LLYN GWYNANT,
and after a while beheld it stretching beneath me upon my left hand. The valley forms a bowl among the hills. The bottom is a small grassy plain, dotted with trees, which has obtained the appellation of Beauty sleeping in the lap of Terror. The mountains that surround the vale have a wild and rugged appearance. As I proceeded along the road towards the head of the valley, a horn was sounded from the mountain, and I perceived a Welsh girl standing upon a projecting eminence: bare headed and bare footed was this nymph of Cambria; her cheeks were swelled out with her occupation, and she looked like a female Boreas, bursting with the wind she was sending forth by degrees to alarm the world.
She eyed me with glances of curiosity all the while, and I thought she could perhaps give me some information about the valley, which might be interesting; so quitting the direct road, I scrambled up the hill side, and asked her the meaning of her sounding the horn so loudly? But she either did not, or would not, understand me; and after vainly endeavouring to extract anything from her, I quietly sat myself down, delighted by the splendid view beneath me.
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 a hawk 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 Llyn 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 Llanberis, 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 splendour! 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, carpeted, 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 Llanberis. 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.
We soon obtained a view of the lakes that spread themselves before us—viz.: Llyn Peris and Llyn Padarn, with the romantic castle of Dolbadarn upon its rocky promontory. On issuing from a pass on our left, as I was informed, 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 was for the use of the mine.
At length, I reached the inn, called Victoria, ordered breakfast, and procured an admittance to the Castle of Dolbadarn. This ancient fortress is supposed to have been built by one Padarn Beisrudd ab 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 Gôch was imprisoned twenty years by his brother Llewelyn, 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 of 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.
Returning to the Victoria, I partook of the refreshments provided, and then retracing my steps, I visited the little rustic church of Llanberis, which, for its simplicity, is well worthy of attention. Upon entering the doorway, there is a small stone font placed upon a pedestal which is approached by three stone steps: it resembles a small washing tub, and its cover is much like a copper-lid. Advancing into the interior, the music loft is upon the left, under which is a dilapidated screen, opposite to the font. A doorway in the centre of the screen leads into the body of the church, where ancient oaken benches are ranged upon either side, and the pulpit and communion table are immediately in front. The old arched roof is held together by iron pins, which project on each side of the timbers, and the whole interior is whitewashed. The only pew in the church adjoins the communion table, both of which have suffered materially by the worm and time. The few monuments in this simple structure are upon small slate slabs, about the size of a school-boy’s, and are hung up on the wooden beams.
On leaving the church, there is a monumental slate slab on the left of the path, bearing the following inscription and verses:—
Underneath
Lieth the remains
Of John, the son of
Robert Closs, who was
Interred Decr. 1st,
1805, aged 7 years.Ar ben mynydd dydd-y-daith oî howyder
A che dodd y maith
Gadewais (gwelais goeg waith)
Drueni’r Byd ar unwaith.
Oerfel fu uchel a chos, i angau
Llyn ingol i’mddangos
Mantell niwl mewn tywyll nos
A dychryniad dechreunos.
Upon returning to my inn at Gwrydd, I discovered that the landlady was sister to little John Closs; and from her I learnt the story of his melancholy fate. It is as follows:—
John was a pretty boy, about seven years of age, with fair hair and blue eyes, of a sweet temper, adored by his parents, and loving them most affectionately in return. Indeed little John Closs was the talk of the parish, and held up as a pattern of filial love and reverence to all the children in the village. His uncle had a small farm at Nant Bettws; and John’s father having sent him to reside there for a few months, the fond mother would often cross the mountain to see her son and her sister, returning home in the evening of the same day. Little John got tired of living away from home, and one night, after his mother had quitted the cottage to return to Llanberis, he wept so bitterly, and prayed so earnestly to be permitted to follow her home, that the good people at Bettws permitted him to try and overtake her, which they considered he might easily do, as she had not left the house ten minutes before he started.
The mother reached Llanberis in safety; but the poor boy lost his way in a snow storm on Moel Einion, and was not heard of for more than a week afterwards; when, one day, a man crossing the mountain, found the child stretched on the ground in a slumbering position, his face towards the earth, buried in his hands, and quite dead.
The following morning, I proceeded towards Capel Curig, but this road is very uninteresting. The tourist is, however, amply gratified, if it happen to be tolerably clear weather, on his arrival at an ancient stone bridge which crosses a stream that tumbles over some black rocks on the right, and winds its way in graceful variety, forming a pleasing spot to rest upon. Looking back towards Llanberis, the mountain scenery is very fine; and I here took my farewell look of Snowdon arid Snowdonia.