On my talking to him
about the name of the place, he said that some called it Spytty
Cynfyn, and others Spytty Cynwyl, and that both Cynwyl and Cynfyn
were the names of people, to one or other of which the place was
dedicated, and that, like the place farther on called Spytty
Ystwyth, it was in the old time a hospital or inn for the
convenience of the pilgrims going to the great monastery of Ystrad
Flur or Strata Florida.
Passing through a field or two we came to the side of a very deep
ravine, down which there was a zigzag path leading to the bridge.
The path was very steep, and, owing to the rain, exceedingly
slippery. For some way it led through a grove of dwarf oaks, by
grasping the branches of which I was enabled to support myself
tolerably well; nearly at the bottom, however, where the path was
most precipitous, the trees ceased altogether. Fearing to trust my
legs, I determined to slide down, and put my resolution in
practice, arriving at a little shelf close by the bridge without
any accident. The man, accustomed to the path, went down in the
usual manner. The bridge consisted of a couple of planks and a
pole flung over a chasm about ten feet wide, on the farther side of
which was a precipice with a path at least quite as steep as the
one down which I had come, and without any trees or shrubs by which
those who used it might support themselves.
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