“Not often. He has plenty of other houses, but he sometimes comes there to hunt.”
“What is the place’s name?”
“Llan Gedwin.”
I turned to the left, as the labourer had directed me. The path led upward behind the great house, round a hill thickly planted with trees. Following it, I at length found myself on a broad road on the top extending east and west, and having on the north and south beautiful wooded hills. I followed the road, which presently began to descend. On reaching level ground I overtook a man in a waggoner’s frock, of whom I inquired the way to Sycharth. He pointed westward down the vale to what appeared to be a collection of houses, near a singular-looking monticle, and said, “That is Sycharth.”
We walked together till we came to a road which branched off on the right to a little bridge.
“That is your way,” said he, and pointing to a large building beyond the bridge, towering up above a number of cottages, he said, “that is the factory of Sycharth;” he then left me, following the high road, whilst I proceeded towards the bridge, which I crossed, and coming to the cottages, entered one on the right-hand, of a remarkably neat appearance.
In a comfortable kitchen, by a hearth on which blazed a cheerful billet, sat a man and woman. Both arose when I entered; the man was tall, about fifty years of age, and athletically built; he was dressed in a white coat, corduroy breeches, shoes, and grey worsted stockings. The woman seemed many years older than the man; she was tall also, and strongly built, and dressed in the ancient Welsh female costume, namely, a kind of round half-Spanish hat, long blue woollen kirtle, or gown, a crimson petticoat, and white apron, and broad, stout shoes with buckles.
“Welcome, stranger,” said the man, after looking me a moment or two full in the face.
“Croesaw, dyn dieithr—welcome, foreign man,” said the woman, surveying me with a look of great curiosity.
“Won’t you sit down?” said the man, handing me a chair.