I Told Him That I Cared Not A Straw About Her
Majesty's Ministers And The Fine Folks Of London, And He Replied
That He Cared Not A Straw For Rhys Goch, His Chair Or Old Women's
Stories Of Any Kind.
Regularly incensed against the old fellow, I told him he was a bad
Welshman, and he retorted by saying I was a bad Englishman.
I said
he appeared to know next to nothing. He retorted by saying I knew
less than nothing, and almost inarticulate with passion added that
he scorned to walk in such illiterate company, and suiting the
action to the word sprang up a steep and rocky footpath on the
right, probably a short cut to his domicile, and was out of sight
in a twinkling. We were both wrong: I most so. He was crusty and
conceited, but I ought to have humoured him and then I might have
got out of him anything he knew, always supposing that he knew
anything.
About an hour's walk from Tan y Bwlch brought me to Festiniog,
which is situated on the top of a lofty hill looking down from the
south-east, on the valley which I have described, and which as I
know not its name I shall style the Valley of the numerous streams.
I went to the inn, a large old-fashioned house standing near the
church; the mistress of it was a queer-looking old woman,
antiquated in her dress and rather blunt in her manner.
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