Leaving Machynlleth, I ascended a steep hill which rises to the south of it. From the top of this hill there is a fine view of the town, the river, and the whole valley of the Dyfi. After stopping for a few minutes to enjoy the prospect I went on. The road at first was exceedingly good, though up and down, and making frequent turnings. The scenery was beautiful to a degree: lofty hills were on either side, clothed most luxuriantly with trees of various kinds, but principally oaks. “This is really very pleasant,” said I, “but I suppose it is too good to last long.” However, I went on for a considerable way, the road neither deteriorating nor the scenery decreasing in beauty. “Surely I can’t be in the right road,” said I; “I wish I had an opportunity of asking.” Presently seeing an old man working with a spade in a field near a gate, I stopped and said in Welsh: “Am I in the road to the Pont y Gwr Drwg?” The old man looked at me for a moment, then shouldering his spade he came up to the gate, and said in English: “In truth, sir, you are.”
“I was told that the road thither was a very bad one,” said I, “but this is quite the contrary.”
“This road does not go much farther, sir,” said he; “it was made to accommodate grand folks who live about here.”
“You speak very good English,” said I; “where did you get it?”
He looked pleased, and said that in his youth he had lived some years in England.
“Can you read?” said I.
“Oh yes,” said he, “both Welsh and English.”
“What have you read in Welsh?” said I.
“The Bible and Twm O’r Nant.”
“What pieces of Twm O’r Nant have you read?”