“The Ceiriog, sir,” said John; “the same river that we saw at Pont y Meibion.”
“The river,” said I, “which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and which runs thus:
‘Pe byddai ’r Cefn Ucha,
Yn gig ac yn fara,
A Cheiriog fawr yma’n fir aml bob tro,
Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn’
Barhâu hanner blwyddyn,
I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio.’”
“A good penill that, sir,” said John Jones. “Pity that the halls of great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of bread and beef for all comers.”
“No pity at all,” said I; “things are better as they are. Those mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one’s dinner proudly and independently at one’s inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great man’s table.”
We crossed the bridge, walked a little way up the hill, which was beautifully wooded, and then retraced our steps to the little inn, where I found my wife and daughter waiting for us, and very hungry. We sat down, John Jones with us, and proceeded to despatch our bread-and-butter and ale. The bread-and-butter were good enough, but the ale poorish. O, for an Act of Parliament to force people to brew good ale! After finishing our humble meal we got up, and having paid our reckoning, went back into the park, the gate of which the landlord again unlocked for us.
We strolled towards the north along the base of the hill. The imagination of man can scarcely conceive a scene more beautiful than the one which we were now enjoying. Huge oaks studded the lower side of the hill, towards the top was a belt of forest, above which rose the eastern walls of the castle; the whole forest, castle, and the green bosom of the hill glorified by the lustre of the sun. As we proceeded we again roused the deer, and again saw the three old black fellows, evidently the patriarchs of the herds, with their white, enormous horns; with these ancient gentlefolks I very much wished to make acquaintance, and tried to get near them, but no! they would suffer no such thing; off they glided, their white antlers, like the barked top boughs of old pollards, glancing in the sunshine, the smaller dappled creatures following them bounding and frisking. We had again got very near the castle, when John Jones told me that if we would follow him, he would show us something very remarkable: I asked him what it was.
“Llun Cawr,” he replied. “The figure of a giant.”
“What giant?” said I.
But on this point he could give me no information. I told my wife and daughter what he had said, and finding that they wished to see the figure, I bade John Jones lead us to it. He led us down an avenue just below the eastern side of the castle; noble oaks and other trees composed it, some of them probably near a hundred feet high; John Jones observing me looking at them with admiration, said: