At the Holy Island end of the embankment stands the last toll-house, and thenceforward the town of Holyhead begins.
LVI
This destination of the Holyhead Road, its sponsor and reason for existence, makes a very sorry ending to these two hundred and sixty miles of picturesque and historic scenery. It is a squalid little town, set down, to all appearance, at the edge of the known world, and only existing on the traffic of its harbour. Described by Swift so long ago as 1727 as “a scurvy, unprovided, comfortless place,” and in Ogilby’s Roads, of 1749, as “consisting chiefly of houses for the entertainment of such persons as are bound for Ireland, or just arrived thence,” it has not advanced far in all the years that have passed since those unflattering descriptions were penned.
Swift, to be sure, came to Holyhead in a fury. When, however, was he not possessed of that “saeva indignatio” referred to even in his epitaph? He had come by Penmynydd, where he had hoped to see Owain Tudor’s tomb, but missed the place by the knavery of the guide, who wanted to be moving on. Wearied with riding, he then rested two hours at Llangefni. “Then I went on, very weary, but in a few miles more Wat’s horse lost his two fore-shoes, so the horse had to limp after us. The Guide was less concerned than I. In a few miles more my horse lost a fore-shoe, and could not go on the rocky ways. I walked about two miles to spare him. It was Sunday, and no smith to be got. At last there was a smith in the way; we left the Guide to shoe the horses, and walked to a Hedge Inn three miles from Holyhead. There I stayed an hour with no ale to be drunk. A boat offered, and I went by sea, and sailed in it to Holyhead. The Guide came about the same time. I dined with an old innkeeper, Mrs. Welsh, about three, on a loyn of mutton, very good, but the worst ale in the world, and no wines, for the day before I came here a vast number went to Ireland, after having drunk out all the wine. There was stale beer, and I tryed a receit of Oyster shells, which I got powdered on purpose, but it was good for nothing. I walked on the rocks in the evening, and then went to bed, and dreamt that I had got twenty falls from my horse.”
Swift lay here for seven days waiting for the packet to sail. On the 28th of September it set forth, but was obliged by stress of weather to return, and it does not appear how much longer he was detained. In these empty days of waiting he wrote the verses:—
Lo, here I sit at holy head,
With muddy ale and mouldy bread ;
I’m fastened both by wind and tide,
I see the ships at anchor ride.
All Christian vittals stink of fish,