Bidding farewell to the beauteous Teifi, we must now in few words track the last of our rivers to the same inevitable destination. YSTWITH has had no poets that we are aware of. Not all who visit Aberystwith, indeed, perceive (though they surely might) that it gives its name to this salubrious town. The Rheidol, which also enters the sea at Aberystwith, is treated with distinction. For it there is a solid, handsome bridge, lighted with lamps. But for Ystwith there is only a very commonplace bridge.
The Ystwith rises in the broken upland a few miles south of Plinlimmon, runs in a deep channel for three or four miles, and then, with little hesitation, though infinite sinuosities, rushes due west. Its entire length is not more than thirty miles. Until it comes to the road by Eglwys Newydd, and within four miles of the Devil’s Bridge, on its rival the Rheidol, and even past Hafod, it sees few admirers, though it might have many. People who come to Eglwys Newydd, on their circuitous way to the Devil’s Bridge, do not go out of their path to see the Ystwith, but the Chantrey monument, in memory of Miss Johnes, in this “New Church.” Farther west the Manchester and Milford Railway runs in its valley from Trawscoed, and accompanies it to the sea. Here its beauty is of a superb order. The wooded mountains soar with most impressive effect on its southern side, now and then parting to show an abysmal glen, just as densely wooded, down which a baby stream tumbles towards our Ystwith. It matters not so very much, except to the angler, if the river does suffer from lead-poisoning. The mines do not obtrude themselves; and one may cheat oneself into the belief that the thickness of its waters comes from the melting snows high up on the mountains which it taps. For a few miles one may search the vocabulary for adjectives in eulogy of Ystwith. Then it sobers into comparatively level ground, and green pastures between receded green and heather-clad hills succeed the splendid towering woods. For the rest of its journey, it is an ordinary stream, and as such it slides into the sea just south of the town with a modesty that is almost affecting.
Aberystwith the piered, esplanaded and castled, might well condescend to take a little notice of its humble “godparent,” as well as of the Rheidol, and might gain credit in the condescension. This resort of a certain order of fashion (especially now that there are sweet girl-graduates to give a classic touch to its broad breezy promenade) seems, however, fully content to rely on the seducing charms of its powerful pure air, its tea-gardens on Constitution Hill, and—the Devil’s Bridge.
Wondrous indeed is the power of ozone! It reconciles us to weeks in lodging-houses that are ugly to behold and are in themselves uncomfortable. Not that Aberystwith is worse off in this respect than other places. Indeed, it may be said to be in a better plight than most, since the Esplanade buildings are handsome, once you have accepted their uniformity. Even were it otherwise, it would matter not at all to the sojourner in bracing Aberystwith! He acquires resignation and divers other virtues merely in breathing this pure invigorating air on the broad paved walk between the lodging-houses and the sea.
Photo: E. R. Gyde, Aberystwith.
ABERYSTWITH.
Of Aberystwith’s castle it must suffice to say that it dates from the eleventh century, and owes its parentage to Gilbert Strongbow. Cromwell cut its little comb effectually, and now it exists only in fragments. They are, however, attractive morsels, and the little green enclosure which they prettily dignify is a popular resort for visitors. There are seats about it, and you may perch close over the mutilated low cliffs of the coast and watch the breakers rolling in towards the town, while listening with your mind’s ear to the tales told by Time of this downright ancient little place. The University buildings adjoin the castle demesne. They are quite grandiose. One wonders how often in the year the noise of the waves on their stones is so loud that it distracts the academic minds within its stately walls. It has been said authoritatively that “Aberystwith stands out as being far and away the Welshiest of the University Colleges, and Cardiff as the most English.” This is gratifying to those of us who like to see the boundary-lines of nationalities clearly defined. And yet the faces of the students in the streets here do not show their birthright as one would expect.
But enough. One must be very morose or abased in body as well as mind not to perceive the peculiar charms of Aberystwith. To the enterprising, and perhaps jaded, sojourner in this Brighton of Wales it may, moreover, come as welcome news that for a mile or two of its course the Ystwith is of a beauty matchless even in Wales.