Following the road to the south, which gradually descended, I soon came to a place where a road diverged from the straight one to the left. As the left-hand road appeared to lead down a romantic valley I followed it. The scenery was beautiful - steep hills on each side. On the right was a deep ravine, down which ran a brook;the hill beyond it was covered towards the top with a wood, apparently of oak, between which and the ravine were small green fields. Both sides of the ravine were fringed with trees, chiefly ash. I descended the road which was zigzag and steep, and at last arrived at the bottom of the valley, where there was a small hamlet. On the further side of the valley to the east was a steep hill on which were a few houses - at the foot of the hill was a brook crossed by an antique bridge of a single arch. I directed my course to the bridge, and after looking over the parapet for a minute or two upon the water below, which was shallow and noisy, ascended a road which led up the hill: a few scattered houses were on each side. I soon reached the top of the hill, where were some more houses, those which I had seen from the valley below. I was in a Welsh mountain village, which put me much in mind of the villages which I had strolled through of old in Castile and La Mancha; there were the same silence and desolation here as yonder away - the houses were built of the same material, namely stone. Ishould perhaps have fancied myself for a moment in a Castilian or Manchegan mountain pueblicito, but for the abundance of trees which met my eye on every side.
In walking up this mountain village I saw no one, and heard no sound but the echo of my steps amongst the houses. As I returned, however, I saw a man standing at a door - he was a short figure, about fifty. He had an old hat on his head, a stick in his hand, and was dressed in a duffel greatcoat.
"Good-day, friend," said I; "what be the name of this place?""Pont Fadog, sir, is its name, for want of a better.""That's a fine name," said I; "it signifies in English the bridge of Madoc.""Just so, sir; I see you know Welsh."
"And I see you know English," said I.
"Very little, sir; I can read English much better than I can speak it.""So can I Welsh," said I. "I suppose the village is named after the bridge.""No doubt it is, sir."
"And why was the bridge called the bridge of Madoc?" said I.
"Because one Madoc built it, sir."
"Was he the son of Owain Gwynedd?" said I.
"Ah, I see you know all about Wales, sir. Yes, sir; he built it, or I daresay he built it, Madawg ap Owain Gwynedd. I have read much about him - he was a great sailor, sir, and was the first to discover Tir y Gorllewin or America. Not many years ago his tomb was discovered there with an inscription in old Welsh - saying who he was, and how he loved the sea. I have seen the lines which were found on the tomb.""So have I," said I; "or at least those which were said to be found on a tomb: they run thus in English:-"'Here, after sailing far I Madoc lie, Of Owain Gwynedd lawful progeny:
The verdant land had little charms for me;From earliest youth I loved the dark-blue sea.'""Ah, sir," said the man, "I see you know all about the son of Owain Gwynedd. Well, sir, those lines, or something like them, were found upon the tomb of Madoc in America.""That I doubt," said I.
"Do you doubt, sir, that Madoc discovered America?""Not in the least," said I; "but I doubt very much that his tomb was ever discovered with the inscription which you allude to upon it.""But it was, sir, I do assure you, and the descendants of Madoc and his people are still to be found in a part of America speaking the pure iaith Cymraeg better Welsh than we of Wales do.""That I doubt" said I. "However, the idea is a pretty one;therefore cherish it. This is a beautiful country.""A very beautiful country, sir; there is none more beautiful in all Wales.""What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?""The Ceiriog, sir."
"The Ceiriog," said I; "the Ceiriog!"
"Did you ever hear the name before, sir?""I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog," said I; "the Nightingale of Ceiriog.""That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of Ceiriog.""Did he live hereabout?"
"Oh no, sir; he lived far away up towards the head of the valley, at a place called Pont y Meibion.""Are you acquainted with his works?" said I.
"Oh yes, sir, at least with some of them. I have read the Marwnad on Barbara Middleton; and likewise the piece on Oliver and his men.
Ah, it is a funny piece that - he did not like Oliver nor his men.""Of what profession are you?" said I; "are you a schoolmaster or apothecary?""Neither, sir, neither; I am merely a poor shoemaker.""You know a great deal for a shoemaker," said I.
"Ah, sir; there are many shoemakers in Wales who know much more than I.""But not in England," said I. "Well, farewell.""Farewell, sir. When you have any boots to mend or shoes, sir - Ishall be happy to serve you."
"I do not live in these parts," said I.