“Was there as much water tumbling then as now?”
“More, for there had fallen more rain.”
“I suppose the torrent is sometimes very dreadful?” said I.
“It is indeed, especially in winter; for it is then like a sea, and roars like thunder or a mad bull.”
After I had seen all I wished of the cataract, the woman asked me to come to the house and take some refreshment. I followed her to a neat little room where she made me sit down and handed me a bowl of buttermilk. On the table was a book in which she told me it was customary for individuals who visited the cataract to insert their names. I took up the book which contained a number of names mingled here and there with pieces of poetry. Amongst these compositions was a Welsh englyn on the Rhyadr, which though incorrect in its prosody I thought stirring and grand. I copied it, and subjoin it with a translation which I made on the spot.
“Crychiawg, ewynawg anian—yw y Rhyadr
Yn rhuo mal taran;
Colofn o dwr, gloyw-dwr glan,
Gorwyllt, un lliw ag arian.”“Foaming and frothing from mountainous height,
Roaring like thunder the Rhyadr falls;
Though its silvery splendour the eye may delight,
Its fury the heart of the bravest appals.”
CHAPTER LXXI
Wild Moors—The Guide—Scientific Discourse—The Land of Arthur—The Umbrella—Arrival at Bala.
When I had rested myself and finished the buttermilk I got up, and, making the good woman a small compensation for her civility, inquired if I could get to Bala without returning to Llan Rhyadr.
“O yes,” said she, “if you cross the hills for about five miles you will find yourself upon a road which will take you straight to Bala.”