Passing
through a tollgate I found myself in a kind of suburb consisting of
a few cottages. Struck with the neighbouring scenery, I stopped to
observe it. A mighty mountain rises in the north almost abreast of
Festiniog; another towards the east divided into two of unequal
size. Seeing a woman of an interesting countenance seated at the
door of a cottage I pointed to the hill towards the north, and
speaking the Welsh language, inquired its name.
"That hill, sir," said she, "is called Moel Wyn."
Now Moel Wyn signifies the white, bare hill.
"And how do you call those two hills towards the east?"
"We call one, sir, Mynydd Mawr, the other Mynydd Bach."
Now Mynydd Mawr signifies the great mountain and Mynydd Bach the
little one.
"Do any people live in those hills?"
"The men who work the quarries, sir, live in those hills. They and
their wives and their children. No other people."
"Have you any English?"
"I have not, sir. No people who live on this side the talcot
(tollgate) for a long way have any English."
I proceeded on my journey.
