Wild Wales: The People, Language, & Scenery

I went on – desolate hills rose in the east, the way I was going, but on the south were beautiful hillocks adorned with trees and hedge-rows. I was soon amongst the desolate hills, which then looked more desolate than they did at a distance. They were of a wretched russet colour, and exhibited no other signs of life and cultivation than here and there a miserable field and vile-looking hovel; and if there was here nothing to cheer the eye, there was also nothing to cheer the ear. There were no songs of birds, no voices of rills; the only sound I heard was the lowing of a wretched bullock from a far-off slope.

I went on slowly and heavily; at length I got to the top of this wretched range – then what a sudden change! Beautiful hills in the far east, a fair valley below me, and groves and woods on each side of the road which led down to it. The sight filled my veins with fresh life, and I descended this side of the hill as merrily as I had come up the other side despondingly. About half-way down the hill I came to a small village. Seeing a public-house I went up to it, and inquired in English of some people within the name of the village.

“Dolwen,” said a dark-faced young fellow of about four-and-twenty.

“And what is the name of the valley?” said I.

“Dolwen,” was the answer, “the valley is named after the village.”

“You mean that the village is named after the valley,” said I, “for Dolwen means fair valley.”

“It may be,” said the young fellow, “we don’t know much here.”

Then after a moment’s pause he said:

“Are you going much farther?”

“Only as far as the ‘Pump Saint.’”

“Have you any business there?” said he.

“No,” I replied, “I am travelling the country, and shall only put up there for the night.”

“You had better stay here,” said the young fellow. “You will be better accommodated here than at the ‘Pump Saint.’”

“Very likely,” said I; “but I have resolved to go there, and when I once make a resolution I never alter it.”

Then bidding him good evening I departed. Had I formed no resolution at all about stopping at the “Pump Saint” I certainly should not have stayed in this house, which had all the appearance of a tramper’s hostelry, and though I am very fond of the conversation of trampers, who are the only people from whom you can learn anything, I would much rather have the benefit of it abroad than in their own lairs. A little farther down I met a woman coming up the ascent. She was tolerably respectably dressed, seemed about five-and-thirty, and was rather good-looking. She walked somewhat slowly, which was probably more owing to a large bundle which she bore in her hand than to her path being up-hill.

“Good evening,” said I, stopping.

“Good evening, your honour,” said she, stopping and slightly panting.

“Do you come from far?” said I.

“Not very far, your honour, but quite far enough for a poor feeble woman.”

“Are you Welsh?” said I.

“Och no! your honour; I am Mary Bane from Dunmanway in the kingdom of Ireland.”

“And what are you doing here?” said I.

“Och sure! I am travelling the country with soft goods.”

“Are you going far?” said I.

“Merely to the village a little farther up, your honour.”

“I am going farther,” said I; “I am thinking of passing the night at the ‘Pump Saint.’”

“Well, then, I would just advise your honour to do no such thing, but to turn back with me to the village above, where there is an illigant inn where your honour will be well accommodated.”

“O, I saw that as I came past,” said I; “I don’t think there is much accommodation there.”

“O, your honour is clane mistaken; there is always an illigant fire and an illigant bed too.”

“Is there only one bed?” said I.

“O yes, there are two beds, one for the accommodation of the people of the house and the other for that of the visitors.”

“And do the visitors sleep together then?” said I.

“O yes! unless they wish to be unsociable. Those who are not disposed to be sociable sleeps in the chimney-corners.”

“Ah,” said I, “I see it is a very agreeable inn; however, I shall go on to the ‘Pump Saint.’”

“I am sorry for it, your honour, for your honour’s sake; your honour won’t be half so illigantly served at the ‘Pump Saint’ as there above.”

“Of what religion are you?” said I.

“O, I’m a Catholic, just like your honour, for if I am not clane mistaken your honour is an Irishman.”

“Who is your spiritual director?” said I.

“Why then, it is jist Father Toban, your honour, whom of course your honour knows.”

“O yes!” said I; “when you next see him present my respects to him.”

“What name shall I mention, your honour?”

“Shorsha Borroo,” said I.

“Oh, then I was right in taking your honour for an Irishman. None but a raal Paddy bears that name. A credit to your honour is your name, for it is a famous name, 16 and a credit to your name is your honour, for it is a neat man without a bend you are. God bless your honour and good night! and may you find dacent quarters in the ‘Pump Saint.’”

Leaving Mary Bane I proceeded on my way. The evening was rather fine but twilight was coming rapidly on. I reached the bottom of the valley and soon overtook a young man dressed something like a groom. We entered into conversation. He spoke Welsh and a little English. His Welsh I had great difficulty in understanding, as it was widely different from that which I had been accustomed to. He asked me where I was going to; I replied to the “Pump Saint,” and then inquired if he was in service.

“I am,” said he.

“With whom do you live?” said I.

“With Mr. Johnes of Dol Cothi,” he answered.

Struck by the word Cothi, I asked if Dol Cothi was ever called Glyn Cothi.

“O yes,” said he, “frequently.”

“How odd,” thought I to myself, “that I should have stumbled all of a sudden upon the country of my old friend Lewis Glyn Cothi, the greatest poet after Ab Gwilym of all Wales!”

“Is Cothi a river?” said I to my companion.

“It is,” said he.

Presently we came to a bridge over a small river.

“Is this river the Cothi?” said I.

“No,” said he, “this is the Twrch; the bridge is called Pont y Twrch.”

“The bridge of Twrch or the hog,” said I to myself; “there is a bridge of the same name in the Scottish Highlands, not far from the pass of the Trossachs. I wonder whether it has its name from the same cause as this, namely, from passing over a river called the Twrch or Torck, which word in Gaelic signifies boar or hog even as it does in Welsh.” It had now become nearly dark. After proceeding some way farther I asked the groom if we were far from the inn of the “Pump Saint.”

“Close by,” said he, and presently pointing to a large building on the right-hand side he said: “This is the inn of the ‘Pump Saint,’ sir. Nos Da’chi!”

CHAPTER XCVI

Pump Saint – Pleasant Residence – The Watery Coom – Philological Fact – Evening Service – Meditation.

I entered the inn of the “Pump Saint.” It was a comfortable old-fashioned place, with a very large kitchen and a rather small parlour. The people were kind and attentive, and soon set before me in the parlour a homely but savoury supper, and a foaming tankard of ale. After supper I went into the kitchen, and sitting down with the good folks in an immense chimney-corner, listened to them talking in their Carmarthenshire dialect till it was time to go to rest, when I was conducted to a large chamber where I found an excellent and clean bed awaiting me, in which I enjoyed a refreshing sleep occasionally visited by dreams in which some of the scenes of the preceding day again appeared before me, but in an indistinct and misty manner.

Awaking in the very depth of the night I thought I heard the murmuring of a river; I listened and soon found that I had not been deceived. “I wonder whether that river is the Cothi,” said I, “the stream of the immortal Lewis. I will suppose that it is” – and rendered quite happy by the idea, I soon fell asleep again.

I arose about eight and went out to look about me. The village consists of little more than half-a-dozen houses. The name “Pump Saint” signifies “Five Saints.” Why the place is called so I know not. Perhaps the name originally belonged to some chapel which stood either where the village now stands or in the neighbourhood. The inn is a good specimen of an ancient Welsh hostelry. Its gable is to the road and its front to a little space on one side of the way. At a little distance up the road is a blacksmith’s shop. The country around is interesting: on the north-west is a fine wooded hill – to the south a valley through which flows the Cothi, a fair river, the one whose murmur had come so pleasingly upon my ear in the depth of night.

After breakfast I departed for Llandovery. Presently I came to a lodge on the left-hand beside an ornamental gate at the bottom of an avenue leading seemingly to a gentleman’s seat. On inquiring of a woman who sat at the door of the lodge to whom the grounds belonged, she said to Mr. Johnes, and that if I pleased I was welcome to see them. I went in and advanced along the avenue, which consisted of very noble oaks; on the right was a vale in which a beautiful brook was running north and south. Beyond the vale to the east were fine wooded hills. I thought I had never seen a more pleasing locality, though I saw it to great disadvantage, the day being dull, and the season the latter fall. Presently, on the avenue making a slight turn, I saw the house, a plain but comfortable gentleman’s seat with wings. It looked to the south down the dale. “With what satisfaction I could live in that house,” said I to myself, “if backed by a couple of thousands a-year. With what gravity could I sign a warrant in its library, and with what dreamy comfort translate an ode of Lewis Glyn Cothi, my tankard of rich ale beside me. I wonder whether the proprietor is fond of the old bard and keeps good ale. Were I an Irishman instead of a Norfolk man I would go in and ask him.”

Returning to the road I proceeded on my journey. I passed over Pont y Rhanedd or the bridge of the Rhanedd, a small river flowing through a dale, then by Clas Hywel, a lofty mountain which appeared to have three heads. After walking for some miles I came to where the road divided into two. By a sign-post I saw that both led to Llandovery, one by Porth y Rhyd and the other by Llanwrda. The distance by the first was six miles and a half, by the latter eight and a half. Feeling quite the reverse of tired I chose the longest road, namely the one by Llanwrda, along which I sped at a great rate.

In a little time I found myself in the heart of a romantic winding dell overhung with trees of various kinds, which a tall man whom I met told me was called Cwm Dwr Llanwrda, or the Watery Coom of Llanwrda; and well might it be called the Watery Coom, for there were several bridges in it, two within a few hundred yards of each other. The same man told me that the war was going on very badly, that our soldiers were suffering much, and that the snow was two feet deep at Sebastopol.

Passing through Llanwrda, a pretty village with a singular-looking church, close to which stood an enormous yew, I entered a valley which I learned was the valley of the Towey. I directed my course to the north, having the river on my right, which runs towards the south in a spacious bed which, however, except in times of flood, it scarcely half fills. Beautiful hills were on either side, partly cultivated, partly covered with wood, and here and there dotted with farm-houses and gentlemen’s seats; green pastures which descended nearly to the river occupying in general the lower parts. After journeying about four miles amid this kind of scenery I came to a noble suspension bridge, and crossing it found myself in about a quarter of an hour at Llandovery.

It was about half-past two when I arrived. I put up at the Castle Inn and forthwith ordered dinner, which was served up between four and five. During dinner I was waited upon by a strange old fellow who spoke Welsh and English with equal fluency.

“What countryman are you?” said I.

“An Englishman,” he replied.

“From what part of England?”

“From Herefordshire.”

“Have you been long here?”

“O yes! upwards of twenty years.”

“How came you to learn Welsh?”

“O, I took to it and soon picked it up.”

“Can you read it?” said I.

“No, I can’t.”

“Can you read English?”

“Yes, I can; that is, a little.”

“Why didn’t you try to learn to read Welsh?”

“Well, I did; but I could make no hand of it. It’s one thing to speak Welsh and another to read it.”

“I can read Welsh much better than I can speak it,” said I.

“Ah, you are a gentleman – gentlefolks always find it easier to learn to read a foreign lingo than to speak it, but it’s quite the contrary with we poor folks.”

“One of the most profound truths ever uttered connected with language,” said I to myself. I asked him if there were many Church of England people in Llandovery.

“A good many,” he replied.

“Do you belong to the Church?” said I.

“Yes, I do.”

“If this were Sunday I would go to church,” said I.

“O, if you wish to go to church you can go to-night. This is Wednesday, and there will be service at half-past six. If you like I will come for you.”

“Pray do,” said I; “I should like above all things to go.”

Dinner over I sat before the fire occasionally dozing, occasionally sipping a glass of whiskey-and-water. A little after six the old fellow made his appearance with a kind of Spanish hat on his head. We set out, the night was very dark; we went down a long street seemingly in the direction of the west. “How many churches are there in Llandovery?” said I to my companion.

“Only one, but you are not going to Llandovery Church, but to that of Llanfair, in which our clergyman does duty once or twice a week.”

“Is it far?” said I.

“O no; just out of the town, only a few steps farther.”

We seemed to pass over a bridge and began to ascend a rising ground. Several people were going in the same direction.

“There,” said the old man, “follow with these, and a little farther up you will come to the church, which stands on the right hand.”

He then left me. I went with the rest and soon came to the church. I went in and was at once conducted by an old man who I believe was the sexton to a large pew close against the southern wall. The inside of the church was dimly lighted; it was long and narrow, and the walls were painted with a yellow colour. The pulpit stood against the northern wall near the altar, and almost opposite to the pew in which I sat. After a little time the service commenced; it was in Welsh. When the litanies were concluded the clergyman, who appeared to be a middle-aged man, and who had rather a fine voice, began to preach. His sermon was from the 119th Psalm: “Am hynny hoffais dy gorchymynion yn mwy nag aur;” “Therefore have I loved thy commandments more than gold.” The sermon, which was extempore, was delivered with great earnestness, and I make no doubt was a very excellent one, but owing to its being in South Welsh I did not derive so much benefit from it as I otherwise might have done. When it was over a great many got up and went away. Observing, however, that not a few remained, I determined upon remaining too. When everything was quiet the clergyman descending from the pulpit repaired to the vestry, and having taken off his gown went into a pew, and standing up began a discourse, from which I learned that there was to be a sacrament on the ensuing Sabbath. He spoke with much fervency, enlarging upon the high importance of the holy communion and exhorting people to come to it in a fit state of mind. When he had finished a man in a neighbouring pew got up and spoke about his own unworthiness, saying this and that about himself, his sins of commission and omission, and dwelling particularly on his uncharitableness and the malicious pleasure which he took in the misfortunes of his neighbours. The clergyman listened attentively, sometimes saying “Ah!” and the congregation also listened attentively, a voice here and there frequently saying “Ah.” When the man had concluded the clergyman again spoke, making observations on what he had heard and hoping that the rest would be visited with the same contrite spirit as their friend. Then there was a hymn and we went away.

The moon was shining on high and cast its silvery light on the tower, the church, some fine trees which surrounded it, and the congregation going home; a few of the better dressed were talking to each other in English, but with an accent and pronunciation which rendered the discourse almost unintelligible to my ears.

I found my way back to my inn and went to bed after musing awhile on the concluding scene of which I had been witness in the church.

CHAPTER XCVII

Llandovery – Griffith ap Nicholas – Powerful Enemies – Last Words – Llandovery Church – Rees Pritchard – The Wiser Creature – “God’s Better than All” – The Old Vicarage.

The morning of the ninth was very beautiful, with a slight tendency to frost. I breakfasted, and having no intention of proceeding on my journey that day, I went to take a leisurely view of Llandovery and the neighbourhood.

Llandovery is a small but beautiful town, situated amidst fertile meadows. It is a water-girdled spot, whence its name Llandovery or Llanymdyfri, which signifies the church surrounded by water. On its west is the Towey, and on its east the river Bran or Brein, which descending from certain lofty mountains to the north-east runs into the Towey a little way below the town. The most striking object which Llandovery can show is its castle, from which the inn, which stands near to it, has its name. This castle, majestic though in ruins, stands on a green mound, the eastern side of which is washed by the Bran. Little with respect to its history is known. One thing, however, is certain, namely that it was one of the many strongholds, which at one time belonged to Griffith ap Nicholas, Lord of Dinevor, one of the most remarkable men which South Wales has ever produced, of whom a brief account here will not be out of place.

Griffith ap Nicholas flourished towards the concluding part of the reign of Henry the Sixth. He was a powerful chieftain of South Wales and possessed immense estates in the counties of Carmarthen and Cardigan. King Henry the Sixth, fully aware of his importance in his own country, bestowed upon him the commission of the peace, an honour at that time seldom vouchsafed to a Welshman, and the captaincy of Kilgarran, a strong royal castle situated on the southern bank of the Teivi a few miles above Cardigan. He had many castles of his own, in which he occasionally resided, but his chief residence was Dinevor, half way between Llandovery and Carmarthen, once a palace of the kings of South Wales, from whom Griffith traced lineal descent. He was a man very proud at heart, but with too much wisdom to exhibit many marks of pride, speaking generally with the utmost gentleness and suavity, and though very brave never addicted to dashing into danger for the mere sake of displaying his valour. He was a great master of the English tongue, and well acquainted with what learning it contained, but nevertheless was passionately attached to the language and literature of Wales, a proof of which he gave by holding a congress of bards and literati at Carmarthen, at which various pieces of eloquence and poetry were recited, and certain alterations introduced into the canons of Welsh versification. Though holding offices of trust and emolument under the Saxon, he in the depths of his soul detested the race and would have rejoiced to see it utterly extirpated from Britain. This hatred of his against the English was the cause of his doing that which cannot be justified on any principle of honour, giving shelter and encouragement to Welsh thieves who were in the habit of plundering and ravaging the English borders. Though at the head of a numerous and warlike clan which was strongly attached to him on various accounts, Griffith did not exactly occupy a bed of roses. He had amongst his neighbours four powerful enemies who envied him his large possessions, with whom he had continual disputes about property and privilege. Powerful enemies they may well be called, as they were no less personages than Humphrey Duke of Buckingham, Richard Duke of York, who began the contest for the crown with King Henry the Sixth, Jasper Earl of Pembroke, son of Owen Tudor, and half-brother of the king, and the Earl of Warwick. These accused him at court of being a comforter and harbourer of thieves, the result being that he was deprived not only of the commission of the peace but of the captaincy of Kilgarran which the Earl of Pembroke, through his influence with his half-brother, procured for himself. They moreover induced William Borley and Thomas Corbet, two justices of the peace for the county of Hereford, to grant a warrant for his apprehension on the ground of his being in league with the thieves of the Marches. Griffith in the bosom of his mighty clan bade defiance to Saxon warrants, though once having ventured to Hereford he nearly fell into the power of the ministers of justice, only escaping by the intervention of Sir John Scudamore, with whom he was connected by marriage. Shortly afterwards the civil war breaking out the Duke of York apologised to Griffith and besought his assistance against the king, which the chieftain readily enough promised, not out of affection for York but from the hatred which he felt, on account of the Kilgarran affair, for the Earl of Pembroke, who had sided, very naturally, with his half-brother the king and commanded his forces in the west. Griffith fell at the great battle of Mortimer’s Cross, which was won for York by a desperate charge made right at Pembroke’s banner by Griffith and his Welshmen when the rest of the Yorkists were wavering. His last words were, “Welcome, Death! since honour and victory make for us.”

The power and wealth of Griffith ap Nicholas and also parts of his character have been well described by one of his bards, Gwilym ab Ieuan Hen, in an ode to the following effect: —

“Griffith ap Nicholas, who like theeFor wealth and power and majesty!Which most abound, I cannot say,On either side of Towey gay,From hence to where it meets the brine,Trees or stately towers of thine?The chair of judgment thou didst gain,But not to deal in judgments vain —To thee upon thy judgment chairFrom near and far do crowds repair;But though betwixt the weak and strongNo questions rose of right and wrong,The strong and weak to thee would hie;The strong to do thee injury,And to the weak thou wine wouldst dealAnd wouldst trip up the mighty heel.A lion unto the lofty thou,A lamb unto the weak and low.Much thou resemblest Nudd of yore,Surpassing all who went before;Like him thou’rt fam’d for bravery,For noble birth and high degree.Hail, captain of Kilgarran’s hold!Lieutenant of Carmarthen old!Hail chieftain, Cambria’s choicest boast!Hail Justice at the Saxon’s cost!Seven castles high confess thy sway,Seven palaces thy hands obey.Against my chief, with envy fired,Three dukes and judges two conspired,But thou a dauntless front didst show,And to retreat they were not slow.O, with what gratitude is heardFrom mouth of thine, the whispered word;The deepest pools in rivers foundIn summer are of softest sound;The sage concealeth what he knows,A deal of talk no wisdom shows;The sage is silent as the grave,Whilst of his lips the fool is slave;Thy smile doth every joy impart,Of faith a fountain is thy heart;Thy hand is strong, thine eye is keen,Thy head o’er every head is seen.”

The church of Llandovery is a large edifice standing at the southern extremity of the town in the vicinity of the Towey. The outside exhibits many appearances of antiquity, but the interior has been sadly modernised. It contains no remarkable tombs; I was pleased, however, to observe upon one or two of the monuments the name of Ryce, the appellation of the great clan to which Griffith ap Nicholas belonged; of old the regal race of South Wales. On inquiring of the clerk, an intelligent young man who showed me over the sacred edifice, as to the state of the Church of England at Llandovery, he gave me a very cheering account, adding, however, that before the arrival of the present incumbent it was very low indeed. “What is the clergyman’s name?” said I; “I heard him preach last night.”

“I know you did, sir,” said the clerk bowing, “for I saw you at the service at Llanfair – his name is Hughes.”