“And to whom does the great house belong?”
“To whom? why, to Sir Watkin.”
“Does he reside there?”
“Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes there to hunt.”
“What is the place’s name?”
“Llan Gedwin.”
I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path led upward behind the great house round a hill thickly planted with trees. Following it I at length found myself on a broad road on the top extending east and west, and having on the north and south beautiful wooded hills. I followed the road which presently began to descend. On reaching level ground I overtook a man in a waggoner’s frock, of whom I inquired the way to Sycharth. He pointed westward down the vale to what appeared to be a collection of houses, near a singular-looking monticle, and said, “That is Sycharth.”
We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the right to a little bridge.
“That is your way,” said he, and pointing to a large building beyond the bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said, “that is the factory of Sycharth;” he then left me, following the high road, whilst I proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed, and coming to the cottages entered one on the right hand of a remarkably neat appearance.
In a comfortable kitchen by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful billet sat a man and woman. Both arose when I entered: the man was tall, about fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was dressed in a white coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted stockings. The woman seemed many years older than the man; she was tall also, and strongly built, and dressed in the ancient female costume, namely, a kind of round, half Spanish hat, long blue woollen kirtle or gown, a crimson petticoat, and white apron, and broad, stout shoes with buckles.