The scenery was so gentle in its beauty that my wild, excited mood was lulled by its soft influence. The colour of landscape and sky kept the delicate tints of spring, though we are in full, rich summer; and there was none of the tropical verdure we saw near Tenby; no crimson fountains of fuchsias, no billows of blood-red roses, and fierce southern flowers. Pale honey-suckle draped the gray or whitewashed stone cottages. Rocks and crannies of walls were daintily fringed with ferns, or cushioned with the velvet of moss, and crusted with tarnished golden lichen. A modern-timbered house, rising pertly here and there, looked out of place among dwellings whose early owners quarried each stone from among their own mountains.
As we left the fairy glades of those wooded hills for rugged mountains scantily clad with ragged grass, slate-quarries tried their ugly best to blotch and spoil the scene, but owing to some strange charm of atmosphere, like a gauze veil on the stage, they could not quite succeed. By and by the gauze veil turned to rain, but rain suited the wild landscape—far better, by the way, than it suited Mrs. Senter, whose nightly hair-wavers are but a reed to lean upon in wet weather. She made some excuse to come behind with Emily and me, and before the car started again I summoned courage to ask if I might take her place, saying I loved to feel the rain.
So there I was with Sir Lionel once more; and I wondered if he thought of that night when we rushed through the storm from Tintagel to Clovelly? Soon this also bade fair to be a storm, for the rain began to tumble out of the sky, rather than fall, as if an army of people stood throwing down water by the bucketful. I revelled in it, and in the sombre scenery, where sharp rocks stood out like bones through the tattered green coats of soldier-mountains. All the world was gray or gray-green, save for a patch of purple heather here and there, like the stain of a new wound.
We were under Cadir Idris, mounting the pass high above a deep ravine; yet the blowing rain hid the mountain from our eyes as if he were the veiled prophet. The sound of the wind, which seemed to come from all quarters at once, was like the mysterious music of a great Æolian harp, as it mingled with the song of ghostly cascades that veined the dark rocks with marble. Mountain sheep sprang from crag to crag as Apollo rounded a corner and broke into their tranquil lives, now and then loosening a stone as they jumped. One good-sized rock would have bounced down on the roof of our car if Sir Lionel hadn't seen it coming, and put on such a spurt of speed that Apollo leaped ahead of the danger. But he always does see things in time. You wouldn't think sheep could have as much expression as those sheep had, when they saw us and weren't sure which way to run. Of course they needn't have run at all; but whichever way they decided, it was certain to be wrong!
I was sorry to leave that pass behind, and have its door shut after us, for we came out into a pastoral landscape, where the only wild things were the grazing black cattle. It was charming country, though; and in less than a mile we had reached a famous spot known as the Tourist Walk. The rain was pelting down harder than ever, so we could not get out and take the walk; but soon after we had abandoned it the deluge suddenly turned from lead to a thick spray of diamonds, mixed with sparkling gold-dust. Our road glittered ahead of us like a wide silver ribbon unrolled, as we sailed into the little gray town of Dolgelly on its torrent river; and beyond, in a fresh-washed radiance of sunlight, the way was one long enchantment, the sweet world of green hills and musical waters looking as young as if God had made it that day. The graceful mountains which pressed round the valley had the air of waiting each her turn to stoop and drink a life-giving draught from the river, which, as we neared Barmouth, opened to the sea, gleaming like a vast sheet of quicksilver. Further on, travelling through woods where young green trees shot up from gilded rocks, glimpses of the estuary came to us like a vision of some Italian lake.
Just before Harlech, the wild yet nymph-like beauty of the world changed to an almost startling grandeur, for the coast moved back from the sea with a noble sweep, magnificent mountains towered along the shore, and line after line of beryl waves shattered into pearl upon a beach of darkened gold.
Harlech Castle was an event in my life. I thought I had begun to take ruined castles for granted in Wales, as you do sea-shells on the shore; but Harlech is a castle that you couldn't take for granted. It was a shock at first to find that a hotel had been built in the very face of it, as if bearding it in its den; yet it is a nice hotel; and when we had lunched there agreeably, I not only forgave it for existing, but began to like and thank it for having thoughtfully placed itself on that admirable height.
From here our eyes ought to have been smitten with the sight of Snowdon; but the Grand Old Mountain was asleep, his head buried in white cloud-pillows which alone betrayed his whereabouts; so we had to be content with the castle. And I was content. To see the splendid ruin reared on its great rock, dark against sea and sky, was thrilling as a vision of an old wounded knight girding his strength for a last stand.
"The splendid ruin, reared on its great rock"