I went on, the vale increasing in beauty; there was a considerable drawback, however: one of those detestable contrivances a railroad was on the farther side—along which trains were passing, rumbling and screaming.
I saw a bridge on my right hand with five or six low arches over the river, which was here full of shoals. Asked a woman the name of the bridge.
“Pont Fawr ei galw, sir.”
I was again amongst the real Welsh—this woman had no English.
I passed by several remarkable mountains, both on the south and northern side of the vale. Late in the afternoon I came to the eastern extremity of the vale and ascended a height. Shortly afterwards I reached Rhigos, a small village.
Entering a public-house I called for ale and sat down amidst some grimy fellows, who said nothing to me and to whom I said nothing—their discourse was in Welsh and English. Of their Welsh I understood but little, for it was a strange corrupt jargon. In about half-an-hour after leaving this place I came to the beginning of a vast moor. It was now growing rather dusk and I could see blazes here and there; occasionally I heard horrid sounds. Came to Irvan, an enormous mining-place with a spectral-looking chapel, doubtless a Methodist one. The street was crowded with rough savage-looking men. “Is this the way to Merthyr Tydvil?” said I to one.
“Yes!” bawled the fellow at the utmost stretch of his voice.
“Thank you!” said I, taking off my hat and passing on.
Forward I went, up hill and down dale. Night now set in. I passed a grove of trees and presently came to a collection of small houses at the bottom of a little hollow. Hearing a step near me I stopped and said in Welsh: “How far to Merthyr Tydvil?”
“Dim Cumrag, sir!” said a voice, seemingly that of a man.