The transient storm having passed away, and sunshine once more lighting up the valley, I again pushed forward. The Merionethshire mountains upon the right, decked in their countless hues of rock and heather, over which the departing storm swept with its rolling clouds, in dark magnificence, formed a noble subject for the artist’s pencil. The road is elevated above the meadows which enrich the centre of the vale; and the river, which flows through them, having risen above its banks, and spread itself over a considerable tract of country, resembled an extensive lake.
About half way between Tremadoc and Beddgelert, is a small dingle upon the left of the road, with a neat lodge at the entrance, and a path leading up to the shrubbery, beneath which a mountain stream flows rapidly, and empties itself into the Dwyryd. As I proceeded, numerous falls dashed down the mountains, and plunging into hollows underneath the road, emerged again upon the other side, I was several times forced to take shelter from the heavy showers under fallen blocks of rock; and once, as the storm abated, and I looked anxiously out to see if it was clear enough to pursue my journey, a glorious rainbow stretched across the valley, its points resting upon the mountains on either side. I now proceeded at a rapid pace, and the river became more deep and narrow, and the circling eddies, as they floated down the stream, announced that I was approaching the fall of a great body of water when suddenly—whizz, whirr, clash, splash, dash, astounding and astonishing—
ABER GLAS LYN
with all its world of horrors, burst at once upon the view. I felt a tremulous sensation within, me; a contraction of the muscles of my throat; an hysterical sob and a desire to weep.
“White foaming, thundering, falls the boiling flood;
Rocks clash, and echo mocks the horrid din,
While man appalled, stands breathless, in amaze,
And, filled with awe, exalts his thoughts to Him,
Who was, who is, and aye must be supreme!”
Just above the bridge is a semi-circular rock, which forms a salmon leap, over which the salmon, at spawning time, first lodge themselves at the height of five or six yards. Proceeding through the pass, at every step new wonders met the eye. The late heavy rains had swollen the mountain waterfalls, and caused a terrific torrent to roar and struggle through a narrow channel; for the mountains, forming this southern end of the vale, approach so near to each other, that they only afford a contracted flow for the river, and a narrow road, while their rocky sides rise so perpendicularly, that their summits are scarcely farther distant from each other than their foundations. The rushing river was a pure sheet of white; furious, uncontrollable; nothing but the immense blocks riven from the mountain’s craggy sides could withstand its dreadful impetuosity. A few stunted fir and larch trees at the commencement of the pass were seen starting from the dark clefts upon either side, which threw a deeper shade upon this awful valley.
Cradock calls this pass “the noblest specimen of the finely horrid the eye can possibly behold. The poet,” he continues, “has not described, nor the painter pictured so gloomy a retreat. ’Tis the last approach to the mansion of Pluto, through the regions of Despair.” I could have stopped for hours to admire this splendid example of the sublimity of Nature, but time pressed, so I pushed on to Beddgelert which is not more than a mile and a half from the bridge. A solitary mountain ash which grows about half way up the pass, is the sole bright thing in this abode of terror, and looks like Beauty in desolation. Emerging from the pass there is a stone which is called the chair of Rhys Gôch o’r Eryri; a famous mountain bard who lived in the time of Owen Glyndwr. He resided at the entrance into the Traeth Mawr Sands, from whence he used to walk, and sitting upon this stone compose his poems. He died in 1420, at the advanced age of 120 years; he was a gentleman of property, and was buried in the ancient priory at
BEDDGELERT.
Some are of opinion that this word should be written Celert, or Cilert, Bedd-Cilert, or Cilert’s Grave; supposing that a monk or saint of that name was buried here. Another celebrated bard was entombed at this place, named Davydd Nanmor, who died about the year 1460.