Some time after tea the younger Mr E. and myself took a walk in an eastern direction along a path cut in the bank, just above the stream. After proceeding a little way amongst most romantic scenery, I asked my companion if he had ever heard of the pool of Catherine Lingo—the deep pool, as the reader will please to remember, of which John Jones had spoken.
“Oh yes,” said young Mr E.: “my brothers and myself are in the habit of bathing there almost every morning. We will go to it if you please.”
We proceeded, and soon came to the pool. The pool is a beautiful sheet of water, seemingly about one hundred and fifty yards in length, by about seventy in width. It is bounded on the east by a low ridge of rocks forming a weir. The banks on both sides are high and precipitous, and covered with trees, some of which shoot their arms for some way above the face of the pool. This is said to be the deepest pool in the whole course of the Dee, varying in depth from twenty to thirty feet. Enormous pike, called in Welsh penhwiaid, or ducks-heads, from the similarity which the head of a pike bears to that of a duck, are said to be tenants of this pool.
We returned to the vicarage, and at about ten we all sat down to supper. On the supper-table was a mighty pitcher full of foaming ale.
“There,” said my excellent host, as he poured me out a glass, “there is a glass of cwrw, which Evan Evans himself might have drunk.”
One evening my wife, Henrietta, and myself, attended by John Jones, went upon the Berwyn, a little to the east of the Geraint or Barber’s Hill, to botanize. Here we found a fern which John Jones called Coed llus y Brân, or the plant of the Crow’s berry. There was a hard kind of berry upon it, of which he said the crows were exceedingly fond. We also discovered two or three other strange plants, the Welsh names of which our guide told us, and which were curious and descriptive enough. He took us home by a romantic path which we had never before seen, and on our way pointed out to us a small house in which he said he was born.
The day after, finding myself on the banks of the Dee in the upper part of the valley, I determined to examine the Llam Lleidyr or Robber’s Leap, which I had heard spoken of on a former occasion. A man passing near me with a cart I asked him where the Robber’s Leap was. I spoke in English, and with a shake of his head he replied “Dim Saesneg.” On my putting the question to him in Welsh, however, his countenance brightened up.
“Dyna Llam Lleidyr, sir!” said he, pointing to a very narrow part of the stream a little way down.
“And did the thief take it from this side?” I demanded.
“Yes, sir, from this side,” replied the man.