Having seen all I could well see of the church and its precincts I departed with my kind guide. After we had retraced our steps some way, we came to some stepping-stones on the side of a wall, and the miller pointing to them said:
“The nearest way to the house of Gronwy will be over the llamfa.”
I was now become ashamed of keeping the worthy fellow from his business and begged him to return to his mill. He refused to leave me, at first, but on my pressing him to do so, and on my telling him that I could find the way to the house of Gronwy very well by myself, he consented. We shook hands, the miller wished me luck, and betook himself to his mill, whilst I crossed the llamfa. I soon, however, repented having left the path by which I had come. I was presently in a maze of little fields with stone walls over which I had to clamber. At last I got into a lane with a stone wall on each side. A man came towards me and was about to pass me—his look was averted, and he was evidently one of those who have “no English.” A Welshman of his description always averts his look when he sees a stranger who he thinks has “no Welsh,” lest the stranger should ask him a question and he be obliged to confess that he has “no English.”
“Is this the way to Llanfair?” said I to the man. The man made a kind of rush in order to get past me.
“Have you any Welsh?” I shouted as loud as I could bawl.
The man stopped, and turning a dark sullen countenance half upon me said, “Yes, I have Welsh.”
“Which is the way to Llanfair?” said I.
“Llanfair, Llanfair?” said the man, “what do you mean?”
“I want to get there,” said I.
“Are you not there already?” said the fellow stamping on the ground, “are you not in Llanfair?”