The Mountain Of Plynlimmon To Which I Was Bound Is The Third In
Wales For Altitude, Being Only Inferior To Snowdon And Cadair
Idris.
Its proper name is Pum, or Pump, Lumon, signifying the five
points, because towards the upper part it is divided into five
hills or points.
Plynlimmon is a celebrated hill on many accounts.
It has been the scene of many remarkable events. In the tenth
century a dreadful battle was fought on one of its spurs between
the Danes and the Welsh, in which the former sustained a bloody
overthrow; and in 1401 a conflict took place in one of its valleys
between the Welsh, under Glendower, and the Flemings of
Pembrokeshire, who, exasperated at having their homesteads
plundered and burned by the chieftain who was the mortal enemy of
their race, assembled in considerable numbers and drove Glendower
and his forces before them to Plynlimmon, where, the Welshmen
standing at bay, a contest ensued, in which, though eventually
worsted, the Flemings were at one time all but victorious. What,
however, has more than anything else contributed to the celebrity
of the hill is the circumstance of its giving birth to three
rivers, the first of which, the Severn, is the principal stream in
Britain; the second, the Wye, the most lovely river, probably,
which the world can boast of; and the third, the Rheidol, entitled
to high honour from its boldness and impetuosity, and the
remarkable banks between which it flows in its very short course,
for there are scarcely twenty miles between the ffynnon or source
of the Rheidol and the aber or place where it disembogues itself
into the sea.
I started about ten o'clock on my expedition, after making, of
course, a very hearty breakfast. Scarcely had I crossed the
Devil's Bridge when a shower of hail and rain came on. As,
however, it came down nearly perpendicularly, I put up my umbrella
and laughed. The shower pelted away till I had nearly reached
Spytty Cynwyl, when it suddenly left off and the day became
tolerably fine. On arriving at the Spytty, I was sorry to find
that there would be no service till three in the afternoon. As
waiting till that time was out of the question, I pushed forward on
my expedition. Leaving Pont Erwyd at some distance on my left, I
went duly north till I came to a place amongst hills where the road
was crossed by an angry-looking rivulet, the same, I believe which
enters the Rheidol near Pont Erwyd, and which is called the Castle
River. I was just going to pull off my boots and stockings in
order to wade through, when I perceived a pole and a rail laid over
the stream at little distance above where I was. This rustic
bridge enabled me to cross without running the danger of getting a
regular sousing, for these mountain streams, even when not reaching
so high as the knee, occasionally sweep the wader off his legs, as
I know by my own experience.
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