"That is a great deal," said I, "for a groat I ought to have a pint
of ale made of the best malt and hops."
"I give you the best I can afford. One must live by what one
sells. I do not find that easy work."
"Is this house your own?"
"Oh no! I pay rent for it, and not a cheap one."
"Have you a husband?
"I had, but he is dead."
"Have you any children?"
"I had three, but they are dead too, and buried with my husband at
the monastery."
"Where is the monastery?"
"A good way farther on, at the strath beyond Rhyd Fendigaid."
"What is the name of the little river by the house?"
"Avon Marchnad (Market River)."
"Why is it called Avon Marchnad?"
"Truly, gentleman, I cannot tell you."
I went on sipping my ale and finding fault with its bitterness till
I had finished it, when getting up I gave the old lady her groat,
bade her farewell, and departed.
CHAPTER XCI
Pont y Rhyd Fendigaid - Strata Florida - The Yew-Tree - Idolatry -
The Teivi - The Llostlydan.
AND now for the resting-place of Dafydd Ab Gwilym! After wandering
for some miles towards the south over a bleak moory country I came
to a place called Fair Rhos, a miserable village, consisting of a
few half-ruined cottages, situated on the top of a hill. From the
hill I looked down on a wide valley of a russet colour, along which
a river ran towards the south. The whole scene was cheerless.
Sullen hills were all around. Descending the hill I entered a
large village divided into two by the river, which here runs from
east to west, but presently makes a turn. There was much mire in
the street; immense swine lay in the mire, who turned up their
snouts at me as I passed. Women in Welsh hats stood in the mire,
along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in
their mouths; they were talking together; as I passed, however,
they held their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at me,
the men glaring sullenly at me, and causing tobacco smoke curl in
my face; on my taking off my hat, however and inquiring the way to
the Monachlog, everybody was civil enough, and twenty voices told
me the way the Monastery. I asked the name of the river:
"The Teivi, sir: the Teivi."
"The name of the bridge?"
"Pony y Rhyd Fendigaid - the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, sir."
I crossed the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, and presently leaving the
main road, I turned to the east by a dung-hill, up a narrow lane
parallel with the river. After proceeding a mile up the lane,
amidst trees and copses, and crossing a little brook, which runs
into the Teivi, out of which I drank, I saw before me in the midst
of a field, in which were tombstones and broken ruins, a rustic-
looking church; a farm-house stood near it, in the garden of which
stood the framework of a large gateway.
