May 13.—At 5 a.m. the sun was shining gloriously upon the mountains. Wash and breakfast in the open air. In the forenoon we three took the hilly road leading to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch. A light breeze from off the mountains carried the smell of spring everywhere. The birds were all a-twitter in the leafing woods. Blue speedwells, white stars of stitchwort, bee-haunted gorse bloom—all turned to salute the sovereign sun glowing down upon the land. Gilderoy, ever a good walker, was soon pegging on ahead; then at a stile in a hedge he would wait until Oli and I came up. Just below the village of Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, we stood on the puri porj (old bridge) and watched the trout leap in the vandyke-brown pools of the river Alwen. On to the “Hand” tavern, my ideal village inn. George Borrow saw the interiors of many such houses during his tramps through “Wild Wales.” Nor are we likely to forget the kindness we received at the home of a certain great Scholar-Gypsy and Gypsy-Scholar, perched upon a high point commanding a magnificent landscape.
About tea-time a jolly face appeared at our tent door, announcing the arrival of Gil’roy’s brother Jim, and, just as dusk was enfolding the scene, a merry boy came bounding into the camp. This was Deborah Purum’s Willy, who told us that Bala Fair was to take place on the morrow. Lively indeed was our camp this evening, for had not our company increased by two? Resolving to set off in good time toward Bala in the morning, we slipped into our beds about midnight, and soon forgot to listen to the owls hooting mournfully in the woods.
May 14.—A white mist on the mountains foretold a fine day, and by 6.30 we were breakfasting on trout and bacon done over a wood fire. Then harnessing the mare to the tilt-cart, we all climbed aboard, and away we rattled towards Bala. The wayside woods were empurpled with hyacinths, and on the hedge-banks little bushes of bilberry hung out their crimson flowers. Oli Purum, who is half a Welsh Gypsy, could tell us the very names of the families who had camped round the black patches on the roadsides. Springing off the cart, he would examine the heaps of willow-peelings with a critical eye. “Âwa, (yes) I thought so. It’s some of the Klisons (Locks) that’s been hatshin akai (stopping here).” A splendid trotter, our mare made light work of pulling the tilt-cart over those seventeen miles down the vale to Bala. Of course we were all wondering as to the Gypsies we might see at the fair. What a crowd of farm-folk we found filling the streets on our arrival. Just in front of the “White Lion” hostelry, I saw a potter-woman standing before a spread of crockery of all shapes and sizes on the side of the road, and, curiously enough, I had once met her son, Orlando Fox, at Bristol.
Little did we dream, however, of the surprise awaiting us here in Bala. Elbowing our way through the dense crowd, it was Gilderoy who was the first to exclaim, “Dik odoi” (Look there), and turning our gaze that way, there, sure enough, was a very dark old Gypsy with grizzled locks and glittering black eyes. His garments were weathered by long wear amid the mountains, and in him I recognized the patriarchal Matthew (a descendant of Abraham Wood) whom I had met some years before.
The Woods preserve many stories of Abraham, their earliest known progenitor, who flourished about the beginning of the eighteenth century. Entering Wales from Somerset, he brought with him a violin, and is supposed to have been the first to play upon one in the Principality. According to tradition, “He always rode on a blood-horse, would not sleep in the open but in barns, wore a three-cocked hat with gold lace, a red silk coat, a waistcoat embroidered with green leaves, had half-crowns for buttons on his coat, sported white breeches gaily decked with ribbons, pumps with silver buckles and spurs, a gold watch and chain, and two gold rings.” Many of Abraham’s descendants are excellent players on the harp, and all, without exception, speak pure, deep, inflected Romany, akin to the beautiful musical dialect spoken by the Gypsies of Eastern Europe. Angling all summer, fiddling or harping all winter, such is the life of the Gypsy Woods of Wales.
It was with joy that we rambled with Matty along the shore of Bala Llyn, a glittering mirror in the sunshine broken only by rings made by rising fish. The windless day of summerlike quality induced our little party to loiter by the lake, and when at length we turned to come away, there on the road stood a Romany lass with her little brother, as merry a pair as ever wore Gypsy togs. To me it was very delightful to hear their fluent Welsh Romany.
There was no difficulty in persuading Matty to accompany us to our camp at Maerdy. He seemed only too glad to escape into the sweet open country after the close atmosphere of the town streets. And how the mare did travel after her feed and rest! On and on up the mountain road we went, startling the horned sheep on the unfenced roadsides. Now and then Matty would point out the spots where his old folks used to camp. Well away from the town, we took a bite of bread and cheese at a tiny white inn backed by a strip of pine forest, from whose shadows darted a grey sheep-dog almost wolf-like in its leanness of figure and sharpness of nose. What a penetrating bark it had too!
A few more miles of rough road, with here a lone farm and there a cottage with lumps of white spar on its window-ledges, brought us once again to the “Cymro,” Maerdy, where we encountered a funny horse-breaker, reminding one of Borrow’s gossipy ostlers. Oli Purum’s tricks here “took the cake,” and to the delight of his audience he kept up a constant stream of them.