On the Third Day go through Capel Curig again, turning at Pen-y-Gwryd,—where Charles Kingsley, the novelist, and Tom Hood spent so many happy days and where there is an excellent inn,—to go to Beddgelert. You will run down one of the most beautiful roads in Great Britain, wide, smooth, with all Snowdonia at your right-hand side, and on the left, mountains that roll away towards the jagged summit of Cynicht; down past beautiful Lake Gwynant; past beautiful country places; past Dinas Lake where a remarkable creature of mythological times is supposed to have lived—fairy tale seems to have made a sort of crocodile out of what was probably a beaver;—past Dinas Emrys, on which there are still remains of a Roman stronghold and where the magician Merlin Ambrosius worked many a spell and Arthur has often been; still on, past Aran, a mountain only less high than Snowdon, from whose side leaps a little waterfall; along a road with a turbulent Welsh river on one side and fawn-like, mottled beach trees on the other; now on to the outskirts of the village, where one begins to see signboards announcing lodgings, and finally, into the village of Beddgelert, set sheltered and surrounded in its cup of mountains, and where, if you have a heart for legend, you may see a dog’s grave and believe the beautiful old tale; and where, if you have an eye for beauty, you may have your eyes filled—eat your cake, indeed, and take some of it away with you;—and where, if you have a mind to rest, you may stay on indefinitely, finding each day more peaceful and more lovely than the last in that little mountain-cupped village, with the sound of its running rivers and its tumbling mountain streams and the day-long cawing of its rooks. If you want a welcome from some one who loves Americans and who will do all that she can for them, you could not do better than go to Mrs. Howell Griffith Powell, who will give you excellent simple food and, if it is a cold day or you happen merely to want it as an added pleasure, an open fire. There are good hotels there, too, the Royal Goat Hotel and the Prince Llewelyn.
Then in the afternoon you will go on down through Aberglaslyn Pass. Perhaps you will stand on the old bridge for a few minutes and read or listen to the story of how the Devil—always a singularly active figure in Wales and the Welsh imagination—tried to get an unjust toll for the building of that bridge and was outwitted. The Welsh mind—and the revival is a point in proof—takes a singular delight in outwitting the Devil. Now, on to Tremadoc, where on the right-hand side of the road you will see the house in which Shelley, the poet, lived for a year with poor unhappy Harriet. From Portmadoc you can take a short détour to Harlech and its castle, a tremendous old pile of a fortress, scarcely beautiful, but very impressive as it stands upon its vast rock looking out over the sea and the mountains, and down over the little cottages sheltered at its foot. As you look across the sea, you are gazing upon the land where King Mark is supposed to have had his palace and upon Criccieth, where you may still see an old stub of a castle. Perhaps you will be even more interested to know that Lloyd George has his summer home in Criccieth, and that not far from Harlech, Bernard Shaw has spent a good deal of his time preparing his next delightfully wicked laugh at the expense of himself and mankind. Just opposite Harlech Castle is a good inn where one can get an ample dinner or luncheon or tea; and a car or one’s walking-traps may be left.
Retracing a few miles from Harlech, follow the road through the beautiful Vale of Maentwrog. It was in the Vale of Maentwrog that Lord Lyttleton said, “One might with the woman one loves pass an age in this vale and think it but a day.” Up through this wonderful vale you will see a tiny narrow-gauge railway making its way. Sharp is the contrast between the country at Festiniog, from which one looks down upon the Vale of Maentwrog, and the country about Blaenau Festiniog, which is the next town beyond. Blaenau Festiniog—high up on the mountain side, with the peaks of gray rock summits towering high above the village and rocks everywhere coming down to the backs of the houses, miles of slate rubbish within sight of every street in the village—has for its proud boast the fact that it contains the largest slate quarries in the world. Here are quarried the beautiful blue slates of which Wales is proud, and which, alas, the cheaper French slates have been driving out of the market. It is well worth the trouble to climb the quarry steps up the Oakeley Quarry. Then on through the Lledr Valley, with every turn of the road near the Lledr River, through plantations of pines, past little houses, down this beautifully graded road until the Lledr River joins the Conway, past the Fairy Glen, and so home once more to Bettws.
A Fourth Day should be spent in a more fertile part of the country following the Cerrig-y-Druidion road through to Corwen. A few miles farther on, along the river Dee, one comes to Llangollen, a sweet old town, where lived those two dear, high-spirited, quaint old ladies of Llangollen; where there are excellent inns in a fertile valley, good shops, a town Welsh to its finger tips, and an old abbey called Valle Crucis. One hears so much of Tintern Abbey on its southern English river, yet there is something about Valle Crucis which I think is no less lovely. More of a ruin it is, and in some ways more of a treasure. On the whole, it has fallen into greater dilapidation, but there are parts of it from which one can read much of a life that is past. There is a charming old chapter house almost intact; a delightful old fishpond from which the monks, who had an eye for what was good to eat, took their carp; and there are such graceful Norman chimneys and fireplaces as I do not remember having seen any place else; and there, too, the old blind rector shows one the things which he cannot see any more, saying over and over as he guides one around, “I never destroy anything that is old.” The restoration of this abbey is his work, his life, and before his sight went he had put into print such records of its past life that he had identified himself with its history for all time to come. Americans he loves, too, and you will give as well as get pleasure.
In conclusion, a few general suggestions. You would find it amply worth your while to motor over to Bala, or, if you are not motoring, to take the train over there. The lake is beautiful, accommodations are good, and one can, from Bala as a centre, make several short and most interesting trips:—one to Dolgelly, where Tennyson spent so many of his vacations; another up to the quaint little town of Ruthin in which Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Piozzi (Mrs. Thrale) spent some little time and of which Mrs. Piozzi tells the charming story which I have repeated elsewhere. She was discussing with the caretaker of one of the little churches in the possession of the Thrale family her plans for her journey and mentioned that she was going to Ruthin. “Ruthin, mum,” he said, “my wife came from Ruthin, and when she died I made up my mind I’d go with the body to Ruthin, for I thought I would find it a pleasant journey, and indeed, mum, I found it a very pleasant journey.”
[2] Buy anywhere you happen to be in Wales, The Gossiping Guide to Wales; its maps, big and small, and its text answer all questions. Price, one shilling.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A