“So says Iolo Goch,” said I to myself, “in his description of Sycharth; I am on the right road.”
I asked the cook to whom the property of Sycharth belonged, and was told of course to Sir Watkin, who appears to be the Marquis of Carabas of Denbighshire. After a few more questions I thanked her and told her she might go. I then finished my breakfast, paid my bill, and, after telling the landlady that I should return at night, started for Llangedwin and Sycharth.
A broad and excellent road led along the valley in the direction in which I was proceeding.
The valley was beautiful, and dotted with various farm-houses, and the land appeared to be in as high a state of cultivation as the soil of my own Norfolk—that county so deservedly celebrated for its agriculture. The eastern side is bounded by lofty hills, and towards the north the vale is crossed by three rugged elevations, the middlemost of which, called, as an old man told me, Bryn Dinas, terminates to the west in an exceedingly high and picturesque crag.
After an hour’s walking I overtook two people, a man and a woman laden with baskets, which hung around them on every side. The man was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty, with a round face, fair flaxen hair, and rings in his ears; the female was a blooming buxom lass of about eighteen. After giving them the sele of the day, I asked them if they were English.
“Aye, aye, master,” said the man; “we are English.”
“Where do you come from?” said I.
“From Wrexham,” said the man.
“I thought Wrexham was in Wales,” said I.
“If it be,” said the man, “the people are not Welsh; a man is not a horse because he happens to be born in a stable.”