Frequently baffled, the often victorious;
once a manacled prisoner sweating in the sun, in the market-place
of Chester, eventually king of North Wales; Gryffith, who "though
he loved well the trumpet's clang loved the sound of the harp
better"; who led on his warriors to twenty-four battles, and
presided over the composition of the twenty-four measures of
Cambrian song. Then I thought -. But I should tire the reader
were I to detail all the intensely Welsh thoughts which crowded
into my head as I stood on the Cairn of the Grey Giant.
Satiated with looking about and thinking, I sprang from the cairn
and rejoined my guide. We now descended the eastern side of the
hill till we came to a singular looking stone, which had much the
appearance of a Druid's stone. I inquired of my guide whether
there was any tale connected with this stone.
"None," he replied; "but I have heard people say that it was a
strange stone, and on that account I brought you to look at it."
A little farther down he showed me part of a ruined wall.
"What name does this bear?" said I.
"Clawdd yr Afalon," he replied. "The dyke of the orchard."
"A strange place for an orchard," I replied. "If there was ever an
orchard on this bleak hill, the apples must have been very sour."
Over rocks and stones we descended till we found ourselves on a
road, not very far from the shore, on the south-east side of the
hill.
"I am very thirsty," said I, as I wiped the perspiration from my
face; "how I should like now to drink my fill of cool spring
water."
"If your honour is inclined for water," said my guide, "I can take
you to the finest spring in all Wales."
"Pray do so," said I, "for I really am dying of thirst."
"It is on our way to the town," said the lad, "and is scarcely a
hundred yards off."
He then led me to the fountain. It was a little well under a stone
wall, on the left side of the way. It might be about two feet
deep, was fenced with rude stones, and had a bottom of sand.
"There," said the lad, "is the fountain. It is called the Fairies'
Well, and contains the best water in Wales."
I lay down and drank. Oh, what water was that of the Fairies'
Well! I drank and drank, and thought I could never drink enough of
that delicious water; the lad all the time saying that I need not
be afraid to drink, as the water of the Fairies' Well had never
done harm to anybody. At length I got up, and standing by the
fountain repeated the lines of a bard on a spring, not of a Welsh
but a Gaelic bard, which are perhaps the finest lines ever composed
on the theme. Yet MacIntyre, for such was his name, was like
myself an admirer of good ale, to say nothing of whiskey, and loved
to indulge in it at a proper time and place. But there is a time
and place for everything, and sometimes the warmest admirer of ale
would prefer the lymph of the hill-side fountain to the choicest
ale that ever foamed in tankard from the cellars of Holkham. Here
are the lines most faithfully rendered:-
"The wild wine of nature,
Honey-like in its taste,
The genial, fair, thin element
Filtering through the sands,
Which is sweeter than cinnamon,
And is well known to us hunters.
O, that eternal, healing draught,
Which comes from under the earth,
Which contains abundance of good
And costs no money!"
Returning to the hotel I satisfied my guide and dined. After
dinner I trifled agreeably with my brandy-and-water till it was
near seven o'clock, when I paid my bill, thought of the waiter and
did not forget Father Boots. I then took my departure, receiving
and returning bows, and walking to the station got into a first-
class carriage and soon found myself at Bangor.
CHAPTER XLIII
The Inn at Bangor - Port Dyn Norwig - Sea Serpent - Thoroughly
Welsh Place - Blessing of Health.
I WENT to the same inn at Bangor at which I had been before. It
was Saturday night and the house was thronged with people who had
arrived by train from Manchester and Liverpool, with the intention
of passing the Sunday in the Welsh town. I took tea in an immense
dining or ball-room, which was, however, so crowded with guests
that its walls literally sweated. Amidst the multitude I felt
quite solitary - my beloved ones had departed for Llangollen, and
there was no one with whom I could exchange a thought or a word of
kindness. I addressed several individuals, and in every instance
repented; from some I got no answers, from others what was worse
than no answers at all - in every countenance near me suspicion,
brutality, or conceit, was most legibly imprinted - I was not
amongst Welsh, but the scum of manufacturing England.
Every bed in the house was engaged - the people of the house,
however, provided me a bed at a place which they called the
cottage, on the side of a hill in the outskirts of the town. There
I passed the night comfortably enough. At about eight in the
morning I arose, returned to the inn, breakfasted, and departed for
Beth Gelert by way of Caernarvon.
It was Sunday, and I had originally intended to pass the day at
Bangor, and to attend divine service twice at the Cathedral, but I
found myself so very uncomfortable, owing to the crowd of
interlopers, that I determined to proceed on my journey without
delay; making up my mind, however, to enter the first church I
should meet in which service was being performed; for it is really
not good to travel on the Sunday without going into a place of
worship.
