“Which is the shortest?”
“O that over the hills, sir; it is about twenty miles from here to the Pont y Gwr Drwg over the hills, but more than twice that by the valleys.”
“Well, I suppose you would advise me to go by the hills.”
“Certainly, sir. That is, if you wish to break your neck, or to sink in a bog, or to lose your way, or perhaps, if night comes on, to meet the Gwr Drwg himself taking a stroll. But to talk soberly. The way over the hills is an awful road, and indeed for the greater part is no road at all.”
“Well, I shall go by it. Can’t you give me some directions?”
“I’ll do my best, sir; but I tell you again that the road is a horrible one, and very hard to find.”
He then went with me to the gate of the inn, where he began to give me directions, pointing to the south, and mentioning some names of places through which I must pass, amongst which were Waen y Bwlch and Long Bones; at length he mentioned Pont Erwyd, and said, “If you can but get there you are all right, for from thence there is a very fair road to the bridge of the evil man. Though I dare say if you get to Pont Erwyd—and I wish you may get there—you will have had enough of it, and will stay there for the night, more especially as there is a good inn.”
Leaving Machynlleth, I ascended a steep hill which rises to the south of it. From the top of this hill there is a fine view of the town, the river and the whole valley of Dyfi. After stopping for a few minutes to enjoy the prospect I went on. The road at first was exceedingly good, though up and down, and making frequent turnings. The scenery was beautiful to a degree, lofty hills were on either side clothed most luxuriantly with trees of various kinds, but principally oaks. “This is really very pleasant,” said I, “but I suppose it is too good to last long.” However, I went on for a considerable way, the road neither deteriorating nor the scenery decreasing in beauty; “surely I can’t be in the right road,” said I; “I wish I had an opportunity of asking.” Presently seeing an old man working with a spade in a field near a gate, I stopped and said in Welsh, “Am I in the road to the Pont y Gwr Drwg?” The old man looked at me for a moment, then shouldering his spade he came up to the gate, and said in English, “In truth, sir, you are.”
“I was told that the road thither was a very bad one,” said I, “but this is quite the contrary.”
“This road does not go much farther, sir,” said he; “it was made to accommodate grand folks who live about here.”