“It is not, sir,” said the clerk.
“It seems to be radically the same as Bonner,” said I, “the name of the horrible Popish Bishop of London in Mary’s time. Do any people of the name of Bynner reside in this neighbourhood at present?”
“None, sir,” said the clerk; “and if the Bynners are descendants of Bonner, it is, perhaps, well that there are none.”
I made the clerk, who appeared almost fit to be a clergyman, a small present, and returned to the inn. After paying my bill I flung my satchel over my shoulder, took my umbrella by the middle in my right hand, and set off for the Rhyadr.
I entered the narrow glen at the western extremity of the town and proceeded briskly along. The scenery was romantically beautiful; on my left was the little brook, the waters of which run through the town; beyond it a lofty hill; on my right was a hill covered with wood from the top to the bottom. I enjoyed the scene, and should have enjoyed it more had there been a little sunshine to gild it.
I passed through a small village, the name of which I think was Cynmen, and presently overtook a man and boy. The man saluted me in English, and I entered into conversation with him in that language. He told me that he came from Llan Gedwin, and was going to a place called Gwern something, in order to fetch home some sheep. After a time he asked me where I was going.
“I am going to see the Pistyll Rhyadr,” said I
We had then just come to the top of a rising ground.
“Yonder’s the Pistyll!” said he, pointing to the west.
I looked in the direction of his finger, and saw something at a great distance, which looked like a strip of grey linen hanging over a crag.