Wild Wales: The People, Language, & Scenery

Satiated with looking about and thinking, I sprang from the cairn and rejoined my guide. We now descended the eastern side of the hill till we came to a singular-looking stone, which had much the appearance of a Druid’s stone. I inquired of my guide whether there was any tale connected with this stone.

“None,” he replied; “but I have heard people say that it was a strange stone and on that account I brought you to look at it.”

A little farther down he showed me part of a ruined wall.

“What name does this bear?” said I.

“Clawdd yr Afalon,” he replied. “The dyke of the orchard.”

“A strange place for an orchard,” I replied. “If there was ever an orchard on this bleak hill, the apples must have been very sour.”

Over rocks and stones we descended till we found ourselves on a road, not very far from the shore, on the south-east side of the hill.

“I am very thirsty,” said I, as I wiped the perspiration from my face; “how I should like now to drink my fill of cool spring water.”

“If your honour is inclined for water,” said my guide, “I can take you to the finest spring in all Wales.”

“Pray do so,” said I, “for I really am dying of thirst.”

“It is on our way to the town,” said the lad, “and is scarcely a hundred yards off.”

He then led me to the fountain. It was a little well under a stone wall, on the left side of the way. It might be about two feet deep, was fenced with rude stones, and had a bottom of sand.

“There,” said the lad, “is the fountain. It is called the Fairies’ well, and contains the best water in Wales.”

I lay down and drank. O, what water was that of the Fairies’ well! I drank and drank and thought I could never drink enough of that delicious water; the lad all the time saying that I need not be afraid to drink, as the water of the Fairies’ well had never done harm to anybody. At length I got up, and standing by the fountain repeated the lines of a bard on a spring, not of a Welsh but a Gaelic bard, which are perhaps the finest lines ever composed on the theme. Yet MacIntyre, for such was his name, was like myself an admirer of good ale, to say nothing of whiskey, and loved to indulge in it at a proper time and place. But there is a time and place for everything, and sometimes the warmest admirer of ale would prefer the lymph of the hill-side fountain to the choicest ale that ever foamed in tankard from the cellars of Holkham. Here are the lines, most faithfully rendered:

“The wild wine of nature,Honey-like in its taste,The genial, fair, thin elementFiltering through the sands,Which is sweeter than cinnamon,And is well-known to us hunters.O, that eternal, healing draught,Which comes from under the earth,Which contains abundance of goodAnd costs no money!”

Returning to the hotel I satisfied my guide and dined. After dinner I trifled agreeably with my brandy-and-water till it was near seven o’clock when I paid my bill, thought of the waiter and did not forget Father Boots. I then took my departure, receiving and returning bows, and walking to the station got into a first-class carriage and soon found myself at Bangor.

CHAPTER XLIII

The Inn at Bangor – Port Dyn Norwig – Sea Serpent – Thoroughly Welsh Place – Blessing of Health.

I went to the same inn at Bangor at which I had been before. It was Saturday night and the house was thronged with people, who had arrived by train from Manchester and Liverpool, with the intention of passing the Sunday in the Welsh town. I took tea in an immense dining or ball-room, which was, however, so crowded with guests that its walls literally sweated. Amidst the multitude I felt quite solitary – my beloved ones had departed for Llangollen, and there was no one with whom I could exchange a thought or a word of kindness. I addressed several individuals, and in every instance repented; from some I got no answers, from others what was worse than no answers at all – in every countenance near me suspicion, brutality, or conceit, was most legibly imprinted – I was not amongst Welsh, but the scum of manufacturing England.

Every bed in the house was engaged – the people of the house, however, provided me a bed at a place which they called the cottage, on the side of a hill in the outskirts of the town. There I passed the night comfortably enough. At about eight in the morning I arose, returned to the inn, breakfasted, and departed for Bethgelert by way of Caernarvon.

It was Sunday, and I had originally intended to pass the day at Bangor, and to attend divine service twice at the cathedral, but I found myself so very uncomfortable, owing to the crowd of interlopers, that I determined to proceed on my journey without delay; making up my mind, however, to enter the first church I should meet in which service was being performed; for it is really not good to travel on the Sunday without going into a place of worship.

The day was sunny and fiercely hot, as all the days had lately been. In about an hour I arrived at Port Dyn Norwig: it stood on the right side of the road. The name of this place, which I had heard from the coachman who drove my family and me to Caernarvon and Llanberis a few days before, had excited my curiosity in respect to it, as it signifies the Port of the Norway man, so I now turned aside to examine it. “No doubt,” said I to myself, “the place derives its name from the piratical Danes and Norse having resorted to it in the old time.” Port Dyn Norwig seems to consist of a creek, a staithe, and about a hundred houses: a few small vessels were lying at the staithe. I stood about ten minutes upon it staring about, and then feeling rather oppressed by the heat of the sun, I bent my way to a small house which bore a sign, and from which a loud noise of voices proceeded. “Have you good ale?” said I in English to a good-looking buxom dame, of about forty, whom I saw in the passage.

She looked at me but returned no answer.

“Oes genoch cwrw da?” said I.

“Oes!” she replied with a smile, and opening the door of a room on the left-hand bade me walk in.

I entered the room; six or seven men, seemingly sea-faring people, were seated drinking and talking vociferously in Welsh. Their conversation was about the sea-serpent; some believed in the existence of such a thing, others did not – after a little time one said, “Let us ask this gentleman for his opinion.”

“And what would be the use of asking him?” said another, “we have only Cumraeg, and he has only Saesneg.”

“I have a little broken Cumraeg, at the service of this good company,” said I. “With respect to the snake of the sea I beg leave to say that I believe in the existence of such a creature; and am surprised that any people in these parts should not believe in it; why, the sea-serpent has been seen in these parts.”

“When was that, Gwr Bonneddig?” said one of the company.

“About fifty years ago,” said I. “Once in October, in the year 1805, as a small vessel of the Traeth was upon the Menai, sailing very slowly, the weather being very calm, the people on board saw a strange creature like an immense worm swimming after them. It soon overtook them, climbed on board through the tiller-hole, and coiled itself on the deck under the mast – the people at first were dreadfully frightened, but taking courage they attacked it with an oar and drove it overboard; it followed the vessel for some time but a breeze springing up they lost sight of it.”

“And how did you learn this?” said the last who had addressed me.

“I read the story,” said I, “in a pure Welsh book called the Greal.”

“I now remember hearing the same thing,” said an old man, “when I was a boy; it had slipped out of my memory, but now I remember all about it. The ship was called the Robert Ellis. Are you of these parts, gentleman?”

“No,” said I, “I am not of these parts.”

“Then you are of South Wales – indeed your Welsh is very different from ours.”

“I am not of South Wales,” said I, “I am the seed not of the sea-snake but of the coiling serpent, for so one of the old Welsh poets called the Saxons.”

“But how did you learn Welsh?” said the old man.

“I learned it by the grammar,” said I, “a long time ago.”

“Ah, you learnt it by the grammar,” said the old man; “that accounts for your Welsh being different from ours. We did not learn our Welsh by the grammar – your Welsh is different from ours, and of course better, being the Welsh of the grammar. Ah, it is a fine thing to be a grammarian.”

“Yes, it is a fine thing to be a grammarian,” cried the rest of the company, and I observed that everybody now regarded me with a kind of respect.

A jug of ale which the hostess had brought me had been standing before me some time. I now tasted it and found it very good. Whilst dispatching it, I asked various questions about the old Danes, the reason why the place was called the port of the Norwegian, and about its trade. The good folks knew nothing about the old Danes, and as little as to the reason of its being called the port of the Norwegian – but they said that besides that name it bore that of Melin Heli, or the mill of the salt pool, and that slates were exported from thence, which came from quarries close by.

Having finished my ale I bade the company adieu and quitted Port Dyn Norwig, one of the most thoroughly Welsh places I had seen, for during the whole time I was in it, I heard no words of English uttered, except the two or three spoken by myself. In about an hour I reached Caernarvon.

The road from Bangor to Caernarvon is very good and the scenery interesting – fine hills border it on the left, or south-east, and on the right at some distance is the Menai with Anglesey beyond it. Not far from Caernarvon a sandbank commences, extending for miles up the Menai, towards Bangor, and dividing the strait into two.

I went to the Castle Inn which fronts the square or market-place, and being shown into a room ordered some brandy-and-water, and sat down. Two young men were seated in the room. I spoke to them and received civil answers, at which I was rather astonished, as I found by the tone of their voices that they were English. The air of one was far superior to that of the other, and with him I was soon in conversation. In the course of discourse he informed me that being a martyr to ill-health he had come from London to Wales, hoping that change of air, and exercise on the Welsh hills, would afford him relief, and that his friend had been kind enough to accompany him. That he had been about three weeks in Wales, had taken all the exercise that he could, but that he was still very unwell, slept little and had no appetite. I told him not to be discouraged, but to proceed in the course which he had adopted till the end of the summer, by which time I thought it very probable that he would be restored to his health, as he was still young. At these words of mine a beam of hope brightened his countenance, and he said he had no other wish than to regain his health, and that if he did he should be the happiest of men. The intense wish of the poor young man for health caused me to think how insensible I had hitherto been to the possession of the greatest of all terrestrial blessings. I had always had the health of an elephant, but I never remember to have been sensible to the magnitude of the blessing or in the slightest degree grateful to the God who gave it. I shuddered to think how I should feel if suddenly deprived of my health. Far worse, no doubt, than that poor invalid. He was young, and in youth there is hope – but I was no longer young. At last, however, I thought that if God took away my health He might so far alter my mind that I might be happy even without health, or the prospect of it; and that reflection made me quite comfortable.

CHAPTER XLIV

National School – The Young Preacher – Pont Bettws – Spanish Words – Two Tongues, Two Faces – The Elephant’s Snout – Llyn Cwellyn – The Snowdon Ranger – My House – Castell y Cidwm – Descent to Bethgelert.

It might be about three o’clock in the afternoon when I left Caernarvon for Bethgelert, distant about thirteen miles. I journeyed through a beautiful country of hill and dale, woods and meadows, the whole gilded by abundance of sunshine. After walking about an hour without intermission I reached a village, and asked a man the name of it.

“Llan – something,” he replied.

As he was standing before a long building, through the open door of which a sound proceeded like that of preaching, I asked him what place it was, and what was going on in it, and received for answer that it was the National School, and that there was a clergyman preaching in it. I then asked if the clergyman was of the Church, and on learning that he was, I forthwith entered the building, where in one end of a long room I saw a young man in a white surplice preaching from a desk to about thirty or forty people, who were seated on benches before him. I sat down and listened. The young man preached with great zeal and fluency. The sermon was a very seasonable one, being about the harvest, and in it things temporal and spiritual were very happily blended. The part of the sermon which I heard – I regretted that I did not hear the whole – lasted about five-and-twenty minutes: a hymn followed, and then the congregation broke up. I inquired the name of the young man who preached, and was told that it was Edwards, and that he came from Caernarvon. The name of the incumbent of the parish was Thomas.

Leaving the village of the harvest sermon, I proceeded on my way, which lay to the south-east. I was now drawing nigh to the mountainous district of Eryri – a noble hill called Mount Eilio appeared before me to the north; an immense mountain called Pen Drws Coed lay over against it on the south, just like a couchant elephant, with its head lower than the top of its back. After a time, I entered a most beautiful sunny valley, and presently came to a bridge over a pleasant stream running in the direction of the south. As I stood upon that bridge, I almost fancied myself in paradise; everything looked so beautiful or grand – green, sunny meadows lay all around me, intersected by the brook, the waters of which ran with tinkling laughter over a shingley bottom. Noble Eilio to the north; enormous Pen Drws Coed to the south; a tall mountain far beyond them to the east. “I never was in such a lovely spot!” I cried to myself in a perfect rapture. “O, how glad I should be to learn the name of this bridge, standing on which I have had ‘heaven opened to me,’ as my old friends the Spaniards used to say.” Scarcely had I said these words, when I observed a man and a woman coming towards the bridge from the direction in which I was bound. I hastened to meet them, in the hope of obtaining information; they were both rather young, and were probably a couple of sweethearts taking a walk, or returning from meeting. The woman was a few steps in advance of the man; seeing that I was about to address her, she averted her head and quickened her steps, and before I had completed the question, which I put to her in Welsh, she had bolted past me screaming, “Ah Dim Saesneg,” and was several yards distant.

I then addressed myself to the man, who had stopped, asking him the name of the bridge.

“Pont Bettws,” he replied.

“And what may be the name of the river?” said I.

“Afon – something,” said he.

And on my thanking him, he went forward to the woman, who was waiting for him by the bridge.

“Is that man Welsh or English?” I heard her say when he had rejoined her.

“I don’t know,” said the man – “he was civil enough; why were you such a fool?”

“O, I thought he would speak to me in English,” said the woman, “and the thought of that horrid English puts me into such a flutter; you know I can’t speak a word of it.”

They proceeded on their way, and I proceeded on mine, and presently coming to a little inn on the left side of the way, at the entrance of a village, I went in.

A respectable-looking man and woman were seated at tea at a table in a nice clean kitchen. I sat down on a chair near the table, and called for ale – the ale was brought me in a jug – I drank some, put the jug on the table, and began to discourse with the people in Welsh – a handsome dog was seated on the ground; suddenly it laid one of its paws on its master’s knee.

“Down, Perro,” said he.

“Perro!” said I; “why do you call the dog Perro?”

“We call him Perro,” said the man, “because his name is Perro.”

“But how came you to give him that name?” said I.

“We did not give it to him,” said the man – “he bore that name when he came into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very young, and told us his name was Perro.”

“And how came the farmer to call him Perro?” said I.

“I don’t know,” said the man – “why do you ask?”

“Perro,” said I, “is a Spanish word, and signifies a dog in general. I am rather surprised that a dog in the mountains of Wales should be called by the Spanish word for dog.” I fell into a fit of musing. “How Spanish words are diffused! Wherever you go you will find some Spanish word or other in use. I have heard Spanish words used by Russian mujiks, and Turkish fig-gatherers – I have this day heard a Spanish word in the mountains of Wales, and I have no doubt that were I to go to Iceland I should find Spanish words used there. How can I doubt it? when I reflect that more than six hundred years ago, one of the words to denote a bad woman was Spanish. In the oldest of Icelandic domestic sagas, Skarphedin, the son of Nial the seer, called Hallgerdr, widow of Gunnar, a puta – and that word so maddened Hallgerdr, that she never rested till she had brought about his destruction. Now, why this preference everywhere for Spanish words, over those of every other language? I never heard French words or German words used by Russian mujiks and Turkish fig-gatherers. I question whether I should find any in Iceland forming part of the vernacular. I certainly never found a French or even a German word in an old Icelandic saga. Why this partiality everywhere for Spanish words? the question is puzzling; at any rate it puts me out – ”

“Yes, it puts me out!” I exclaimed aloud, striking my fist on the table with a vehemence which caused the good folks to start half up from their seats – before they could say anything, however, a vehicle drove up to the door, and a man, getting out, came into the room. He had a glazed hat on his head, and was dressed something like the guard of a mail. He touched his hat to me, and called for a glass of whiskey. I gave him the sele of the evening, and entered into conversation with him in English. In the course of discourse I learned that he was the postman, and was going his rounds in his cart – he was more than respectful to me, he was fawning and sycophantic. The whiskey was brought, and he stood with the glass in his hand. Suddenly he began speaking Welsh to the people; before, however, he had uttered two sentences, the woman lifted her hands with an alarmed air, crying “Hush! he understands.” The fellow was turning me to ridicule. I flung my head back, closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and laughed aloud. The fellow stood aghast; his hand trembled, and he spilt the greater part of the whiskey upon the ground. At the end of about half-a-minute I got up, asked what I had to pay, and on being told two pence, I put down the money. Then going up to the man, I put my right fore-finger very near to his nose, and said, “Dwy o iaith dwy o wyneb; two languages, two faces, friend!” Then after leering at him for a moment, I wished the people of the house good evening, and departed.

Walking rapidly on towards the east, I soon drew near the termination of the valley. The valley terminates in a deep gorge, or pass, between Mount Eilio – which, by the bye, is part of the chine of Snowdon – and Pen Drws Coed. The latter, that couchant elephant with its head turned to the north-east, seems as if it wished to bar the pass with its trunk; by its trunk I mean a kind of jaggy ridge which descends down to the road. I entered the gorge, passing near a little waterfall which with much noise runs down the precipitous side of Mount Eilio – presently I came to a little mill by the side of a brook running towards the east. I asked the miller-woman, who was standing near the mill, with her head turned towards the setting sun, the name of the mill and the stream. “The mill is called the mill of the river of Lake Cwellyn,” said she, “and the river is called the river of Lake Cwellyn.”

“And who owns the land?” said I.

“Sir Richard,” said she. “I Sir Richard yw yn perthyn y tîr. Mr. Williams, however, possesses some part of Mount Eilio.”

“And who is Mr. Williams?” said I.

“Who is Mr. Williams?” said the miller’s wife. “Ho, ho! what a stranger you must be to ask me who is Mr. Williams.”

I smiled and passed on. The mill was below the level of the road, and its wheel was turned by the water of a little conduit supplied by the brook at some distance above the mill. I had observed similar conduits employed for similar purposes in Cornwall. A little below the mill was a weir, and a little below the weir the river ran frothing past the extreme end of the elephant’s snout. Following the course of the river, I at last emerged with it from the pass into a valley surrounded by enormous mountains. Extending along it from west to east, and occupying its entire southern part, lay an oblong piece of water, into which the streamlet of the pass discharged itself. This was one of the many beautiful lakes, which a few days before I had seen from the Wyddfa. As for the Wyddfa, I now beheld it high above me in the north-east, looking very grand indeed, shining like a silver helmet whilst catching the glories of the setting sun.

I proceeded slowly along the road, the lake below me on my right hand, whilst the shelvy side of Snowdon rose above me on the left. The evening was calm and still, and no noise came upon my ear save the sound of a cascade falling into the lake from a black mountain, which frowned above it on the south, and cast a gloomy shadow far over it.

This cataract was in the neighbourhood of a singular-looking rock, projecting above the lake from the mountain’s side. I wandered a considerable way without meeting or seeing a single human being. At last, when I had nearly gained the eastern end of the valley, I saw two men seated on the side of the hill, on the verge of the road, in the vicinity of a house which stood a little way up the hill. The lake here was much wider than I had hitherto seen it, for the huge mountain on the south had terminated, and the lake expanded considerably in that quarter, having instead of the black mountain a beautiful hill beyond it.

I quickened my steps, and soon came up to the two individuals. One was an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock, and with a hairy cap on his head. The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was dressed in a coarse suit of blue, nearly new, and doubtless his Sunday’s best. He was smoking a pipe. I greeted them in English, and sat down near them. They responded in the same language, the younger man with considerable civility and briskness, the other in a tone of voice denoting some reserve.

“May I ask the name of this lake?” said I, addressing myself to the young man, who sat between me and the elderly one.

“Its name is Llyn Cwellyn, sir,” said he, taking the pipe out of his mouth. “And a fine lake it is.”

“Plenty of fish in it?” I demanded.

“Plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char.”

“Is it deep?” said I.

“Near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the other side it is deep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is.”

“What is the name,” said I, “of the great black mountain there on the other side?”

“It is called Mynydd Mawr, or the Great Mountain. Yonder rock, which bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed as you came along, is called Castell Cidwm, which means Wolf’s rock or castle.”

“Did a wolf ever live there?” I demanded.

“Perhaps so,” said the man, “for I have heard say that there were wolves of old in Wales.”

“And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the water?”

“That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed,” said the man.

“The stone heap of the gate of the wood,” said I.

“Are you Welsh, sir?” said the man.

“No,” said I, “but I know something of the language of Wales. I suppose you live in that house?”

“Not exactly, sir; my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but every Sunday I come here, and pass the day with my wife and him.”