“I see it very clearly,” said I.
“Well, your worship, that’s called Bryn y Llo—the Hill of the Calf, or the Calf Plynlimmon, which makes the sixth summit.”
“Very good,” said I, “and perfectly satisfactory. Now let us ascend the Big Pumlummon.”
In about a quarter of an hour we reached the summit of the hill, where stood a large carn or heap of stones. I got upon the top and looked around me.
A mountainous wilderness extended on every side, a waste of russet coloured hills, with here and there a black, craggy summit. No signs of life or cultivation were to be discovered, and the eye might search in vain for a grove or even a single tree. The scene would have been cheerless in the extreme had not a bright sun lighted up the landscape.
“This does not seem to be a country of much society,” said I to my guide.
“It is not, sir. The nearest house is the inn we came from, which is now three miles behind us. Straight before you there is not one for at least ten, and on either side it is an anialwch to a vast distance. Plunlummon is not a sociable country, sir; nothing to be found in it, but here and there a few sheep or a shepherd.”
“Now,” said I, descending from the carn, “we will proceed to the sources of the rivers.”
“The ffynnon of the Rheidol is not far off,” said the guide; “it is just below the hill.”
We descended the western side of the hill for some way; at length, coming to a very craggy and precipitous place, my guide stopped, and pointing with his finger into the valley below, said:—