From Llechryd we follow the Teify past Newcastle Emlyn; and thence, if we like, we may cross the moors to Lampeter; or, better still, we may go straight on through the Henllan woods to Llandyssil, a lovely little place where fishermen delight to dwell, and where in consequence there is a really charming little hotel. And if, as may well happen, there is no room for us there, we can after all go on our way to Lampeter, for there also there is quite a nice hotel, though of course it lacks the charm of the country garden and the rushing Teify. The moorland road between Llandyssil and Lampeter is in its way unique, for on both sides of it the hills are covered with a thick, short growth of gorse, a carpet of gold spread almost smoothly for miles.
At Lampeter there is nothing to detain us but the important business of consulting maps. For here is the parting of the ways. If our object is merely to reach the English border, our best way perhaps is to aim at Builth. To do this we must strike across the hills through lovely scenery; past Pumpsaint, where George Borrow awoke to hear the murmuring of the Cothi; through Llandovery, where we have been before on the way to Carmarthen; and thence over a really fine pass to Llanwrtyd Wells. If, on the other hand, we are aiming at North Wales our obvious course is to strike across to Aberaeron, and thence follow the coast to Aberystwith and Barmouth. And if—and this is the course I strongly recommend—we intend to complete the circle, and end our little tour by running down the Wye Valley, then too we should make for Aberystwith, and, turning thence eastward, join the infant Wye on the slopes of Plynlimmon.
KILGERRAN CASTLE, NEAR CARDIGAN.
THE WYE NEAR ITS SOURCE.
[THE VALLEY OF THE WYE]
Those who have stout hearts and stout boots may, I believe, discover the actual source of the Wye among the rushes of Plynlimmon. Five miles of hard walking over rather dull downs will procure them the satisfaction of seeing the first gleams of the thin silver thread that is destined to grow into the most beautiful river of England. Most of us, however, will be content to meet the Wye for the first time when it is five miles old, so to speak, at the point where it touches the high-road from Aberystwith to Newtown. Even here it is a tiny stream, rushing lightheartedly down the hill over the rocks, unsobered as yet by the dignified reflections of Hereford and Tintern and Chepstow Castle.