Wild Wales: The People, Language, & Scenery

“Out on the hill,” whispered the child.

“What’s your father?”

“A shepherd.”

“Good,” said I. “Now can you tell me the way to the bridge of the evil man?” But the features became blank, the finger was put to the mouth, and the head was hung down. That question was evidently beyond the child’s capacity. “Thank you!” said I, and turning round, I regained the path on the top of the bank. The fellow and his donkey were still there. “I had no difficulty,” said I, “in obtaining information; the place’s name is Waen y Bwlch. But oes genoch dim Cumraeg – you have no Welsh.” Thereupon I proceeded along the path in the direction of the east. Forthwith the fellow said something to his animal, and both came following fast behind. I quickened my pace, but the fellow and his beast were close in my rear. Presently I came to a place where another path branched off to the south. I stopped, looked at it, and then went on, but scarcely had done so when I heard another exulting “humph” behind. “I am going wrong,” said I to myself; “that other path is the way to the Devil’s Bridge, and the scamp knows it, or he would not have grunted.” Forthwith I faced round, and brushing past the fellow without a word turned into the other path and hurried along it. By a side glance which I cast I could see him staring after me; presently, however, he uttered a sound very much like a Welsh curse, and kicking his beast proceeded on his way, and I saw no more of him. In a little time I came to a slough which crossed the path. I did not like the look of it at all; and to avoid it ventured upon some green mossy-looking ground to the left, and had scarcely done so when I found myself immersed to the knees in a bog. I, however, pushed forward, and with some difficulty got to the path on the other side of the slough. I followed the path, and in about half-an-hour saw what appeared to be houses at a distance. “God grant that I may be drawing near some inhabited place,” said I. The path now grew very miry, and there were pools of water on either side. I moved along slowly. At length I came to a place where some men were busy in erecting a kind of building. I went up to the nearest and asked him the name of the place. He had a crow-bar in his hand, was half-naked, had a wry mouth and only one eye. He made me no answer, but moved and gibbered at me.

“For God’s sake,” said I, “don’t do so, but tell me where I am!” He still uttered no word, but mowed and gibbered yet more frightfully than before. As I stood staring at him another man came to me and said in broken English, “It is of no use speaking to him, sir, he is deaf and dumb.”

“I am glad he is no worse,” said I, “for I really thought he was possessed with the evil one. My good person, can you tell me the name of this place?”

“Esgyrn Hirion, sir,” said he.

“Esgyrn Hirion,” said I to myself; “Esgyrn means bones, and Hirion means long. I am doubtless at the place which the old ostler called Long Bones. I shouldn’t wonder if I get to the Devil’s Bridge to-night after all.” I then asked the man if he could tell me the way to the bridge of the evil man, but he shook his head and said that he had never heard of such a place, adding, however, that he would go with me to one of the overseers, who could perhaps direct me. He then proceeded towards a row of buildings, which were in fact those objects which I had guessed to be houses in the distance. He led me to a corner house, at the door of which stood a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey coat, and saying to me, “This person is an overseer,” returned to his labour. I went up to the man, and saluting him in English, asked whether he could direct me to the devil’s bridge, or rather to Pont Erwyd.

“It would be of no use directing you, sir,” said he, “for with all the directions in the world it would be impossible for you to find the way. You would not have left these premises five minutes before you would be in a maze, without knowing which way to turn. Where do you come from?”

“From Machynlleth,” I replied.

“From Machynlleth!” said he. “Well, I only wonder you ever got here, but it would be madness to go further alone.”

“Well,” said I, “can I obtain a guide?”

“I really don’t know,” said he; “I am afraid all the men are engaged.”

As we were speaking a young man made his appearance at the door from the interior of the house. He was dressed in a brown short coat, had a glazed hat on his head, and had a pale but very intelligent countenance.

“What is the matter?” said he to the other man.

“This gentleman,” replied the latter, “is going to Pont Erwyd, and wants a guide.”

“Well,” said the young man, “we must find him one. It will never do to let him go by himself.”

“If you can find me a guide,” said I, “I shall be happy to pay him for his trouble.”

“O, you can do as you please about that,” said the young man; “but, pay or not, we would never suffer you to leave this place without a guide, and as much for our own sake as yours, for the directors of the company would never forgive us if they heard we had suffered a gentleman to leave these premises without a guide, more especially if he were lost, as it is a hundred to one you would be if you went by yourself.”

“Pray,” said I, “what company is this, the directors of which are so solicitous about the safety of strangers?”

“The Potosi Mining Company,” said he, “the richest in all Wales. But pray walk in and sit down, for you must be tired.”

CHAPTER LXXXI

The Mining Compting Room – Native of Aberystwyth – Story of a Bloodhound – The Young Girls – The Miner’s Tale – Gwen Frwd – The Terfyn.

I followed the young man with the glazed hat into a room, the other man following behind me. He of the glazed hat made me sit down before a turf fire, apologising for its smoking very much. The room seemed half compting room, half apartment. There was a wooden desk with a ledger upon it by the window which looked to the west, and a camp bedstead extended from the southern wall nearly up to the desk. After I had sat for about a minute the young man asked me if I would take any refreshment. I thanked him for his kind offer, which I declined, saying, however, that if he would obtain me a guide I should feel much obliged. He turned to the other man and told him to go and inquire whether there was any one who would be willing to go. The other nodded, and forthwith went out.

“You think, then,” said I, “that I could not find the way by myself?”

“I am sure of it,” said he, “for even the people best acquainted with the country frequently lose their way. But I must tell you that if we do find you a guide it will probably be one who has no English.”

“Never mind,” said I, “I have enough Welsh to hold a common discourse.”

A fine girl about fourteen now came in, and began bustling about.

“Who is this young lady?” said I.

“The daughter of a captain of a neighbouring mine,” said he; “she frequently comes here with messages, and is always ready to do a turn about the house, for she is very handy.”

“Has she any English?” said I.

“Not a word,” he replied. “The young people of these hills have no English, except they go abroad to learn it.”

“What hills are these?” said I.

“Part of the Plynlimmon range,” said he.

“Dear me,” said I, “am I near Plynlimmon?”

“Not very far from it,” said the young man, “and you will be nearer when you reach Pont Erwyd.”

“Are you a native of these parts?” said I.

“I am not,” he replied. “I am a native of Aberystwyth, a place on the sea-coast about a dozen miles from here.”

“This seems to be a cold, bleak spot,” said I; “is it healthy?”

“I have reason to say so,” said he; “for I came here from Aberystwyth about four months ago very unwell, and am now perfectly recovered. I do not believe there is a healthier spot in all Wales.”

We had some further discourse. I mentioned to him the adventure which I had on the hill with the fellow with the donkey. The young man said that he had no doubt that he was some prowling thief.

“The dogs of the shepherd’s house,” said I, “didn’t seem to like him, and dogs generally know an evil customer. A long time ago I chanced to be in a posada, or inn, at Valladolid in Spain. One hot summer’s afternoon I was seated in a corridor which ran round a large, open court in the middle of the inn; a fine yellow, three-parts-grown bloodhound was lying on the ground beside me, with whom I had been playing a little time before. I was just about to fall asleep, when I heard a ‘hem’ at the outward door of the posada, which was a long way below at the end of a passage which communicated with the court. Instantly the hound started upon his legs, and with a loud yell, and with eyes flashing fire, ran nearly round the corridor down a flight of steps and through the passage to the gate. There was then a dreadful noise, in which the cries of a human being and the yells of the hound were blended. I forthwith started up and ran down, followed by several other guests who came rushing out of their chambers round the corridor. At the gate we saw a man on the ground, and the hound trying to strangle him. It was with the greatest difficulty, and chiefly through the intervention of the master of the dog, who happened to be present, that the animal could be made to quit his hold. The assailed person was a very powerful man, but had an evil countenance, was badly dressed, and had neither hat, shoes nor stockings. We raised him up and gave him wine, which he drank greedily, and presently without saying a word disappeared. The guests said they had no doubt that he was a murderer flying from justice, and that the dog by his instinct, even at a distance, knew him to be such. The master said that it was the first time the dog had ever attacked any one or shown the slightest symptom of ferocity. Not the least singular part of the matter was, that the dog did not belong to the house, but to one of the guests from a distant village; the creature therefore could not consider itself the house’s guardian.”

I had scarcely finished my tale when the other man came in and said that he had found a guide, a young man from Pont Erwyd, who would be glad of such an opportunity to go and see his parents; that he was then dressing himself and would shortly make his appearance. In about twenty minutes he did so. He was a stout young fellow with a coarse blue coat, and coarse white felt hat; he held a stick in his hand. The kind young book-keeper now advised us to set out without delay as the day was drawing to a close, and the way was long. I shook him by the hand, told him that I should never forget his civility, and departed with the guide.

The fine young girl, whom I have already mentioned, and another about two years younger, departed with us. They were dressed in the graceful female attire of old Wales.

We bore to the south down a descent, and came to some moory quaggy ground intersected with watercourses. The agility of the young girls surprised me; they sprang over the water-courses, some of which were at least four feet wide, with the ease and alacrity of fawns. After a short time we came to a road, which, however, we did not long reap the benefit of as it only led to a mine. Seeing a house on the top of a hill, I asked my guide whose it was.

“Ty powdr,” said he, “a powder house,” by which I supposed he meant a magazine of powder used for blasting in the mines. He had not a word of English.

If the young girls were nimble with their feet, they were not less so with their tongues, as they kept up an incessant gabble with each other and with the guide. I understood little of what they said, their volubility preventing me from catching more than a few words. After we had gone about two miles and a half they darted away with surprising swiftness down a hill towards a distant house, where as I learned from my guide the father of the eldest lived. We ascended a hill, passed between two craggy elevations, and then wended to the south-east over a strange miry place, in which I thought any one at night not acquainted with every inch of the way would run imminent risk of perishing. I entered into conversation with my guide. After a little time he asked me if I was a Welshman. I told him no.

“You could teach many a Welshman,” said he.

“Why do you think so?” said I.

“Because many of your words are quite above my comprehension,” said he.

“No great compliment,” thought I to myself, but putting a good face upon the matter, I told him that I knew a great many old Welsh words.

“Is Potosi an old Welsh word?” said he.

“No,” said I; “it is the name of a mine in the Deheubarth of America.”

“Is it a lead mine?”

“No!” said I; “it is a silver mine.”

“Then why do they call our mine, which is a lead mine, by the name of a silver mine?”

“Because they wish to give people to understand,” said I, “that it is very rich, as rich in lead as Potosi in silver. Potosi is, or was, the richest silver mine in the world, and from it has come at least one-half of the silver which we use in the shape of money and other things.”

“Well,” said he, “I have frequently asked, but could never learn before, why our mine was called Potosi.”

“You did not ask at the right quarter,” said I; “the young man with the glazed hat could have told you as well as I.” I inquired why the place where the mine was bore the name of Esgyrn Hirion, or Long Bones. He told me that he did not know, but believed that the bones of a cawr, or giant, had been found there in ancient times. I asked him if the mine was deep.

“Very deep,” he replied.

“Do you like the life of a miner?” said I.

“Very much,” said he, “and should like it more, but for the noises of the hill.”

“Do you mean the powder blasts?” said I.

“O no!” said he; “I care nothing for them, I mean the noises made by the spirits of the hill in the mine. Sometimes they make such noises as frighten the poor fellow who works underground out of his senses. Once on a time I was working by myself very deep underground, in a little chamber to which a very deep shaft led. I had just taken up my light to survey my work, when all of a sudden I heard a dreadful rushing noise, as if an immense quantity of earth had come tumbling down. ‘O God!’ said I, and fell backwards, letting the light fall, which instantly went out. I thought the whole shaft had given way, and that I was buried alive. I lay for several hours half stupefied, thinking now and then what a dreadful thing it was to be buried alive. At length I thought I would get up, go to the mouth of the shaft, feel the mould with which it was choked up, and then come back, lie down and die. So I got up and tottered to the mouth of the shaft, put out my hand and felt – nothing. All was clear. I went forward and presently felt the ladder. Nothing had fallen; all was just the same as when I came down. I was dreadfully afraid that I should never be able to get up in the dark without breaking my neck; however, I tried, and at last, with a great deal of toil and danger, got to a place where other men were working. The noise was caused by the spirits of the hill in the hope of driving the miner out of his senses. They very nearly succeeded. I shall never forget how I felt when I thought I was buried alive. If it were not for those noises in the hill the life of a miner would be quite heaven below.”

We came to a cottage standing under a hillock, down the side of which tumbled a streamlet close by the northern side of the building. The door was open, and inside were two or three females and some children. “Have you any enwyn?” said the lad, peeping in.

“O yes!” said a voice – “digon! digon!” Presently a buxom laughing girl brought out two dishes of buttermilk, one of which she handed to me and the other to the guide. I asked her the name of the place.

“Gwen Frwd: the Fair Rivulet,” said she.

“Who lives here?”

“A shepherd.”

“Have you any English?”

“Nagos!” said she, bursting into a loud laugh. “What should we do with English here?” After we had drunk the buttermilk I offered the girl some money, but she drew back her hand angrily, and said, “We don’t take money from tired strangers for two drops of buttermilk; there’s plenty within, and there are a thousand ewes on the hill. Farvel!”

“Dear me!” thought I to myself as I walked away, “that I should once in my days have found shepherd life something as poets have represented it!”

I saw a mighty mountain at a considerable distance on the right, the same I believe which I had noted some hours before. I inquired of my guide whether it was Plynlimmon.

“O no!” said he, “that is Gaverse; Pumlimmon is to the left.”

“Plynlimmon is a famed hill,” said I; “I suppose it is very high.”

“Yes!” said he, “it is high, but it is not famed because it is high, but because the three grand rivers of the world issue from its breast; the Hafren, the Rheidol, and the Gwy.”

Night was now coming rapidly on, attended with a drizzling rain. I inquired if we were far from Pont Erwyd. “About a mile,” said my guide; “we shall soon be there.” We quickened our pace. After a little time he asked me if I was going farther than Pont Erwyd.

“I am bound for the bridge of the evil man,” said I; “but I dare say I shall stop at Pont Erwyd tonight.”

“You will do right,” said he; “it is only three miles from Pont Erwydd to the bridge of the evil man, but I think we shall have a stormy night.”

“When I get to Pont Erwyd,” said I, “how far shall I be from South Wales?”

“From South Wales!” said he; “you are in South Wales now; you passed the Terfyn of North Wales a quarter of an hour ago.”

The rain now fell fast, and there was so thick a mist that I could only see a few yards before me. We descended into a valley, at the bottom of which I heard a river roaring.

“That’s the Rheidol,” said my guide, “coming from Pumlimmon, swollen with rain.”

Without descending to the river we turned aside up a hill, and after passing by a few huts came to a large house, which my guide told me was the inn of Pont Erwyd.

CHAPTER LXXXII

Consequential Landlord – Cheek – Darfel Gatherel – Dafydd Nanmor – Sheep Farms – Wholesome Advice – The Old Postman – The Plant de Bat – The Robber’s Cavern.

My guide went to a side door, and opening it without ceremony, went in. I followed, and found myself in a spacious and comfortable-looking kitchen; a large fire blazed in a huge grate, on one side of which was a settle; plenty of culinary utensils, both pewter and copper, hung around on the walls, and several goodly rows of hams and sides of bacon were suspended from the roof. There were several people present, some on the settle, and others on chairs in the vicinity of the fire. As I advanced a man arose from a chair and came towards me. He was about thirty-five years of age, well and strongly made, with a fresh complexion, a hawk nose and a keen grey eye. He wore top boots and breeches, a half-jockey coat, and had a round cap made of the skin of some animal on his head.

“Servant, sir!” said he in rather a sharp tone, and surveying me with something of a supercilious air.

“Your most obedient humble servant!” said I; “I presume you are the landlord of this house.”

“Landlord!” said he, “landlord! It is true I receive guests sometimes into my house, but I do so solely with the view of accommodating them; I do not depend upon innkeeping for a livelihood. I hire the principal part of the land in this neighbourhood.”

“If that be the case,” said I, “I had better continue my way to the Devil’s Bridge; I am not at all tired, and I believe it is not very far distant.”

“O, as you are here,” said the farmer-landlord, “I hope you will stay. I should be very sorry if any gentleman should leave my house at night after coming with an intention of staying, more especially in a night like this. Martha!” said he, turning to a female between thirty and forty, who I subsequently learned was the mistress – “prepare the parlour instantly for this gentleman, and don’t fail to make up a good fire.”

Martha forthwith hurried away, attended by a much younger female.

“Till your room is prepared, sir,” said he, “perhaps you will have no objection to sit down before our fire?”

“Not in the least,” said I; “nothing gives me greater pleasure than to sit before a kitchen fire. First of all, however, I must settle with my guide, and likewise see that he has something to eat and drink.”

“Shall I interpret for you?” said the landlord; “the lad has not a word of English; I know him well.”

“I have not been under his guidance for the last three hours,” said I, “without knowing that he cannot speak English; but I want no interpreter.”

“You do not mean to say, sir,” said the landlord, with a surprised and dissatisfied air, “that you understand Welsh?”

I made no answer, but turning to the guide, thanked him for his kindness, and giving him some money, asked him if that was enough.

“More than enough, sir,” said the lad; “I did not expect half as much. Farewell!”

He was then about to depart, but I prevented him, saying:

“You must not go till you have eaten and drunk. What will you have?”

“Merely a cup of ale, sir,” said the lad.

“That won’t do,” said I; “you shall have bread and cheese and as much ale as you can drink. Pray,” said I to the landlord, “let this young man have some bread and cheese and a large quart of ale.”

The landlord looked at me for a moment, then turning to the lad he said:

“What do you think of that, Shon? It is some time since you had a quart of ale to your own cheek.”

“Cheek,” said I, “cheek! Is that a Welsh word? Surely it is an importation from the English, and not a very genteel one.”

“O come, sir!” said the landlord, “we can dispense with your criticisms. A pretty thing indeed for you, on the strength of knowing half-a-dozen words of Welsh, to set up for a Welsh critic in the house of a person who knows the ancient British language perfectly.”

“Dear me!” said I, “how fortunate I am! a person thoroughly versed in the ancient British language is what I have long wished to see. Pray what is the meaning of Darfel Gatherel?”

“O sir,” said the landlord, “you must answer that question yourself; I don’t pretend to understand gibberish!”

“Darfel Gatherel,” said I, “is not gibberish; it was the name of the great wooden image at Ty Dewi, or Saint David’s, in Pembrokeshire, to which thousands of pilgrims in the days of popery used to repair for the purpose of adoring it, and which at the time of the Reformation was sent up to London as a curiosity, where it eventually served as firewood to burn the monk Forrest upon, who was sentenced to the stake by Henry the Eighth for denying his supremacy. What I want to know is, the meaning of the name, which I could never get explained, but which you who know the ancient British language perfectly can doubtless interpret.”

“O sir,” said the landlord, “when I said I knew the British language perfectly, I perhaps went too far; there are of course some obsolete terms in the British tongue, which I don’t understand. Dar, Dar – what is it? Darmod Cotterel amongst the rest, but to a general knowledge of the Welsh language I think I may lay some pretensions; were I not well acquainted with it I should not have carried off the prize at various eisteddfodau, as I have done. I am a poet, sir, a prydydd.”

“It is singular enough,” said I, “that the only two Welsh poets I have seen have been innkeepers – one is yourself, the other a person I met in Anglesey. I suppose the Muse is fond of cwrw da.”

“You would fain be pleasant, sir,” said the landlord; “but I beg leave to inform you that I am not fond of pleasantries; and now as my wife and the servant are returned, I will have the pleasure of conducting you to the parlour.”

“Before I go,” said I, “I should like to see my guide provided with what I ordered.” I stayed till the lad was accommodated with bread and cheese and a foaming tankard of ale, and then bidding him farewell, I followed the landlord into the parlour, where I found a fire kindled, which, however, smoked exceedingly. I asked my host what I could have for supper, and was told that he did not know, but that if I would leave the matter to him he would send the best he could. As he was going away, I said, “So you are a poet. Well, I am very glad to hear it, for I have been fond of Welsh poetry from my boyhood. What kind of verse do you employ in general? Did you ever write an awdl in the four-and-twenty measures? What are the themes of your songs? The deeds of the ancient heroes of South Wales, I suppose, and the hospitality of the great men of the neighbourhood who receive you as an honoured guest at their tables. I’ll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be you never sang anything in praise of your landlord’s housekeeping equal to what Dafydd Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago: