"Dear me!" said I, "are you a poet?"
"I trust I am," said he; "though the humblest of Ynys Fon."
A flash of proud fire, methought, illumined his features as he
pronounced these last words.
"I am most happy to have met you," said I; "but tell me how am I to
get to Llanfair?"
"You must go first," said he, "to Traeth Coch which in Saxon is
called the 'Red Sand.' In the village called the Pentraeth which
lies above that sand, I was born; through the village and over the
bridge you must pass, and after walking four miles due north you
will find yourself in Llanfair eithaf, at the northern extremity of
Mon. Farewell! That ever Saxon should ask me about Gronwy Owen,
and his birth-place! I scarcely believe you to be a Saxon, but
whether you be or not, I repeat farewell."
Coming to the Menai Bridge I asked the man who took the penny toll
at the entrance, the way to Pentraeth Coch.
"You see that white house by the wood," said he, pointing some
distance into Anglesey; "you must make towards it till you come to
a place where there are four cross roads and then you must take the
road to the right."
Passing over the bridge I made my way towards the house by the wood
which stood on the hill till I came where the four roads met, when
I turned to the right as directed.
The country through which I passed seemed tolerably well
cultivated, the hedge-rows were very high, seeming to spring out of
low stone walls. I met two or three gangs of reapers proceeding to
their work with scythes in their hands.
In about half-an-hour I passed by a farm-house partly surrounded
with walnut trees. Still the same high hedges on both sides of the
road: are these hedges relics of the sacrificial groves of Mona?
thought I to myself. Then I came to a wretched village through
which I hurried at the rate of six miles an hour. I then saw a
long, lofty, craggy hill on my right hand towards the east.
"What mountain is that?" said I to an urchin playing in the hot
dust of the road.
"Mynydd Lydiart!" said the urchin, tossing up a handful of the hot
dust into the air, part of which in descending fell into my eyes.
I shortly afterwards passed by a handsome lodge. I then saw
groves, mountain Lydiart forming a noble background.
"Who owns this wood?" said I in Welsh to two men who were limbing a
felled tree by the road-side.
"Lord Vivian," answered one, touching his hat.
"The gentleman is our countryman," said he to the other after I had
passed.
I was now descending the side of a pretty valley, and soon found
myself at Pentraeth Coch.
