"Is there a little river near it," said I to the cook, "a ffrwd?"
"There is; it runs just under the hill."
"Is there a mill upon the ffrwd?"
"There is not; that is, now - but there was in the old time; a
factory of woollen stands now where the mill once stood."
"'A mill a rushing brook upon
And pigeon tower fram'd of stone.'
"So says Iolo Goch," said I to myself, "in his description of
Sycharth; I am on the right road."
I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged and was
told of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of
Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told
her she might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and
after telling the landlady that I should return at night, started
for Llangedwin and Sycharth.
A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in
which I was proceeding.
The valley was beautiful and dotted with various farm-houses, and
the land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the
soil of my own Norfolk, that county so deservedly celebrated for
its agriculture. The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and
towards the north the vale is crossed by three rugged elevations,
the middlemost of which, called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas,
terminates to the west in an exceedingly high and picturesque crag.
