Near it are some extremely interesting old memorial stones; but
here, to all appearance, the interest of Towyn begins and ends. Beyond
it there are some fine views of the hills as the road turns inland; and
again when it turns to the coast and, high on the side of the cliff,
curves round into the Barmouth estuary, the effect is really fine. It
must have been of this part of the road that a traveller once wrote:
“We ascended a precipice, frightful beyond description, on one side of
us was the highest ragget Rock I have seen, the stones to appearance
lose, and look as if just droping on your heads, some of which have
fell a few years ago. The Precipice down to the Mean (Main) Ocean not
less than thirty yards, and us travlers not a yard from the side of
it, where the waves dash and tide rores, till it made me tremble.”
Grand as these “ragget” cliffs are, however, the most beautiful part
of this drive is in the Barmouth estuary, under the shadow of Cader
Idris. But to many travellers in Wales this valley of the Mawddach
is thoroughly familiar, and to them I heartily recommend the road by
Corris.
[Illustration: THE MAYOR’S HOUSE, MACHYNLLETH.]
[Illustration: THE RIVER DULAS.]
From Aberdovey one drives back to a point in the Dyfi Valley almost
opposite to Machynlleth. The river Dulas, near the point where it joins
the Dyfi, is spanned by a fine old bridge, whose arches have resounded
to the tramp of Henry Tudor’s followers, as he and they marched
eastwards to fight for the crown; and to the tramp of Cromwell’s men as
they marched westwards to fight, if not for the crown, for everything
that goes with it. It is at this point that we turn sharply to the
left and follow the course of the Dulas. This opening of the valley of
Corris is very lovely, for the river, which has all the impetuosity of
a mountain stream, is overhung by splendid trees, and through their
stems in the spring we may see the further bank, steep and mossy,
and thickly jewelled with primroses. The whole of this narrow and
wild valley, indeed, is full of beauty. The road rises gradually to a
considerable height; then beyond Upper Corris, where the landscape is
defaced, as so often in Wales, by enormous banks of slate, it drops
down by some very steep gradients, amid fine mountain scenery, to the
level of Tal-y-llyn.
It is only the eastern extremity of the lake that we see, and this
we leave behind us, turning at this point sharply to the right into
a defile of extreme barrenness. This narrow gorge, with its towering
sides reft and lacerated by landslips, its huge boulders poised as
though about to fall, its grey slopes softened only here and there
by patches of short grass, is the most utterly, the most desolately
savage spot I have seen in Wales. As we leave it and emerge into more
open country, we realise that those wild slopes were the foot of Cader
Idris, for looking back we see the heavy grey shoulder of the mountain.
Soon we reach Cross Foxes, and thence run down through beautiful woods
on a delightful gradient to Dolgelley, with the purple hills of the
Mawddach estuary showing in a long line above and behind the vivid
green of the trees.
[Illustration: THE PASS OF CORRIS, NEAR TAL-Y-LLYN.]
[Illustration: BALA LAKE.]
In Dolgelley, as we saw before, all the historical interest is
concentrated on a lamp-shop. There is nothing to keep us there, unless
we wish for a meal, or perchance a bed, at the “Golden Lion,” or unless
we mean to use the place, as many do, as a centre for expeditions. But
at present our concern is to turn towards the English frontier, and to
reach it through Bala and Llanrhaiadr.
For ten miles after we leave Dolgelley the road ascends, persistently
but never steeply. The backward views of mountain, wood, and stream
are unfailingly lovely on this road, as on all others that converge at
Dolgelley; and no less attractive in its own way is the wilder scenery
at the top of this hill, which is practically a pass. From the summit
we descend to the shores of Bala Lake, and after driving for three
miles close beside its waters we reach the little town.
It is not an especially attractive place. The neighbourhood of the lake
is of course pleasant, but the hotel--which, by the way, like many
Welsh inns, contains some lovely old furniture--looks out over the
street. The scenery of the lake is pretty rather than grand.
Bala must have been more interesting, I think, in Pennant’s day. It
must certainly have presented an appearance all its own; for he assures
us that the entire population--men, women, and children--spent all
their time in knitting stockings. They knitted in their doorways, they
knitted as they walked about the streets, and on fine days they sat
together on the tumulus at the end of the town, and knitted there. On
Saturdays the fruit of all this industry was sold, to the value of four
or five hundred pounds, in a special stocking-market. This must have
been a sight worth seeing.
We may still see the Tomen-y-Bala, the tumulus where the knitters
used to sit and sun themselves, and where, very long ago, a little
castle stood. The mound has been made very neat, with gravel paths and
rhododendrons; and by paying a small sum we may climb to its modest
summit and give a thought to the Romans who made the tumulus, and
the Britons who made the castle, and the past generations who made
stockings.
Leaving Bala, we may follow the Dee to Corwen, and there join the great
London and Holyhead road; and this is by far the simplest route we can
choose.
The route we should certainly _not_ choose is the so-called road from
Bala to Lake Vyrnwy, the reservoir of Liverpool. The scenery round
this lake is very beautiful, it is true, and an excellent hotel stands
high on the hillside above the water; and since there is no railway
among these wild hills, this is one of the places that show the uses
of the motor-car most strikingly. But Vyrnwy should be approached from
Shropshire, by way of Llanfyllin. The road that connects it with Bala
is a narrow, precipitous pass, cut on the side of a slope that is at
some points almost a precipice, unprotected by any kind of fence,
sloping downwards on the outer side, and crossed at short intervals by
natural water-channels. It is a discouraging picture, and the reality
is, to put it mildly, uncomfortable.
As an alternative to the Corwen road we may cross the Holy Dee at the
very spot where the “wizard stream,” as Milton calls it--that stream
that had the gift of prophesying good or evil fortune to the cause
of Wales--flows from the parent waters of Llyn Tegid or Bala Lake,
and following a mountain road of many “dangerous” hills, visit the
waterfall at Llanrhaiadr before we pass into Shropshire.
The fall is at a lonely spot about four miles beyond the village of
Llanrhaiadr, which is itself a pretty place with a nice inn. The road
that leads to Pistyll-y-Rhaiadr is little more than a lane, but one may
drive up almost to the very foot of the fall. “Prodigious high,” says
the letter-writer I have so often quoted: “and seemingly the hend of
the world.” There is really some excuse for this dramatic statement.
An abrupt mass of rock rises before us impassably. On each side of it
are pine-woods, climbing the craggy slopes. There is an air of finality
about the place: it is “seemingly the hend of the world.”
A TOUR IN SOUTH WALES
For those whose affections are at all equally divided between natural
beauty and historical interest the map of South Wales presents a
dilemma. The imperative thing is to avoid the once beautiful hills
and valleys that are now scarred, and rent, and blackened with
coal-dust; and this may be done by taking either the moorland road
above the mining country, or the level road below it near the sea. Now
I, who know both these roads, assure you that in adopting either of
these courses you will miss much. For if you choose the lower road,
tempted by its excellence, you will miss some of the finest scenery in
South Wales, which, though not to be compared with the North, is yet
beautiful; and if you choose the upper one you will miss the romance
of Beaupré, and the very ancient memories of Llantwit Major, and you
will, moreover, miss a good many miles of as fine a road as ever made
an engine purr. There is only one way out of this dilemma, namely, to
follow a zigzag course, from the sea to the hills, from the hills to
the sea, and so enjoy the best of both roads.
To avoid the mines we must aim very low; at Cardiff or Caerphilly.
And if we are approaching the Border from Monmouth or Hereford, or
the Midlands, we shall probably, just before we reach the spreading
outskirts of Newport, pass through a village with a great name. A dull,
sleepy-looking village it is, standing in a commonplace landscape
beside a very dirty stream, a place entirely without superficial
attractions. But it is a name to conjure with. Caerleon-upon-Usk, the
City of Legions! Once it “abounded in wealth above all other cities,
... and passing fair was the magnificence of the kingly palaces
thereof.” The gilded roofs of the Romans glittered here beside the Usk,
and the great amphitheatre that may still be traced once echoed to the
shouts of the second legion: towers and temples, baths and aqueducts
and splendid buildings stood where now a few poor houses keep alive
the name of Caerleon. Round its shining palaces grew up a world of
legend. We know all about the fine doings at Arthur’s coronation
here: how he and Guinevere were crowned in different churches, and
how the music in both was “so transporting” that the congregations
ran to and fro between one church and the other all day; and how a
banquet of great splendour followed, with Caius, the server, dressed
in ermine, and Bedver, the butler, waiting with all kinds of cups, and
hosts of noblemen handing the dishes; and how, after the feast, the
soldiers got up a sham fight to amuse the ladies, who sat on the town
walls and “darted amorous glances in a sportive manner.” And in the
“Mabinogion” we are given a more domestic picture of King Arthur at
Caerleon-upon-Usk: a picture of him in his palace dozing upon a seat
of green rushes covered with flame-coloured satin, with a red satin
cushion under his elbow, while Guinevere and her handmaidens sit at
their needlework by the window, and a group of knights are drinking
mead from a golden goblet. And at Caerleon, too, it was that Maxen
Wledig, the truant Emperor of Rome, built one of three great castles
for Helen, his wife. He had seen her first in a dream, and sought her
by land and sea, and having found her he forgot his Empire and lived in
Britain seven years. So they made them a new Emperor in Rome.
“And this one wrote a letter of threat to Maxen. There was nought in
the letter but only this, ‘If thou comest, and if thou ever comest to
Rome.’ And even unto Caerleon came this letter to Maxen, and these
tidings. Then sent he a letter to the man who styled himself Emperor in
Rome. There was nought in that letter also but only this, ‘If I come to
Rome, and if I come.’”
So, through the Middle Ages, the memory of the great days of Caerleon
was preserved in legend.