Harlech.—The Inn.—The Castle.—Anecdote of Davydd ab Ivan ab Einion.—Road
to Maentwrog.—View.—A Persevering Cobbler.—The Oakeley Arms.—Angling
Stations.—Road to Tremadoc.—Tan y Bwlch.—Port Madoc Breakwater and
Mountain Scenery described.—Tremadoc.—Tan yr Allt.—Pont Aber Glas
Lyn.—Beddgelert.—The Inn.
“Rise from thy haunt, dread genius of the clime,
Rise, magic spirit of forgotten time!
’Tis thine to burst the mantling clouds of age,
And fling new radiance on Tradition’s page:
See at thy call from Fable’s varied store,
In shadowy train the mingled visions pour;
Here the wild Briton ’mid his wilder reign,
Spurns the proud yoke and scorns the oppressor’s chain,
Here wizard Merlin, where the mighty fell,
Waves the dark wand and chants the thrilling spell.”
PRIZE POEM, T. S. S.
HARLECH.
THE Blue Lion Inn, built by Sir R. W. Vaughan, for the accommodation of
travellers and tourists, is most delightfully situated. A carriage road
from the north leads round to the front, which faces the sea; and forming
a semicircle, permits the vehicles to drive, through a gate on the south
end of the house, again into the high road. Great taste is displayed in
the erection of this pleasant building; the parapet wall, with its
circular turrets, in which seats are placed for the accommodation of
visitors, and the terrace with its neat shrubberies. I must also
acknowledge, that the kind attention of the landlord and his servants
deserves the highest commendation.
The view from the terrace is indescribably beautiful. The sea lies
stretched beneath; the majestic ruins of Harlech Castle stand upon a
rocky base, frowning in solitary grandeur upon the right; and beyond, the
long line of Carnarvonshire hills projects, like Cambria’s lance,
forbidding the waves to make further inroads upon her territories.
Pwllheli and Port Madoc are distinctly visible from this spot; and the
lovers of fine prospects may remain at the Blue Lion for a week, without
wishing to stray further than the terrace in search of the sublime and
beautiful. The continual variety of light and shadow, with which the
mountains are alternately robed, the freshness of the air, and the solemn
majesty of the ruined fortress, form altogether a volume for the mind to
peruse with intense and unwearied interest.
HARLECH CASTLE.
[Picture: Harlech Castle]
The present castle was built by Edward the First in 1283, upon the ruins
of one erected by Maelgwn Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, in 530. It was
seized by the Welsh hero, Owen Glyndwr, during his struggle for freedom
against Henry the Fourth, and was retaken, about four years afterwards,
by an army sent by that monarch into Wales. After the defeat of Henry
the Sixth at Northampton, this castle afforded a retreat for his queen;
but being hotly pursued by the Lord Stanley, she was compelled to fly
from hence with great precipitation, leaving her jewels and other
valuables behind her.
In 1468, this place was in possession of Davydd ab Ivan ab Einion, a man
of singular strength and beauty, and of unconquerable bravery. Being a
firm friend to the Lancastrian line, the Earl William of Pembroke was
despatched to reduce the fortress; and after encountering incredible
difficulties, marching through the very heart of the British Alps, he at
length invested the castle, and committed the management of the siege to
his brother Sir Richard Herbert, a man equal in size and prowess to the
British commandant. The reply of the Welshman, when called upon to
surrender, deserves to be handed down as a specimen of bravery and
loyalty. He had never acknowledged the sovereignty of Edward; and for
nine years had defied his threats. His answer was in keeping with the
line of conduct he had adopted: “Tell your leader,” said he to the
messenger, “that some years ago I held a castle in France against its
besiegers so long, that all the old women in Wales talked of me: tell
your commander, that I intend to defend this Welsh castle now, until all
the old women in France shall hear of it.”
Famine, however, at last subdued him; but he yielded only upon honourable
terms, Sir Richard pledging himself for his safety. The king at first
refused to subscribe to the conditions; but Sir Richard, with a spirit
that cannot be sufficiently applauded, instantly informed his majesty
that he must take his own life first; for if he lived he would certainly
replace the Welsh chieftain in his strong hold again. The king was too
well acquainted with the value of Sir Richard’s services and scrupulous
honour, to persist in his unjust intentions. He, therefore, ratified the
conditions, and pardoned the chief. But the brave Englishman was soon
after recalled from his military command.
In the civil wars of Charles I. Harlech Castle was the last that held out
for the king, under the command of William Owain, who surrendered on the
9th of March, 1647.
Upon the side which faces the sea, the castle must have been impregnable;
the walls are scarcely distinguishable from the rocky base, the whole
being a continued surface of dark grey masonry; and the north and south
sides appear nearly as inaccessible. The gateway upon the eastward side
is situated between two immense rounders, resembling those of Conway and
Carnarvon. The form of the castle is a square, each side measuring
seventy yards, and at each corner is a round tower; but the turrets that
were once attached to them the unsparing hand of Time has destroyed.
Before the entrance is a deep fosse, cut in the solid rock; across which
a drawbridge was constructed for security and convenience.
The principal apartments are on the eastward, or entrance, side of the
inner court. The banqueting hall is opposite; the windows of which look
out upon the green surface of the sea; and, on the right of the court,
there formerly stood a small chapel; the ruins of which are still
visible, the pointed windows remaining entire. It is impossible to
conceive a finer view than is obtained from the towers of Harlech Castle.
With a clear atmosphere, the monarch of the Welsh mountains may be
distinctly seen, towering above his subject hills. The promontories of
Lleyn, and Cricaeth Castle, are likewise objects of considerable
interest; the latter forming a head to a long neck of land that juts into
the sea from the Carnarvonshire coast, backed by a chain of noble
mountains. This castle likewise owes its foundation to Edward I.
Harlech is one of those places the traveller leaves with regret, and a
feeling that he can never see any so beautiful again; and from this place
to the village of Maentwrog, the road increases in beauty every mile.
The Bay of Cardigan, expanding to the ocean, lies beneath, on the left;
upon the right, wild rocks and woody hills alternately diversify the
prospect, and, approaching the northern extremity of the bay, the Traeth
Mawr and Traeth Bâch, two arms of the sea (the former running up to Port
Madoc, and the latter into the Vale of Maentwrog), are noble objects.
The Traeth Bâch, bounded by mountains upon either side, prepares the
tourist for the heavenly quietude which reigns eternally in the bosom of
this earthly paradise; and about two miles from the village, near a farm
house called Cemlyn, one of the most beautiful views of the valley lies
stretched before him. A woody dingle opens on the right, down which the
Velin Rhyd rushes impetuously, mingling its bright waters with the
smoothly meandering Dwyryd, which commingling, flow gracefully into
Cardigan Bay.
[Picture: The Vale of Maentwrog]
In front, and upon the right of the vale, lies the little picturesque
village of Maentwrog, reposing at the foot of a lofty mountain. Fine
green meadow lands enrich the centre of the valley, through which the
river, like a silver serpent, “drags its slow length along.” Upon the
opposite side is seen the mansion of Tan y Bwlch, backed by a mountain
forest, and ornamented by a noble terrace in front, with pleasure grounds
and walks, which the eye loves to rest upon.
The road to Festiniog, at the extreme point of the landscape, winds up
the enclosing hills that fill up the back ground. To be appreciated, the
view must be seen: the most glowing description would fall incalculably
short of the reality.
At this spot I was accosted by a very inquisitive personage.
“Fine evening, sir.”
“Yes.”
“Walking far to-day, sir?”
“Yes.”
“A great many gentlemen come from London to see this valley, sir.”
“I suppose so,” (trying to shake him off, but it would not do.)
“You come from London, I think, sir.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Only because a great many London people come this way, sir.”
“But do not many other travellers come this road, who are not Londoners?”
“Oh, yes, sir! but I took you for a Londoner by the cut of your coat.
You’ve come a long way to-day, sir?”
“I have, but how should you know that?”
“By the condition of your boots, sir.”
This was a hit I did not anticipate; for, truth to say I was nearly
bootless, at least the _soles_ had nearly left their _bodies_, upper
leathers I mean, and stood mortally in need of regeneration; and, as I
had not provided myself with a second pair, thinking they would prove
cumbersome in my knapsack, his remark was felt from toe to heel.
“You’ll want these repaired, I dare say, sir, while you remain at the
Oakeley Arms—comfortable inn—capital beds, sir.”
“Why I think I shall, my friend; perhaps you can recommend me to a
cobbler, in the village yonder,” (pointing to Maentwrog.)
“I am a boot maker, sir, in the village, and have cobbled, as you are
pleased to call it, the soles of all strangers in need, for the last
twenty years. My father performed that office before me; and I may say
my all (awl) of life depends upon the gentlemen who visit our beautiful
valley.”
“You are not employed then by the inhabitants of your native village?”
“I _was_, sir; but a new comer, who wrote over his door ‘leather cutter,’
cut me out; for I never found business enough to set up a shop, and so,
sir, I am obliged to watch for customers, to keep up my trade. Those
boots of yours, sir, will give me dinners for half the week, if you will
only let me give them welts, soles, and heel-taps. You’ve got a fine
foot, sir.”
This piece of gross flattery did not prevent my telling him to follow me
to the inn, and receive the reward of his perseverance and industry.
THE OAKELEY ARMS. TAN Y BWLCH.
I was tired, and gladly resigned my dilapidated boots to the care of my
_soles’_ physician; who, with a most respectful bow, promised to let me
have them by eight o’clock on the following morning.
Oh the comforts of a clean room, clean sheets, and a good bed! These I
experienced at the Oakeley Arms; and I arose refreshed, and eager to
commence my walk; but I was doomed to disappointment, for on drawing up
the blind of my window, a dark and dismal morning presented itself, the
rain falling in torrents, and the lovely valley transformed into a gloomy
gorge of rolling clouds. What’s to be done? thought I; jump into bed
again, answered my careful spirit. I obeyed the suggestion, and slept
another hour, when I again awoke, and on inspection found the day still
melancholy and tearful.
I descended to the breakfast room, and by the time I had finished that
necessary meal the sun shone out gloriously. Having discharged my bill,
and paid the loquacious cobbler for repairing my boots, I proceeded to
view the grounds of Tan y Bwlch, the seat of Mrs. Oakeley. The name
signifies “Below the Pass;” it is situated on the side of a hill which
overlooks the vale.
From the terrace of this mansion you command one of the most romantic
views in Wales. Harlech Castle is visible upon the right; the
Merionethshire mountains tower in the distance, and the entire valley,
from Festiniog to Traeth Bychan, watered by the river Dwyryd, is
interesting beyond description. Lord Lyttleton tells us, in his
observations upon this valley, that an honest Welsh farmer, who died
there at 105 years of age, had by his first wife thirty children, ten by
his second, and four by his third. His eldest son was eighty-one years
older than his youngest, and 800 persons, descended from his body,
attended his funeral.
I should be doing injustice to the worthy landlord of the Maentwrog Inn,
whose house I used upon my second visit to this delightful valley, did I
not speak in praise of his attention to the comforts of all travellers.
Good beds, civil waiters, excellent fare, and cheap charges, render this
one of the very best inns in Wales. And hear, ye lingering tourists! you
may have bed and board for the inconsiderable sum of one guinea per week,
which I think a very considerable temptation to remain at it a month, for
there is sufficient in the neighbourhood to interest the most phlegmatic
of Adam’s progeny. From hence may be visited the following interesting
places. The village of Festiniog, three miles, where there are two good
inns, the Pengwern Arms, and the Newborough Arms, where post horses and
cars are always in readiness; there is also a good boarding-house kept by
Miss Owen. The Falls of Cynvael, two and a half; the slate quarries,
five and a half; the cataracts of the Rhaiadr Du and Ravenfall, two
miles; Llyn Llyanyrch, three and a half, where the trout are excellent;
Cwmorddin Pool, lies to the northward, about four and a half miles, to
which the tourist may be conducted by the railroad. There is a house at
each end of the lake where the angler will find accommodation from the
hospitable owners for a trifling remuneration. Llyn Mannod contains very
large trout, and is six miles from Maentwrog, and Llyn Morwynion is about
the same distance.
[Picture: The Raven Fall, near Maentwrog]
I proceeded along the lower road by the north side of the salts, as the
inhabitants of the valley call the arm of the sea, which here has the
appearance of a lake begirt with mountains, craggy cliffs, and shadowing
woods. Here I bade adieu to the delightful valley of Festiniog, and
after walking about four miles along a pleasant road, a noble sheet of
water met my eyes, which appeared to be hemmed in by inaccessible
mountains, differing in form from those I had left behind, being more
conical, and some shooting upwards like pyramids into the clouds.
As I proceeded I discovered it to be the Traeth Mawr, which, as the sea
is hidden from us by a breakwater, has the appearance of a broad lake.
Upon this breakwater, which extends across the bay, is a railroad which
conveys slates from the quarries at Festiniog to Port Madoc, where it is
calculated ten thousand tons are shipped annually. Port Madoc receives
its name from the late William Alexander Maddocks, Esq., of Tan-yr-allt,
as does the town of Tremadoc.
The extraordinary efforts of this enterprising man caused him to be
looked up to as the Prince of the soil. He redeemed, by constructing an
embankment of nearly one mile in length from north to south, across the
Traeth Mawr, at the eastern extremity of Cardigan Bay, a tract of more
than 2,700 acres of land. This enterprise was completed in 1811, and
cost upwards of £100,000; so that, with the lands previously recovered,
no less than 7000 acres have been regained, 6000 of which are cultivated.
The view from the breakwater is perhaps the finest in North Wales for
distant mountain scenery. When the tourist has reached the centre of it,
let him turn his back upon the sea, and upon his right he will perceive a
hill, called Plâs Newydd, from which a range of Alpine scenery stretches
up to the monarch of Snowdonia, who towers pre-eminent in the distance.
Upon his left another range, commencing with a hill called Moel y Gêst,
leads up to the same grand object, and the extraordinary variety
displayed in the formation of these wonderful masses with the varying
lights and shadows that adorn them with sunny crowns or misty mantles,
produces a sublimity of effect I never before experienced. A bridge
joins the breakwater to the quay at Port Madoc, under which the tide
rushes with great impetuosity, covering a vast extent of ground at the
flood, which is left nearly dry at the ebb. Proceeding along the road,
in a short time the tourist obtains a peep at the little town of
Tremadoc; but before reaching it he perceives the church, an elegant
building, with a tower and lofty spire, which forms a principal object in
the landscape. The archway, under which the church is approached, is a
beautiful specimen of workmanship, and does equal credit to the taste of
the founder and execution of the builder. Divine service is read here in
the English language every Sunday, which is a great accommodation to the
English families, residing in the neighbourhood, as there is no other
church within twenty miles where it is so performed.
TREMADOC,
or the town of Madoc, is built quadrangularly, and in the centre of the
square is a column with a pedestal, round which are twelve steps. On the
eastern side is a commodious market house, above which are the assembly
rooms. A market is held here on Fridays, and the Barmouth and Carnarvon
coach passes through three times a-week.
Having refreshed myself with a luncheon of cold meat and a salad, I
trudged off, in spite of wind and weather, which threatened a speedy
commencement of hostilities. Large masses of vapoury clouds were driving
over head; the swallows skimmed the surface of the river, and brushed the
standing corn with their swift wings, as they flew along in the pursuit
of their prey; and the wind blew loud and shrilly, as in the month of
November. At a short distance from the town, upon the Beddgelert road,
is a lofty hill, the base of which is planted with fir trees, through
which a path winds up to the mansion of Tan-yr-Allt, the late beautiful
residence of Mr. Maddocks. I had not proceeded far when I was compelled
to seek shelter in a hollow, of which there are many at the feet of the
enormous precipices which overhang the road.
The transient storm having passed away, and sunshine once more lighting
up the valley, I again pushed forward. The Merionethshire mountains upon
the right, decked in their countless hues of rock and heather, over which
the departing storm swept with its rolling clouds, in dark magnificence,
formed a noble subject for the artist’s pencil. The road is elevated
above the meadows which enrich the centre of the vale; and the river,
which flows through them, having risen above its banks, and spread itself
over a considerable tract of country, resembled an extensive lake.
About half way between Tremadoc and Beddgelert, is a small dingle upon
the left of the road, with a neat lodge at the entrance, and a path
leading up to the shrubbery, beneath which a mountain stream flows
rapidly, and empties itself into the Dwyryd. As I proceeded, numerous
falls dashed down the mountains, and plunging into hollows underneath the
road, emerged again upon the other side, I was several times forced to
take shelter from the heavy showers under fallen blocks of rock; and
once, as the storm abated, and I looked anxiously out to see if it was
clear enough to pursue my journey, a glorious rainbow stretched across
the valley, its points resting upon the mountains on either side. I now
proceeded at a rapid pace, and the river became more deep and narrow, and
the circling eddies, as they floated down the stream, announced that I
was approaching the fall of a great body of water when suddenly—whizz,
whirr, clash, splash, dash, astounding and astonishing—
ABER GLAS LYN
with all its world of horrors, burst at once upon the view. I felt a
tremulous sensation within, me; a contraction of the muscles of my
throat; an hysterical sob and a desire to weep.
“White foaming, thundering, falls the boiling flood;
Rocks clash, and echo mocks the horrid din,
While man appalled, stands breathless, in amaze,
And, filled with awe, exalts his thoughts to Him,
Who was, who is, and aye must be supreme!”
Just above the bridge is a semi-circular rock, which forms a salmon leap,
over which the salmon, at spawning time, first lodge themselves at the
height of five or six yards. Proceeding through the pass, at every step
new wonders met the eye. The late heavy rains had swollen the mountain
waterfalls, and caused a terrific torrent to roar and struggle through a
narrow channel; for the mountains, forming this southern end of the vale,
approach so near to each other, that they only afford a contracted flow
for the river, and a narrow road, while their rocky sides rise so
perpendicularly, that their summits are scarcely farther distant from
each other than their foundations. The rushing river was a pure sheet of
white; furious, uncontrollable; nothing but the immense blocks riven from
the mountain’s craggy sides could withstand its dreadful impetuosity. A
few stunted fir and larch trees at the commencement of the pass were seen
starting from the dark clefts upon either side, which threw a deeper
shade upon this awful valley.
[Picture: Pont Aber Glaslyn]
Cradock calls this pass “the noblest specimen of the _finely horrid_ the
eye can possibly behold. The poet,” he continues, “has not described,
nor the painter pictured so gloomy a retreat. ’Tis the last approach to
the mansion of Pluto, through the regions of Despair.” I could have
stopped for hours to admire this splendid example of the sublimity of
Nature, but time pressed, so I pushed on to Beddgelert which is not more
than a mile and a half from the bridge. A solitary mountain ash which
grows about half way up the pass, is the sole bright thing in this abode
of terror, and looks like Beauty in desolation. Emerging from the pass
there is a stone which is called the chair of Rhys Gôch o’r Eryri; a
famous mountain bard who lived in the time of Owen Glyndwr. He resided
at the entrance into the Traeth Mawr Sands, from whence he used to walk,
and sitting upon this stone compose his poems. He died in 1420, at the
advanced age of 120 years; he was a gentleman of property, and was buried
in the ancient priory at
BEDDGELERT.
Some are of opinion that this word should be written Celert, or Cilert,
Bedd-Cilert, or Cilert’s Grave; supposing that a monk or saint of that
name was buried here. Another celebrated bard was entombed at this
place, named Davydd Nanmor, who died about the year 1460.
The Goat is an excellent inn, and every attention the traveller can
desire is paid with the greatest celerity. Twenty post horses are kept
at this inn for travellers, and eight or ten ponies for the accommodation
of those visitors who wish to ascend Snowdon with ease and safety.
At nine o’clock, I strolled from the inn to the bridge. It was a lovely
evening; there was no moon, but the clear sky displayed its burning host
in beautiful array. No breath of air disturbed the silent slumbers of
the peaceful woods. The lull of rippling waters alone struck upon the
ear, yielding a solemn tone like the deep swell of the organ, breaking
upon the deepest solitude.
In such a situation how indescribable is the feeling which takes
possession of us! What language can express, what tongue can utter it!
My very breathing seemed to disturb the excessive sweetness of nature’s
melody.
In a field near the church yard are two grey stones overhung with bushes,
pointing out the grave of “Gelert,” Llewelyn’s hound.