Wild Wales: The People, Language, & Scenery. Borrow George
you speak Cumraeg, sir,” said the man, evidently surprised that a person of my English appearance should speak Welsh. “I am glad of it! What hill is that, you ask – Dyna Mont Owain Glyndwr, sir.”
“Is it easy to get to?” said I.
“Quite easy, sir,” said the man. “If you please I will go with you.”
I thanked him, and opening a gate he conducted me across the field to the mount of the Welsh hero.
The mount of Owen Glendower stands close upon the southern bank of the Dee, and is nearly covered with trees of various kinds. It is about thirty feet high from the plain, and about the same diameter at the top. A deep black pool of the river, which here runs far beneath the surface of the field, purls and twists under the northern side, which is very steep, though several large oaks spring out of it. The hill is evidently the work of art, and appeared to me to be some burying-place of old.
“And this is the hill of Owain Glyndwr?” said I.
“Dyma Mont Owain Glyndwr, sir, lle yr oedd yn sefyll i edrych am ei elynion yn dyfod o Gaer Lleon. This is the hill of Owen Glendower, sir, where he was in the habit of standing to look out for his enemies coming from Chester.”
“I suppose it was not covered with trees then?” said I.
“No, sir; it has not been long planted with trees. They say, however, that the oaks which hang over the river are very old.”
“Do they say who raised this hill?”
“Some say that God raised it, sir; others that Owain Glendower raised it. Who do you think raised it?”
“I believe that it was raised by man, but not by Owen Glendower. He may have stood upon it, to watch for the coming of his enemies, but I believe it was here long before his time, and that it was raised over some old dead king by the people whom he had governed.”
“Do they bury kings by the side of rivers, sir?”
“In the old time they did, and on the tops of mountains; they burnt their bodies to ashes, placed them in pots and raised heaps of earth or stones over them. Heaps like this have frequently been opened, and found to contain pots with ashes and bones.”
“I wish all English could speak Welsh, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because then we poor Welsh who can speak no English could learn much which we do not know.”
Descending the monticle, we walked along the road together. After a little time I asked my companion of what occupation he was and where he lived.
“I am a small farmer, sir,” said he, “and live at Llansanfraid Glyn Dyfrdwy across the river.”
“How comes it,” said I, “that you do not know English?”
“When I was young,” said he, “and could have easily learnt it, I cared nothing about it, and now that I am old and see its use, it is too late to acquire it.”
“Of what religion are you?” said I.
“I am of the Church,” he replied.
I was about to ask him if there were many people of his persuasion in these parts; before, however, I could do so he turned down a road to the right which led towards a small bridge, and saying that was his way home, bade me farewell and departed.
I arrived at Corwen, which is just ten miles from Llangollen and which stands beneath a vast range of rocks at the head of the valley up which I had been coming, and which is called Glyndyfrdwy, or the Valley of the Dee water. It was now about two o’clock, and feeling rather thirsty I went to an inn very appropriately called the Owen Glendower, being the principal inn in the principal town of what was once the domain of the great Owen. Here I stopped for about an hour refreshing myself and occasionally looking into a newspaper in which was an excellent article on the case of poor Lieutenant P. I then started for Cerrig y Drudion, distant about ten miles, where I proposed to pass the night. Directing my course to the north-west, I crossed a bridge over the Dee water and then proceeded rapidly along the road, which for some way lay between cornfields, in many of which sheaves were piled up, showing that the Welsh harvest was begun. I soon passed over a little stream the name of which I was told was Alowan. “O, what a blessing it is to be able to speak Welsh!” said I, finding that not a person to whom I addressed myself had a word of English to bestow upon me. After walking for about five miles I came to a beautiful but wild country of mountain and wood with here and there a few cottages. The road at length making an abrupt turn to the north I found myself with a low stone wall on my left on the verge of a profound ravine, and a high bank covered with trees on my right. Projecting out over the ravine was a kind of looking-place, protected by a wall, forming a half-circle, doubtless made by the proprietor of the domain for the use of the admirers of scenery. There I stationed myself, and for some time enjoyed one of the wildest and most beautiful scenes imaginable. Below me was the deep narrow glen or ravine down which a mountain torrent roared and foamed. Beyond it was a mountain rising steeply, its nearer side, which was in deep shade, the sun having long sunk below its top, hirsute with all kinds of trees, from the highest pinnacle down to the torrent’s brink. Cut on the top surface of the wall, which was of slate and therefore easily impressible by the knife, were several names, doubtless those of tourists, who had gazed from the look-out on the prospect, amongst which I observed in remarkably bold letters that of T..
“Eager for immortality, Mr. T.,” said I; “but you are no H. M., no Huw Morris.”
Leaving the looking-place I proceeded, and after one or two turnings, came to another, which afforded a view if possible yet more grand, beautiful and wild, the most prominent objects of which were a kind of devil’s bridge flung over the deep glen and its foaming water, and a strange-looking hill beyond it, below which, with a wood on either side, stood a white farmhouse – sending from a tall chimney a thin misty reek up to the sky. I crossed the bridge, which however diabolically fantastical it looked at a distance, seemed when one was upon it capable of bearing any weight, and soon found myself by the farm-house past which the way led. An aged woman sat on a stool by the door.
“A fine evening,” said I in English. “Dim Saesneg,” said the aged woman.
“O, the blessing of being able to speak Welsh,” said I; and then repeated in that language what I had said to her in the other tongue.
“I dare say,” said the aged woman, “to those who can see.”
“Can you not see?”
“Very little. I am almost blind.”
“Can you not see me?”
“I can see something tall and dark before me; that is all.”
“Can you tell me the name of the bridge?”
“Pont y Glyn blin – the bridge of the glen of trouble.”
“And what is the name of this place?”
“Pen y bont – the head of the bridge.”
“What is your own name?”
“Catherine Hughes.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen after three twenties.”
“I have a mother three after four twenties; that is eight years older than yourself.”
“Can she see?”
“Better than I – she can read the smallest letters.”
“May she long be a comfort to you!”
“Thank you – are you the mistress of the house?”
“I am the grandmother.”
“Are the people in the house?”
“They are not – they are at the chapel.”
“And they left you alone?”
“They left me with my God.”
“Is the chapel far from here?”
“About