The village of Pentraeth Goch occupies two sides of a romantic dell—that part of it which stands on the southern side, and which comprises the church and the little inn, is by far the prettiest, that which occupies the northern is a poor assemblage of huts, a brook rolls at the bottom of the dell, over which there is a little bridge: coming to the bridge I stopped, and looked over the side into the water running briskly below. An aged man who looked like a beggar, but who did not beg of me, stood by.
“To what place does this water run?” said I in English.
“I know no Saxon,” said he in trembling accents.
I repeated my question in Welsh.
“To the sea,” he said, “which is not far off, indeed it is so near, that when there are high tides, the salt water comes up to this bridge.”
“You seem feeble?” said I.
“I am so,” said he, “for I am old.”
“How old are you?” said I.
“Sixteen after sixty,” said the old man with a sigh; “and I have nearly lost my sight and my hearing.”
“Are you poor?” said I.