"Is there such a place?"
"Yes, sure; about six miles from here, near Langedwin."
"What kind of place is it?"
"In truth, sir, I do not know, for I was never there. My cook,
however, in the kitchen, knows all about it, for she comes from
there."
"Can I see her?"
"Yes, sure; I will go at once and fetch her."
She then left the room and presently returned with the cook, a
short, thick girl with blue staring eyes.
"Here she is, sir," said the landlady, "but she has no English."
"All the better," said I. "So you come from a place called
Sychnant?" said I to the cook in Welsh.
"In truth, sir, I do;" said the cook.
"Did you ever hear of a gwr boneddig called Owen Glendower?"
"Often, sir, often; he lived in our place."
"He lived in a place called Sycharth?" said I.
"Well, sir; and we of the place call it Sycharth as often as
Sychnant; nay, oftener."
"Is his house standing?"
"It is not; but the hill on which it stood is still standing."
"Is it a high hill?"
"It is not; it is a small, light hill."
"A light hill!" said I to myself. "Old Iolo Goch, Owen Glendower's
bard, said the chieftain dwelt in a house on a light hill.
"'There dwells the chief we all extol
In timber house on lightsome knoll.'
"Is there a little river near it," said I to the cook, "a ffrwd?"
"There is; it runs just under the hill."
"Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?"
"There is not; that is, now - but there was in the old time; a
factory of woollen stands now where the mill once stood."
"'A mill a rushing brook upon
And pigeon tower fram'd of stone.'
"So says Iolo Goch," said I to myself, "in his description of
Sycharth; I am on the right road."
I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged and was
told of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of
Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told
her she might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and
after telling the landlady that I should return at night, started
for Llangedwin and Sycharth.
A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in
which I was proceeding.
The valley was beautiful and dotted with various farm-houses, and
the land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the
soil of my own Norfolk, that county so deservedly celebrated for
its agriculture. The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and
towards the north the vale is crossed by three rugged elevations,
the middlemost of which, called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas,
terminates to the west in an exceedingly high and picturesque crag.
After an hour's walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman
laden with baskets which hung around them on every side. The man
was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face,
fair flaxen hair, and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming
buxom lass of about eighteen. After giving them the sele of the
day I asked them if they were English.
"Aye, aye, master," said the man; "we are English."
"Where do you come from?" said I.
"From Wrexham," said the man.
"I thought Wrexham was in Wales," said
"If it be," said the man, "the people are not Welsh; a man is not a
horse because he happens to be born in a stable."
"Is that young woman your wife?" said I.
"Yes;" said he, "after a fashion" - and then he leered at the lass,
and she leered at him.
"Do you attend any place of worship?" said I.
"A great many, master!"
"What place do you chiefly attend?" said I.
"The Chequers, master!"
"Do they preach the best sermons there?" said I.
"No, master! but they sell the best ale there."
"Do you worship ale?" said I.
"Yes, master, I worships ale."
"Anything else?" said I.
"Yes, master! I and my mort worships something besides good ale;
don't we, Sue?" and then he leered at the mort, who leered at him,
and both made odd motions backwards and forwards, causing the
baskets which hung round them to creak and rustle, and uttering
loud shouts of laughter, which roused the echoes of the
neighbouring hills.
"Genuine descendants, no doubt," said I to myself as I walked
briskly on, "of certain of the old heathen Saxons who followed Rag
into Wales and settled down about the house which he built.
Really, if these two are a fair specimen of the Wrexham population,
my friend the Scotch policeman was not much out when he said that
the people of Wrexham were the worst people in Wales."
CHAPTER LXVI
Sycharth - The Kindly Welcome - Happy Couple - Sycharth - Recalling
the Dead - Ode to Sycharth.
I WAS now at the northern extremity of the valley near a great
house past which the road led in the direction of the north-east.
Seeing a man employed in breaking stones I inquired the way to
Sychnant.
"You must turn to the left," said he, "before you come to yon great
house, follow the path which you will find behind it, and you will
soon be in Sychnant."
"And to whom does the great house belong?"
"To whom? why, to Sir Watkin."
"Does he reside there?"
"Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes
there to hunt."
"What is the place's name?"
"Llan Gedwin."
I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path
led upward behind the great house round a hill thickly planted with
trees. Following it I at length found myself on a broad road on
the top extending east and west, and having on the north and south
beautiful wooded hills.
