I made the clerk, who appeared almost fit to be a clergyman, a small present, and returned to the inn. After paying my bill I flung my satchel over my shoulder, took my umbrella by the middle in my right hand, and set off for the Rhyadr.
I entered the narrow glen at the western extremity of the town and proceeded briskly along. The scenery was romantically beautiful: on my left was the little brook, the waters of which run through the town; beyond it a lofty hill; on my right was a hill covered with wood from the top to the bottom. I enjoyed the scene, and should have enjoyed it more had there been a little sunshine to gild it.
I passed through a small village, the name of which I think was Cynmen, and presently overtook a man and boy. The man saluted me in English and I entered into conversation with him in that language. He told me that he came from Llan Gedwin, and was going to a place called Gwern something in order to fetch home some sheep. After a time he asked me where I was going.
“I am going to see the Pistyll Rhyadr,” said I.
We had then just come to the top of a rising ground.
“Yonder’s the Pistyll!” said he, pointing to the west.
I looked in the direction of his finger, and saw something at a great distance, which looked like a strip of grey linen, hanging over a crag.
“That is the waterfall,” he continued, “which so many of the Saxons come to see. And now I must bid you good-bye, master; for my way to the Gwern is on the right.”
Then followed by the boy he turned aside into a wild road at the corner of a savage, precipitous rock.