Proceed on Journey - The Lad and Dog - Old Bala - The Pass -Extensive View - The Two Men - The Tap Nyth - The Meeting of the Waters - The Wild Valley - Dinas Mawddwy.
THE Monday morning was gloomy and misty, but it did not rain, a circumstance which gave me no little pleasure, as I intended to continue my journey without delay. After breakfast I bade farewell to my kind host, and also to the freckled maid, and departed, my satchel o'er my shoulder and my umbrella in my hand.
I had consulted the landlord on the previous day as to where I had best make my next halt, and had been advised by him to stop at Mallwyd. He said that if I felt tired I could put up at Dinas Mawddwy, about two miles on this side of Mallwyd, but that if Iwere not he would advise me to go on, as I should find very poor accommodation at Dinas. On my inquiring as to the nature of the road, he told me that the first part of it was tolerably good, lying along the eastern side of the lake, but that the greater part of it was very rough, over hills and mountains, belonging to the great chain of Arran, which constituted upon the whole the wildest part of all Wales.
Passing by the northern end of the lake I turned to the south, and proceeded along a road a little way above the side of the lake.
The day had now to a certain extent cleared up, and the lake was occasionally gilded by beams of bright sunshine. After walking a little way I overtook a lad dressed in a white greatcoat and attended by a tolerably large black dog. I addressed him in English, but finding that he did not understand me I began to talk to him in Welsh.
"That's a fine dog," said I.
LAD. - Very fine, sir, and a good dog; though young he has been known to kill rats.
MYSELF. - What is his name?
LAD. - His name is Toby, sir.
MYSELF. - And what is your name?
LAD. - John Jones, sir.
MYSELF. - And what is your father's?
LAD. - Waladr Jones, sir.
MYSELF. - Is Waladr the same as Cadwaladr?
LAD. - In truth, sir, it is.
MYSELF. - That is a fine name.
LAD. - It is, sir; I have heard my father say that it was the name of a king.
MYSELF. - What is your father?
LAD. - A farmer, sir.
MYSELF. - Does he farm his own land?
LAD. - He does not, sir; he is tenant to Mr Price of Hiwlas.
MYSELF. - Do you live far from Bala?
LAD. - Not very far, sir.
MYSELF. - Are you going home now?
LAD. - I am not, sir; our home is on the other side of Bala. I am going to see a relation up the road.
MYSELF. - Bala is a nice place.
LAD. - It is, sir; but not so fine as old Bala.
MYSELF. - I never heard of such a place. Where is it?
LAD. - Under the lake, sir.
MYSELF. - What do you mean?
LAD. - It stood in the old time where the lake now is, and a fine city it was, full of fine houses, towers, and castles, but with neither church nor chapel, for the people neither knew God nor cared for Him, and thought of nothing but singing and dancing and other wicked things. So God was angry with them, and one night, when they were all busy at singing and dancing and the like, God gave the word, and the city sank down into Unknown, and the lake boiled up where it once stood.
MYSELF. - That was a long time ago.
LAD. - In truth, sir, it was.
MYSELF. - Before the days of King Cadwaladr.
LAD. - I daresay it was, sir.
I walked fast, but the lad was a shrewd walker, and though encumbered with his greatcoat contrived to keep tolerably up with me. The road went over hill and dale, but upon the whole more upward than downward. After proceeding about an hour and a half we left the lake, to the southern extremity of which we had nearly come, somewhat behind, and bore away to the south-east, gradually ascending. At length the lad, pointing to a small farm-house on the side of a hill, told me he was bound thither, and presently bidding me farewell, turned aside up a footpath which led towards it.
About a minute afterwards a small delicate furred creature with a white mark round its neck and with a little tail trailing on the ground ran swiftly across the road. It was a weasel or something of that genus; on observing it I was glad that the lad and the dog were gone, as between them they would probably have killed it. Ihate to see poor wild animals persecuted and murdered, lose my appetite for dinner at hearing the screams of a hare pursued by greyhounds, and am silly enough to feel disgust and horror at the squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier, which one of the sporting tribe once told me were the sweetest sounds in "natur."I crossed a bridge over a deep gulley which discharged its waters into a river in a valley on the right. Arran rose in great majesty on the farther side of this vale, its head partly shrouded in mist.
The day now became considerably overcast. I wandered on over much rough ground till I came to a collection of houses at the bottom of a pass leading up a steep mountain. Seeing the door of one of the houses open I peeped in, and a woman who was sitting knitting in the interior rose and came out to me. I asked the name of the place. The name which she told me sounded something like Ty Capel Saer - the House of the Chapel of the Carpenter. I inquired the name of the river in the valley. Cynllwyd, hoary-headed, she seemed to say; but here, as well as with respect to her first answer, I speak under correction, for her Welsh was what my old friends, the Spaniards, would call muy cerrado, that is, close or indistinct. She asked me if I was going up the bwlch. I told her I was.
"Rather you than I," said she, looking up to the heavens, which had assumed a very dismal, not to say awful, appearance.
Presently I began to ascend the pass or bwlch, a green hill on my right intercepting the view of Arran, another very lofty hill on my left with wood towards the summit. Coming to a little cottage which stood on the left I went to the door and knocked. A smiling young woman opened it, of whom I asked the name of the house.
"Ty Nant - the House of the Dingle," she replied.
"Do you live alone?" said I.
"No; mother lives here."
"Any Saesneg?"