“O yes! but the path, sir, as you see, is rather steep and dangerous.”
“Never mind,” said I. “Let us try it.”
“Isn’t seeing the fountain sufficient for you, sir?”
“By no means,” said I. “It is not only necessary for me to see the sources of the rivers, but to drink of them, in order that in after times I may be able to harangue about them with a tone of confidence and authority.”
“Then follow me, sir; but please to take care, for this path is more fit for sheep or shepherds than gentlefolk.”
And a truly bad path I found it; so bad indeed that before I had descended twenty yards I almost repented having ventured. I had a capital guide, however, who went before and told me where to plant my steps. There was one particularly bad part, being little better than a sheer precipice; but even here I got down in safety with the assistance of my guide, and a minute afterwards found myself at the source of the Rheidol.
The source of the Rheidol is a small, beautiful lake, about a quarter of a mile in length. It is overhung on the east and north by frightful crags, from which it is fed by a number of small rills. The water is of the deepest blue and of very considerable depth. The banks, except to the north and east, slope gently down, and are clad with soft and beautiful moss. The river, of which it is the head, emerges at the south-western side, and brawls away in the shape of a considerable brook, amidst moss and rushes down a wild glen tending to the south. To the west the prospect is bounded, at a slight distance, by high, swelling ground. If few rivers have a more wild and wondrous channel than the Rheidol, fewer still have a more beautiful and romantic source.
After kneeling down and drinking freely of the lake I said:
“Now, where are we to go to next?”
“The nearest ffynnon to that of the Rheidol, sir, is the ffynnon of the Severn.”