“No,” said the child; “but I have this,” and she brought me some butter-milk in a basin. I just tasted it, gave the child a penny and blessed her.
“Oes genoch tad?”
“No,” said she; “but I have a mam.” Tad im mam; blessed sounds; in all languages expressing the same blessed things.
After walking for some hours I saw a tall blue hill in the far distance before me. “What is the name of that hill?” said I to a woman whom I met.
“Pen Caer Gybi,” she replied.
Soon after I came to a village near to a rocky gulley. On inquiring the name of the village, I was told it was Llan yr Afon, or the church of the river. I passed on; the country was neither grand nor pretty—it exhibited a kind of wildness, however, which did not fail to interest me—there were stones, rocks, and furze in abundance. Turning round the corner of a hill, I observed through the mists of evening, which began to gather about me, what seemed to be rather a genteel house on the road-side, on my left, and a little way behind it a strange kind of monticle, on which I thought I observed tall upright stones. Quickening my pace, I soon came parallel with the house, which, as I drew nigh, ceased to look like a genteel house, and exhibited an appearance of great desolation. It was a white, or rather grey structure of some antiquity. It was evidently used as a farm-house, for there was a yard adjoining to it, in which were stacks and agricultural implements. Observing two men in the yard, I went in. They were respectable, farming-looking men, between forty and fifty; one had on a coat and hat, the other a cap and jacket. “Good evening,” I said in Welsh.
“Good evening,” they replied in the same language, looking inquiringly at me.
“What is the name of this place?” said I.
“It is called Tŷ gwyn,” said the man of the hat.
“On account of its colour, I suppose?” said I.