The red-haired banditti of Mawddwy were
exterminated long before the conclusion of the sixteenth century,
after having long been the terror not only of these wild regions
but of the greater part of North Wales. They were called the red-
haired banditti because certain leading individuals amongst them
had red foxy hair.
"Is that young man your son?" said I, after a little pause.
"Yes, he my son."
"Has he any English?"
"No, he no English, but he plenty of Welsh - that is if he see
reason."
I spoke to the young man in Welsh, asking him if he had ever been
up to the Tap Nyth, but he made no answer.
"He no care for your question," said the old man; "ask him price of
pig." I asked the young fellow the price of hogs, whereupon his
face brightened up, and he not only answered my question, but told
me that he had fat hog to sell. "Ha, ha," said the old man; "he
plenty of Welsh now, for he see reason. To other question he no
Welsh at all, no more than English, for he see no reason. What
business he on Tap Nyth with eagle? His business down below in sty
with pig. Ah, he look lump, but he no fool; know more about pig
than you or I, or any one 'twixt here and Mahuncleth."
He now asked me where I came from, and on my telling him from Bala,
his heart appeared to warm towards me, and saying that I must be
tired, he asked me to step in and drink buttermilk, but I declined
his offer with thanks, and bidding the two adieu, returned to the
road.
I hurried along and soon reached a valley which abounded with trees
and grass; I crossed a bridge over a brook, not what the old man
had called the Dyfi, but the stream whose source I had seen high up
the bwlch, and presently came to a place where the two waters
joined. Just below the confluence on a fallen tree was seated a
man decently dressed; his eyes were fixed on the rushing stream. I
stopped and spoke to him.
He had no English, but I found him a very sensible man. I talked
to him about the source of the Dyfi. He said it was a disputed
point which was the source. He himself was inclined to believe
that it was the Pistyll up the bwlch. I asked him of what religion
he was. He said he was of the Church of England, which was the
Church of his father and his grandfather, and which he believed to
be the only true Church. I inquired if it flourished. He said it
did, but that it was dreadfully persecuted by all classes of
dissenters, who, though they were continually quarrelling with one
another, agreed in one thing, namely, to persecute the Church. I
asked him if he ever read. He said he read a great deal,
especially the works of Huw Morris, and that reading them had given
him a love for the sights of nature. He added that his greatest
delight was to come to the place where he then was of an evening,
and look at the waters and hills. I asked him what trade he was.
"The trade of Joseph," said he, smiling. "Saer." "Farewell,
brother," said I; "I am not a carpenter, but like you I read the
works of Huw Morris and am of the Church of England." I then shook
him by the hand and departed.
I passed a village with a stupendous mountain just behind it to the
north, which I was told was called Moel Vrith or the party-coloured
moel. I was now drawing near to the western end of the valley.
Scenery of the wildest and most picturesque description was rife
and plentiful to a degree: hills were here, hills were there; some
tall and sharp, others huge and humpy; hills were on every side;
only a slight opening to the west seemed to present itself. "What
a valley!" I exclaimed. But on passing through the opening I found
myself in another, wilder and stranger, if possible. Full to the
west was a long hill rising up like the roof of a barn, an enormous
round hill on its north-east side, and on its south-east the tail
of the range which I had long had on my left - there were trees and
groves and running waters, but all in deep shadow, for night was
now close at hand.
"What is the name of this place?" I shouted to a man on horseback,
who came dashing through a brook with a woman in a Welsh dress
behind him.
"Aber Cowarch, Saxon!" said the man in a deep guttural voice, and
lashing his horse disappeared rapidly in the night.
"Aber Cywarch!" I cried, springing half a yard into the air. "Why,
that's the place where Ellis Wynn composed his immortal 'Sleeping
Bard,' the book which I translated in the blessed days of my youth.
Oh, no wonder that the 'Sleeping Bard' is a wild and wondrous work,
seeing that it was composed amidst the wild and wonderful scenes
which I here behold."
I proceeded onwards up an ascent; after some time I came to a
bridge across a stream, which a man told me was called Avon Gerres.
It runs into the Dyfi, coming down with a rushing sound from a wild
vale to the north-east between the huge barn-like hill and Moel
Vrith. The barn-like hill I was informed was called Pen Dyn. I
soon reached Dinas Mawddwy, which stands on the lower part of a
high hill connected with the Pen Dyn. Dinas, trough at one time a
place of considerable importance, if we may judge from its name,
which signifies a fortified city, is at present little more than a
collection of filthy huts.
