There are twelve licensed inns and public houses in this little town, all of them very respectable; and whether it is owing to superior management, or to the excellence of the water, which is the most pure imaginable, and flows abundantly in every part of the town, the ale brewed in Llangollen is in great and deserved repute all over the kingdom.
Two principal inns and hotels adorn the town—the Hand inn, which is in the centre, near the church; and the King’s Head, at the west end, near the bridge. The excellent accommodations afforded in both of them are not surpassed; they are under the best regulations, and abound with elegance and convenience. Post carriages and horses are kept at both houses, and the harp resounds in their halls. The Viceroys of the sister kingdom, as well as the nobility, seem to regard Llangollen as a favourite resting-place, in passing from one country to the other.
Mountains and hills enclose the town on every side. On the south, the Berwyn Mountains raise their lofty heads. On the north, Castell Dinas Bran, vulgarly called Crow Castle, seated on its conical summit, frowns over the town in ruined grandeur, and is backed with the vast and wonderful range of lime-stone, which forms a ridge stratum super stratum, and is called the Eglwyseg Rocks. A portion of these rocks, with the little tumulus-like hill of Pen y Coed, forms the eastern barrier. On the west, the lofty Gerant, [7] or Moel y Barbwr, with the Bwlch Coedd Herddyn, and other distant mountains, close the scene.
The sacred Dee, which here foams along its rocky bed, is crossed by a stone bridge at the western extremity of the town; the church stands in the centre; and at the east end is Plas Newydd, the residence of the two highly respected ladies whom Miss Seward has recorded in song.
Having thus given a brief sketch of Llangollen, embosomed as it is in a vale where all the beauties of nature seem to concentre, I shall proceed to retrace and fill up the outline of the picture, by classing under the name of each remarkable place its description, and the particulars of its history, quoting from and referring to authorities as I proceed; but as, from the varied scenery and the romantic views with which this neighbourhood abounds, an attempt to do justice to its several beauties would be vain, I shall abstain from endeavouring fully to describe what requires a more nervous hand than mine to paint; leaving to the reader’s taste full scope to select the scenes most congenial to his disposition, assuring him, that whether the dreary waste, over whose vast plains sterility and barrenness hold eternal sway; or the luxuriance of verdant meads and shady groves—the sombre haunts of secluded retirement; or the soul-inspiring gaiety of nature in her most lightsome mood—be most in unison with his frame of mind, here may be found solace for the melancholy, amusement for the gay, exercise for the naturalist, and food for the antiquarian and philosopher.
As a commencement of my proposed tour, I shall now beg my reader to accompany me on the north side of the Dee, to Clawdd Offa, or Offa’s Dyke, the ancient boundary of this part of the Principality.
Clawdd Offa.
“The best concerted schemes men lay for fame
Die fast away.”—“O lamentable sight! at once
The labours of whole ages lumber down,
A hideous and misshapen mass of ruin.”
Offa was the eleventh King of Mercia, and succeeded Ethelbald, A.D. 757. He was born deaf, lame, and blind. About the year 776, [11a] he caused a deep ditch and rampire to be made across the country, to curb the incursions of the Welch, beginning at the waters of the Dee, at Basingwerke Abbey, in Flintshire, to the river Wye, in Herefordshire; [11b] or, as some say, to the Severn sea. Like the famous wall of China, it is carried over rivers, rocks, valleys, and mountains, and extends nearly one hundred miles. [12a] I intend to commence my excursion with this ancient Dyke, and pursue it as far as is consistent with my plan. It runs through the parish of Ruabon, which is on the west side.