LLYNN GWYNANT.
Llynn Gwynant, Llynn Gwynant! how bless’d should I be,
When the winter of life crowns my temples with snow,
To rest on thy margin, with her who loves me,
And children whose love gathers strength as they grow.There are mountains whose peaks rise more lofty by far,
And valleys more spacious and fertile to view,
But of all the high hills and green glens that there are,
Llynn Gwynant give me, with its waters of blue.Lynn Gwynant, Lynn Gwynant! I bid thee farewell,
Where peace in the beauty of solitude glows,
Again in the cold hearted city to dwell,
And pine for the calm of thy blissful repose.Farewell to the lake with the surface of glass,
Brown heath and blue mountains—abode of the free!
This heart, like the flood from the high Ffynnon Las, [250]
Will leap from its gloom to find rapture in thee.
Having nearly reached the extremity of this valley, I gazed, from my elevated situation, upon the dark and perpendicular rocks on the opposite side; and towering in the air immediately over the centre of the valley was an eagle with expanded wings, apparently motionless. Presently it rose a little higher, but without the slightest visible exertion, then stooped again, mounted once more, and, as fast as the eye could follow, swept round the huge buttresses of sharp ridged cliffs, that hang over the entrance of the pass of Llanberis.
As Llynn Gwynant is gradually shut out from the lingering gaze of the traveller, (who it may be said during the whole of the ascent, should turn his eyes behind him), and he at length looks forward in the direction of Llanberris, a new scene of grandeur bursts upon him. He has left beauty behind in its loveliest form;—but the sublime and wonderful now call forth all the springs of admiration.
Snowdon again appears in all his splendor! Mountains that by comparison looked like hillocks rise round his regal waist, in groups numerous and picturesque. The deep black crags that form the western side of the valley make a magnificent fore-ground, and open here like nature’s gates, to disclose the secrets of her bosom.
The accompanying etching, gives an admirable idea of this imposing scene. About a mile from hence is a place called Gwrydd, where there is a small public house, with a sign signifying nothing. Here I resolved to “rough it” for a day, intending to fish the lakes, situated immediately above this spot, as nature’s cisterns to water the pleasant valleys.
The public house possesses a small parlour, carpetted, with half a dozen hair-bottomed chairs, and a mahogany table. A silent but most importunate monitor urged me to discover what food this mountain chalet could produce. “Eggs and bacon,” was the expected reply to my question; and I soon had the pleasure of seeing this humble, but most grateful, fare placed before me, and in spite of the indifferent style of the cooking, I partook of it eagerly, having that incomparable sauce “a good appetite.”
After I had repaired my broken rod, I ascended the mountain at the back of the house, and arrived at a large oval lake, in which the black and sterile rocks that form inaccessible ramparts on one side are reflected in its generally unruffled surface. The scene is wild and desolate, such as Despair herself would select for her abode. There are plenty of fish in this lake, but they are all small and extremely shy. I remained upon its margin until the shadows of night gave me warning to attend to my safety, and make the best of my way to my lodging, where I speedily ascended by a ladder-like staircase to a kind of cock-loft which was divided into two compartments, one for the accommodation of the family, man, wife, children and servants, the other fitted up for travellers. Sleep soon overtook me, and I should have continued to sleep, I have no doubt, until breakfast time, had I not been awakened by a trifling accident.
“At the mid hour of night, when stars were weeping,”
and ghosts of the mighty walk upon the hills, with a variety of other interesting objects that poets and nursery maids have described infinitely better than I can pretend to do, I was visited by a dream in which the ghost of a lobster popped his head out of a salad bowl, and demanded upon what authority I had presumed to make mince-meat of his body, when a loud crash roused me from my slumber, and I found myself with my knees, doubled up to my chin upon the floor; the bedstead having broken in the middle, and deposited me in this unenviable position. I need not say that for the remaining part of the night, I was wholly left to waking reveries, and uncontrollable desires for the blessings of daylight, which at last greeted my longing eyes, and hurrying on my clothes, I descended and walked forth to scent the morning air, in the direction of Llanberris. The mists rolled like troubled lakes in the valleys, and the black bleak rocks looked cheerless and forbidding. The breeze was keen and piercing, and I started at a round pace to get myself warm by exercise. Having reached the summit of the roadway, I plunged at once into the pass of Llanberis, wild and gloomy. The precipices on my left looked truly terrible, like the shadow of death wrapped in a vapoury shroud. This pass is above four miles in length, and is a fine specimen of rugged grandeur. Not a single tree enlivens with its verdure this tremendous chasm. Range above range of rocks tower over the traveller upon either side, bearing various tints of black, brown, green and purple, according to the disposition of the sun’s rays, and the distances of the ponderous masses. The rocks on both sides are nearly perpendicular; and, about two miles down the pass, the tourist will perceive some prodigious masses of rock upon his right hand that have fallen from the overhanging cliffs, which, when he pauses to look upon, will strike a feeling of terror into his heart, as he inwardly exclaims, “could any one have witnessed the descent of this tremendous mass?” The accompanying sketch gives a most accurate description.
I stood contemplating this scene, and suddenly a wild shout roused me from my reverie.
“Halloo, halloo! over—over—over!”
I turned my eyes up the mountain to my left, and there saw a shepherd, forming a speaking trumpet with his hands, and shouting to a dog (of what kind heaven knows, but in my opinion a thorough bred mongrel), and the fleet animal was dashing down the hill in the direction to where I stood. In an instant, he had passed me. It was a perfect nondescript! a thing that looked like the offspring of a French poodle and a Welsh goat; such a mass of hair, rags and wool, I never before beheld. I sat watching his progress, which was exceedingly rapid, and as I marked him, as he scrambled up the opposite craggs, I could not help admiring the instinct (or training) of the wretched looking animal. Sheep after sheep did it pursue, and drive down into the hollow from which they had strayed—some of them leading him a chase (of no enviable description) nearly to the summit of the barren mountain; but, with untired feet and unceasing bark, he tracked and outstripped them all, and, in conclusion, forced them into the bounds allotted for them at the bottom of the vale, where a scanty supply of grass served for them to browse upon. This duty done, the faithful animal left them, and again crossing the valley, rushed by me and rejoined his master.
I was about to pursue my journey, when I perceived a man fishing in the stream beneath. I descended to learn what sport he had met with, and found he had not been fortunate. I asked him if he remembered the time, when the huge rock, I have before noticed, fell from the brow of the precipice?
“It would be hard for me to do that, sir,” said the fisherman, who laying his rod upon the ground, seemed desirous of saying something more upon the subject.
“Is there any legend about it?” I inquired.
“Indeed, sir, there is,” replied he; “and, if you’ll only stop till I put up my tackle, as I suppose you’re going to Llanberis, I’ll tell you as much as I know about the matter.”
I remarked, as he spoke, an expression of countenance that told me he thought tale telling might prove more profitable than trout fishing; but I readily agreed to his proposition, and in a few minutes we were trudging, side by side, along the road towards the village.
I dare say, sir, you havn’t come so far, without seeing Cader Idris, or the Chair of Idris, as it is called, for Idris Gawr you must know, sir, was a famous giant of his day, but whether you have or not, he had a brother, sir, as I’ve been told, Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig, which means the black man of the craig, who had a very fine castle upon the top of that precipice, at the foot of which you noticed those large pieces of rock. Well, sir, he never loved his brother, but he had a great liking for his niece; one of the prettiest girls, ’twas thought, ever seen in this part of the country; but she was to be married to a fine young hero, one of the knights of King Arthur’s round table, who had done wonders for her sake, and made all the world confess Merch Idris was the most beautiful creature in the world.
Well, sir, she was mortally afraid of her uncle, for he had a head as big as the top of Snowdon, and a forest of whiskers, and a beard that a man might take a day’s shooting in, without tearing his coat with the branches; so that he never could be conquered, having so much game in him, ha! ha! ha!—You’ll excuse me, sir, but what a comfortable thing it must be for a man to catch birds enough in his whiskers, to serve him for dinner!—Well, sir, it happened that Merch Idris was benighted between Capel Curig and her father’s castle, and, as she had only one attendant, and he was a poor weak coward, you may easily suppose she was for getting home as fast as possible; but a storm came on, and the night closed round them, and by some means or other they lost their way; for you know, sir, at that time there were no turnpike roads, as there are now, and they wandered about upon their merlins until nightfall, without knowing what part of the world they were in; when all of a sudden, the servant’s beast, who went first, sank into a bog, up to his neck; and his rider began to roar for help so loudly, that the lady’s animal took fright, set off at full speed, and never stopped until they came to the gates of a large castle. The night was so dark, she couldn’t make out whether she had ever seen it before or not; however, she thought it would be better to blow the horn at the gate, and ask for shelter, than wander about the mountains all night, at the risk of breaking her neck, or being smothered in a quagmire. So she blew a blast (for at that time o’ day every great lady played upon some instrument or other, and this young lady surpassed all others upon the horn) so loud, that presently a warden called out from the top of a tower. “Who’s there?” Well, she mustered up courage enough to say, she was “A lady in great distress.”
“Oho!” says the warden, and off he set. Now the young lady scarcely knew how to take the salutation of the warden, whether it was meant friendly or otherwise. She had not pondered long upon those mysterious sounds, when the portcullis was raised, and the first living thing she saw was her tremendous uncle Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig! with a hundred torches behind him, ready to welcome her into his castle. You may be sure she was not much pleased at his presence, and regretted that she had not held out till the morning. But she had gone too far, and so she went in, and the iron grating was closed again, with a sound that struck terror into her pretty heart. Now it so happened that Sir Tristram (that was the name of her lover) was staying with her father, Idris Gawr; and they were both of them puzzled what to think when Merch Idris didn’t reach home at the time they expected her. So the knight mounted his charger and gallopped off one way, and Idris took up his club and walked off the other, to search for her. All this time, the villain of an uncle was trying to wheedle the fair maid, his niece, to marry him; and, when he found her deaf to his monstrous wishes, he flew into a mighty passion, and dragged her to the top of the precipice, by the hair of her head, and swore, in a most unchristian manner, that he would pitch her over, if she didn’t consent.
But just as he was about to put his threat into execution, he heard a horse at full gallop behind him; so he turned round just time enough to avoid the slashing sword of Sir Tristram, who made a determined cut at his head, that would have taken it clean off, if he hadn’t have ducked. Well, he was fain to let go the lady to save himself from the fury of the knight, although he didn’t think much of him. But he pulled up a tree, and he made a mighty blow at him, which the knight, by the blessing of providence, escaped; but the horse wasn’t so fortunate, for it fell upon the poor creature’s head, and smashed it to atoms. Well, the knight began to think the giant “too much of a horse” for him; and so he blew three notes upon his bugle, which was the appointed signal between him and Idris, and no sooner had he done so, than it was answered.
“And now,” said Sir Tristram, “my fine fellow, you’ll have your match in a minute; and sure enough, as he spoke, Dyn Ddu o’r’ Craig saw his brother running at the rate of half a mile a stride. Well, he was greatly perplexed what to do; but he thought he had better get into the castle. So, he took Merch Idris under his left arm, and kept the knight off with the roots of the tree. However, he couldn’t reach the gates in time.
“And now,” says Idris to his brother, “you ruffian,” says he, “what are you going to do with my daughter? Put her down, or I’ll smash you, as I do this tower!” and with that he hit a turret of the castle, and it flew about in all directions. “Why then,” says the other, “I think I can do as great a feat as that.” So he knocked the other turret on the head, and drove it clean down into the earth, so that not a brick of it was seen above ground! Well, with that the two giants began to bang each other with their cudgels, till they were black and blue, while Sir Tristram and the lady ran off to Cader Idris, as fast as they could, to get out of harm’s way.
Idris was the stronger giant of the two, and after three hours’ hard fighting, you wouldn’t have known them for human beings; but Idris having got Dyn with his back to the precipice, (where he threatened to throw the poor young lady over) hit him, with all his force, such a blow on the nose as made him stagger back and roll right over the edge of the craig. Well, he rolled and he rolled, till he got to the place where you were standing, and then he stopped; but he was quite dead. Then the famous Idris, seeing his brother lie like a huge bundle of rags, without motion, by the side of the stream, tore off a large piece from the top of the mountain, and throwing it with great force, it lit full upon the giant as he lay, while his conqueror roared out, in a voice that was heard at Carnaervon,—“Good rest to you, brother Dyn! there’s a nightcap for you!”
And ever since, that piece of rock has been called “the Giant’s Nightcap.”
We soon obtained a view of the lakes that spread themselves before us—viz.: Lyn Peris and Lyn Padarn, with the romantic castle of Dolbadarn upon its rocky promontory. On issuing from a pass on our left, as my companion informed me, is a valuable copper mine, and a stream of water conveyed over the road, by the aid of a wooden conduit, into the lake, which stream, he said, was for the use of the mine.
At length, I reached the inn, called Victoria, and satisfying my companion with a gratuity which was more profitable than fishing, I entered and ordered breakfast, and procured an admittance to the castle of Dolbadarn. This ancient fortress is supposed to have been built by one Padarn Beisrydd ap Idwal, for the purpose of guarding the mountain pass which I had just quitted. A single round tower is all that remains of the castle, although traces are left of a much more extensive building. Here Owen Goch was imprisoned twenty years by his brother Llewellyn, the last Prince of Wales of the British line; and an ode is still extant, written by Howel-Voel, wherein his captivity is affectionately lamented.
The view from the castle is truly sublime, comprising the two lakes, and the tremendous range of mountains, that seem to admit no outlet from the vale. But the most beautiful prospect is from the lake in front of the promontory on which the castle stands, and is reflected in the smooth waters beneath, while the majestic Snowdon towers in the distance.
In the twelfth century, it is said there lived a celebrated beauty, whose father was the lord of this castle, and of whom something like the following legend is related: