The front of Heaven was full of fiery shapes,
Of burning cressets; and at my birth
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shak’d like a coward.”
From this lofty region, half earth and half sky—for the Wye can lay claim to trace its source to the very clouds that hang thick upon Plinlimmon’s head—the tiny rivulet bounds down the mountain-side, and the Fates, catching at a myriad of still smaller rills, braid them into the main stream, as the tresses of a maiden’s hair are woven together, till united they form a brook. For a number of miles the land through which the Wye’s course is laid continues to be melancholy in the extreme, and the torrent, like all urchins brought up amidst harsh, inclement surroundings, goes on its way brawling and turbulent, playing leapfrog with rocks, flinging itself over precipices, swirling in little maelstroms, and almost getting blown away in spray; and it is not until the pretty village of Llangurig is reached that it comes in part to its senses, and, although still boisterous, shows itself amenable to the influence of civilisation. Not only does the Wye here meet for the first time with civilisation, but here, too, it becomes acquainted with that which later on in its life is one of its glories, almost its crowning glory—trees. The head and shoulders of mighty Plinlimmon afford no gracious foothold for these children of fat lands and lusty air, scarcely a bush raising its branches in the bog and marsh of the mountain. But up to Llangurig a few of them have straggled, to break the monotony of the mountainous region. Here, too, a bridge—one of the few works of man that sometimes add to rather than detract from the effect of river-scenery, always provided that it is not a modern railway bridge of iron—crosses the young stream; and a church, the first of many on the banks of the Wye, stands near by. A short distance below this village the stream spreads out in its valley, and flows more gently amongst huge boulders that have been hurled down from the sides of the mountains.
THE WYE AND THE USK.
Between Llangurig and the next village of any importance, Rhayader Gwy, to give it its full name, although most people are content to call it by its “Christian” name only, leaving the “Gwy” to take care of itself—between these two villages the Wye enters Radnorshire; and now the scenery, although still wildly mountainous, is of a more subdued description, trees becoming more plentiful, and the rocks, occasionally shaking their heads free from the thick covering of spongy morass, beginning to stand out bold and picturesque, and to take their proper place in the composition of mountain-scenery. A short distance above Rhayader Gwy the river Marteg pours its tiny volume into the Wye, and here is one of the choicest bits of scenery in all the upper reaches of our stream. Nannerth Rocks, lofty crags, confront the river, and narrow the bed so that the combined waters can only squeeze through at the expense of a mighty uproar and much plunging and dashing and flinging of spray and foam, the brawl of the forced passage being audible for a great distance. After its straitened course between these rocks, the river enters an easier bed and flows sulkily down to Rhayader Gwy.
This village has a situation as wonderful as any in all the kingdom. On every side tower the great hills, not harsh and gloomy now, but clothed with oak forest thick and deep. Not so many years ago there were, as the name of the village bears record, falls at Rhayader Gwy; but in building the bridge that spans the stream the good people, little caring for the picturesqueness of the place, removed the stones and widened the channel, and so reduced the falls to rapids.