When we have had our luncheon at the Castle Hotel we must cross the road to Plas Mawr, the town house of the Wynnes of Gwydir, who entertained Queen Elizabeth there more than once, and even decorated her rooms with appropriate symbols, royal arms, and monograms. The plaster mouldings in this house are its special feature: fireplaces, ceilings, walls, all are ornamented with them, and in each room the design is different. One cannot, however, enjoy the mouldings and the oak furniture and the priests’ hiding-hole and the lantern window with an undivided mind, for the Plas Mawr ghost—unconventional soul!—walks by daylight.
CONWAY CASTLE.
THE PASS OF NANT FFRANCON.
We leave Conway by the road that follows the western bank of the river, for by so doing we secure an impressive backward view of the old town walls, which is ample compensation for the steep ascent that soon carries us out of sight. Moreover this road, after a few more hills and a few more miles of level going, with a view up the valley that grows lovelier every moment, will lead us to Trefriew, a dear little watering-place with a good hotel. The tiny church here has no outward attractions; it has not even any appearance of age. Yet it has its own romance; for it is said that when the English wife of Llewelyn the Great—Joan, the daughter of King John—found the severe climb to the old church of Llanrhychwyn too much for her, her thoughtful husband built this one for her at the foot of the hill. Those who do not share her feelings may still see, on the heights above the village, the yet older church where Llewelyn worshipped before his wife objected to the walk. And beyond it again, on the wild hill-top, is Llyn Geirionydd, on whose shores lived Taliesin, the Bard of the Radiant Brow, the most famous of all the Welsh bards.
Between Trefriew and Bettws there are but a few miles of level road and very lovely scenery. Gwydir Castle, the old house of the Wynnes, stands between us and the river, and may be seen when Lord Carrington is away. It is full, I believe, of carvings and tapestry and relics of history. Queen Elizabeth stayed here, and Leicester, and Charles I.
But here among these wild Welsh hills Elizabeth’s starched ruff and Charles’s curls strike one as a little out of place. We may find memories of Elizabeth—who seems to have slept in as many different places as a motorist—in half the towns and big houses of England. This is the country of the Kings of Gwynedd.
We saw the Lledr Valley stretched out before us as we came down the hill from Pentre Voelas to Bettws. But that bird’s-eye view of it gives one no idea at all of its extreme beauty; of the towering height of its steep slopes, now bare and rocky, now richly wooded: of its brilliant colouring and deep purple shadows. At the head of it, where its beauty is partly spoiled by quarries and all their works, is Dolwyddelan village; and beyond that again, standing alone among the desolate hills, is the stern tower where Llewelyn the Great, the “eagle of men,” is believed to have been born. It is only a square tower now, and though it once had two towers it was never a place of any size; for Dolwyddelan and Dolbadarn, the two mountain strongholds of the princes of Gwynedd, did not rely upon their own strength, but on the great bewildering hills that defended them on every side. Thus it was that this small fortress was the last to yield to Edward I. And while remembering Llewelyn here do not let us forget to dedicate one sigh to his poor father, Iorwerth Drwyndwn—of the broken nose—who, when that unfortunate feature kept him from his princedom, was given this country and its tower by way of compensation.