TRAVELLING IN TAFFYLAND.
People wander into Wales principally in search of health and amusement; a few for business; many without any purpose whatever, except the desire of changing place and doing something. Any one who finds himself in either of these classes need not fear being disappointed in the results of his visit; for there is motion and change enough throughout the country; sufficient business to make it worth the while of those who know how to buy and sell; amusement for all who are worth amusing, and health enough for all the world. Let no man, however, deceive himself with the vain expectation that he shall have no ups and downs in his pilgrimage through the country; let no one suppose that it is perpetual sunshine there; nor let any one fondly think that, because he does himself the honour of whipping a stream with fly and line, therefore, at every throw a sixpound trout is sure to swallow his bait. Far otherwise. The tourist in Wales must not be a man of many expectations, and then he will not be disappointed; he must be content to go many a weary mile to see some choice bit of scenery, and then to come as many or more miles home again; he must make up his mind to have plenty of rain, wind and cold, in the hottest day in summer; and he may cast his fly all the way up from Conwy to Penmachno without having “one single glorious rise.” In fact, he must be a patient reasonable man, and then he may adventure himself in Taffyland without fear.
But if he is an acute observer of nature—if he loves to see the wildest forms that mountains, and streams, and lakes can assume—if he likes to make himself a denizen of the clouds, and to hold converse with the children of the mist—if he can appreciate primitive national manners—if he has ever so small a smattering of English history—if he can listen to simple, plaintive music, and can be content to see birds, beasts, and fishes all enjoying themselves in their original freedom, then let him hasten to the mountain side, wander up the valley, stroll along the river, or dream away his day by the shingle bank on the sea shore; he will never repent of a visit to Wales.
The old road from Chester to Holyhead has been, and now is more than ever, the main line of entry for Saxons and other foreigners into the Cimbric land; but there are others quite as good. From Salop to Bangor by Telford’s Parliamentary road, through some of the finest scenery the country affords; or from Wrexham by Llangollen’s Vale and Bala’s Lake, athwart the land to Dolgelly; or from Aberystwyth, creeping along the sea-coast by Barmouth and Tremadoc to Caernarvon; or from Liverpool by the fast-going steamers close under Orme’s Head to the Menai Bridge; any of these ways is good. The main thing is once to get the foot fairly planted on Welsh soil; the natural attractions of the country will be sure to lead the traveller onward, and can scarcely lead him amiss.
Let no one come into Wales with a superfluity of luggage; the lighter the impediments of travelling, the quicker and the cheaper is that travelling performed. Let no one, unless absolutely forced to it, pretend to travel alone; solitude is sweet no doubt, but Montaigne remarks that it is still sweeter if there be somebody to whisper this to; add to which that society enlivens the journey, and, as the Scotch song has it,
“Company is aye the best, crossing owre the heather.”
“Company is aye the best, crossing owre the heather.”
“Company is aye the best, crossing owre the heather.”
“Company is aye the best, crossing owre the heather.”
Seeing too that conveyances are not so plentiful in the principality as they might be; and that a car or chaise costs no more for four than it does for one; let all those who are wise in their designs of Welsh travel come by pairs, or double couples. Four is an excellent number for a travelling party, since in case of dispute the votes are either even, or are three to one; four make up aparti carréat dinner; four balance a car well; four can split into two parties if need be; and four coming together to an inn are sure to fare much better than one solitary traveller.
Don’t go to Wales in July, the wettest and windiest month of the twelve that the principality has the honour of knowing. May is a sweet month; the colours of the woods and mountains gay and delicate, with little rain, and generally as much sun as is wanted. In June, every thing is in full perfection, and there are long days to boot, and you may then remain out under a rock all night without damage. August corresponds to June, but the days are shorter, and the company to be met with is commonly more select. September is generally the equivalent of May, but the colours are glowing with the rich tints of autumn; and though the days are still shorter, yet the sights to be seen in them will make up for this falling off. No person goes among the mountains in winter, except those who cannot help it; yet this is not their least advantageous period for being witnessed; and those who can brave frost and snow, and the unchained force of all the winds of heaven, will be repaid for the labours and discomforts of such a visit.
For those who are fond of the rod, the gun, and the chase, North Wales is a land of choice. Whether they bob for whales in Bardsey Sound, or hunt up the brooks and prattling streams of Merionethshire, or seek the banks of many a glassy mountain pool, they will find enough to repay them for their trouble. The shooter will find, from the grouse of Montgomeryshire and Caernarvonshire to the partridges and the snipes of Anglesey, abundant occupation for his gun. And the huntsman, though he cannot gallop over Caddir-Idris, will find many a wily fox more than a match for him and all his dogs, among the desolate cairns of the mountain tops, or may find hares as big as sheep, and fleet enough to try the mettle of the best horse he will dare to ride after them.
Whenever a tourist wishes to pass his summer months healthily and agreeably, but is in doubt whither to go, let him start off for Wales—North Wales—forthwith; and let him not return till wood and water, and hill and dale have ceased to call forth his admiration.
Do not trust too implicitly to guidebooks, good traveller; take them and consult them; but beware of their lying propensities. They have inveigled many a loving subject of her Majesty’s into a scrape, and have proved the dearest things he ever admitted into his pocket. Go with your eyes open; go with a little common sense; go to be pleased: don’t go to find fault. Make up your mind to rough it if need be; and don’t give yourself the airs of my Lord Duke at every little wayside inn that your dignity may be forced to put up at. You may then travel smoothly and cheerfully through the Cimbric territory.
Take also this along with you. The Welsh are tremendously slow coaches. Indolent, pig-headed, and careless, thedolce far nienteis their motto throughout life; and, were they left to themselves, they would positively retrograde through unwillingness to go a-head. It is of no use hurrying them; a Welshman was never in a hurry in his life; time, like water, is to him of little value; he has plenty and to spare of it, and the waste of either commodity is not thought of. In Wales, they let both run away often to little purpose; they have fewer “water privileges” than any one could imagine; and they turn their privilege of anad libitumsupply of leisure to very poor account. So do not hurry a Welshman; for you will not gain any ofhistime, but will only lose some of your own, by so doing.
The true way to enjoy Wales, and to understand the country, is to go and fix your quarters at some quiet little country inn in a spot to your taste; and remain there for a fortnight—a month—or as long as yourgustoendures; walking up the whole country around, until you know every crook and cranny of it, until it becomes in fact your “ancient neighbourhood.” Many, or rather innumerable are the spots where you may so fix yourself, and where your enjoyments, though simple, may be extreme. If you are a bachelor, you can get clean beds, sheets of driven snow, plenty of good milk, mountain mutton, and bread and butterà discrétion; and what the deuce does a man want more? If he is young, and in good health and spirits, and cannot fare upon this, let him put up his traps and go to the antipodes. Or, if you are in the softer predicament of having with you what, when you and I were young, you know, used to be calledpoetice, the “girl of your heart”—but what now in Polichinellic phraseology is termed the “wife of your bussum”—why, even in this extremity, you may find room for two in any inn that you venture to light upon. The lady must not be too fine in her notions, it is true; she must be of that breed and mettle that will enable her to face the mountain breeze, and wipe with hasty foot—as friend Gray says,—the dews of the upland lawn; to meet the sun or the moon, or any other natural phenomenon that is to be encountered on the hill-side. In short, she must be the sort of girl that can mount a rough pony, or scramble over a stone wall, and not care for her bonnet or her locks in a pelting shower, but must be content to follow her liege lord, and love him—and love his pursuits too, whether by the purling brook, or on the misty height. Be sure of it, my friend, that with such a companion as this, Welsh scenery—mountain scenery—nay,anyscenery, will have for you a double—ay, a tenfold charm.
Men enjoy mountains: women enjoy waterfalls. There is no saying why it is; but the fact is positive. Perhaps it may be that men can toil up the rugged steep with greater ease, and therefore enjoy themselves the more when they reach the top. Perhaps it is that there is something grand, and bold, and rough, and dangerous, in the very nature of a mountain, which the masculine mind is alone capable of fully understanding. In waterfalls, there is all the beauty of form, and light and graceful motion, and harmonious sound, and cooling freshness, and ever-changing variety that woman always loves; and there are overshadowing trees, and an escape from the noontide sun, and the hum of insect life, and moss-grown stones, and soft grassy banks. Waterfalls and their adjuncts have a kind of mystic influence about them that acts with all-persuasive energy on the female mind: hearts like stones are worn down by their action, and the swain has often been indebted to the Naiad for the granting of his prayer.
Well; wherever you may be, whether single or double, any where in Wales, the first thing to do is to make a bargain with your landlady, (Welsh inns are always kept by women,) whereby you may be “boarded and lodged and done for” at so much a day, or a week, or a month, or whatever time it may please you to stay. This is the very best of all plans for “taking your pleasure in your inn;” you know then the exact cost of your stay—the precise damage done to your pocket; you dine comfortably, without fearing that you are swallowing a five shilling piece in the midst of each chop, and you can witness the last day of your sojourn arrive without dread of that unpleasant winding up—the bill. You may get boarded and lodged comfortably, nay luxuriously, as far as mountain luxury goes, for a pound a-week: you may take your full swing of the house for this; and your landlady will ask for a repetition of the honour next year when you depart. So let no man say that living in Wales is extravagant; it is only thesavoir vivrethat is the scarce commodity.
And if you would know where to go and find comfortable quarters of this kind, and at this rate, then take our advice, gentle reader, and listen to a few experiences. Go to Bala, and fish the lake there till not a trout is left in it, and cut away at mine host’s mutton and beef, when you come back from your day’s excursion, as though you had not eaten for a week; and turn in by ten at night,—not later, mind; and be up again by five, and out on the mountain side, or amid the woods by six, and home again by seven to your morning fare. So shall you have health and happiness, and freedom from ennui the livelong day.
Or go to Ffestiniog, up among its mountains, and ramble over to the lakes below Snowdon, and visit the company at Beddgelert and Tan-yBwlch—rather aristocratic places in their way, and made for travellers with long purses. At Ffestiniog you are in the neighbourhood of the best mountain scenery of Wales; and as for vales and streams, you have such as you will never see elsewhere.
Or else go to Bettws-y-Coed near Llanrwst, the village of the confluence of so many streams and valleys; that sweet woodland scene, that choice land of waterfalls, and sunny glades, and wood-clad cliffs. Here you may have variety of scenery in the greatest perfection; and here you may enjoy the happiest admixture of the wild and the beautiful that the principality can boast of. It is indeed a lovely spot; and, provided the visitor has some intellectual resources and amusements within himself, one that the tourist can never get tired of. It will bear visiting again and again.Decies repetita placebit.
But, dear sir, if you are bent upon making the grand tour, and if you positively will see the whole of the country, then by all means start from Chester, and make a continual round until you arrive at Shrewsbury; so shall you see the whole length and breadth,—the bosom and the very bowels of the land. You must go and see Conwy, Penmaen Mawr, and “the Bridge,” as it is still emphatically called—Telford’s beautiful exemplification of the catenary curve—and then go and hunt out Prince Edward’s natal room in Caernarvon’s towers; and then clamber up Snowdon; and then go down again to Capel Curig and Beddgelert, and so pass by Pont Aberglaslyn to Tan-y-Bwlch, Ffestiniog and Dolgelly; and then mount Cadair Idris; and then run up to Bala and Llangollen, and so stretch away to the abode of the “proud Salopians.” And a very agreeable tour you will have made, no doubt; but you will not know Wales for all that. You have not been along the byeways, nor over the dreary heath, nor into the river’s bed, nor under the sea-crag’s height: you will not have seen a tithe of the wonders of the country. You must see all these great places of course: but you ought to look after much more than this; you must wander over the broad lands of the Vale of Clwyd, and look up all its glorious little trout streams; you must go to the solitary heights of Carnedd Llewelyn, and the Glidr above Nant Francon; and you must get up to Llyn Idwal, and have nerve enough to climb over and under the rocks of the Twll Du; and you must go to the very end of Llŷn, or else you will never know what it is to lie down flat at the edge of the Parwyd precipice, and look down six hundred feet sheer into the sea, with not a blade of grass nor a stone between you and the deep blue waters fresh from the Atlantic. And you must climb over the bleak Merionethshire hills to seaward, and hunt up the lonely fishing pools that abound in their recesses; and you must dive into the green wooded valleys of Montgomeryshire, and learn whence the Severn draws all its peat-brown waters. There is occupation enough in this for the longest summer that ever yet shone on Wales; you may start on your pilgrimage with the first green bud of spring, and end it with the sere and yellow leaf of autumn: but it is only in such lengthened and lonely rambles as these that the real beauties of the country are to be seen, and that the full loveliness of nature—unsophisticated nature—is to be perceived.
Take your fishing rod with you, take your sketch book; explore the whole country; bring it away with you both in mind and on paper: leave care and trouble behind you; banish all reminiscences of town; go and be a dweller with the birds and the dumb animals, with the leaves and the stones, with the oak in the forest and the carn on the mountain, and gain thereby a fund of health and satisfaction, that shall endure for many a long day and year, nor be exhausted even then.
You are too old a traveller, we will suppose, to need many instructions as to the general apparatus required; only mind and err rather on the side of scantiness than otherwise; you can get all you really want at the first town you come to. Who is the rash man that would risk a good hat or a good coat on a Welsh mountain? Alas! he shall soon know the end of his gear, and lament over the loss of his pence. The very idea of going into cloud-land with anything on that you care about spoiling, or rather that can by any possibility be spoiled! Is it not your privilege, your aim, your pride, when you get among the mountains, to be able to go right on end, through stream and bog, over rock and swamp, without stopping to think of habilimentary consequences? You may tell an old traveller by the “cut of his jib;” it is only your thorough cockney that comes down in his new green shooting coat, and his bright shepherd’s plaid trowsers, just out of the tailor’s hands, and a hat with the shine not yet taken out of it. Look at that tall, thin, bony, sinewy man, going along the road there with an easy gait, neither stiff nor lax, neither quick nor slow, but always uniform, whether up hill or down hill, or on level ground, always at the same pace; his knees never tightened, his instep never approaching to a hop; but in all weathers and in all seasons, over rough or smooth, never falling under three nor quite coming up to four miles an hour. And look at his low-crowned felt hat,—he wears a Jim-Crow one, by the way, in very hot weather,—why, you would not give it to a pig-driver, so brown and battered it seems: and look at his funny little coat; neither a coat nor a jacket,—neither black, nor brown, nor blue, but a mixture of all colours, just as the rain may have been pleased to leave portions of its dye remaining. And his trowsers, shrunk to mid-leg proportions, are just covering the tops of his gaiters, yet allowing a bit of his gray worsted socks to appear. A stout stick which he twirls merrily in his hand, and a light leathern wallet, not bigger than your letter-bag, thrown over one shoulder,—or else his fishing-basket coming snugly under his elbow. He is the true pedestrian,—he is the ancient traveller,—he is the lover of the Cymro and the Cymraeg,—he is the man that enjoys himself thoroughly in Wales.
Once upon a time, dear friend, we found ourselves coming over Moel Siabod, that wild and beautiful hill rising over the eastern side of Capel Curig; swinging away in our simplicity of heart, and purposing to reach the lonely fastness of Dolwyddelan by noon, on a piping hot July day. We had crowned the mountain ridge, and had come half-way down the eastern slope, when we found ourselves at the edge of a great peat bog, with never a path, nor a stone, nor any thing to guide us through it. Beyond and below it lay the valley for which we were making, green, smiling, and beautiful, as Welsh valleys generally are. Above and behind us rose the bare crags of the mountain, darkening into a purple crest as their summits reached the fleecy clouds. We had nothing to do but to adopt the glorious old rule of following our nose; and so, without further ado, we tried to pick our way across the bog. We have a reminiscence of sundry skippings from tuft to tuft of heather, and of wonderful displays of agility; and at last we began to congratulate ourselves on the immense display of juvenile vigour which we were making. One more leap on to a fine bright piece of green grassy sward, and we were safe. Beyond it lay a ridge of rock and terra firma to carry us onward. One more spring and we should have crossed the bog. So now here goes for it; three paces backwards, a good swing with the arms,—one, two, three, and away!—plump into the very middle of the green sward,—andthroughit, down, down, down, until our hat and stick alone remained aloft! Why, ’twas the most treacherous place of the whole; a kind of syren’s isle that tempted men to destruction by the beauty of outward form,—though beauty of sound, indeed, there was none. How we got out has always remained a mystery; but we floundered and tumbled about, and cut more extraordinary figures with our arms than we had done at any time the last ten days with our legs, until at length we seemed to crawl out like a fly out of a treacle pot, and to attain some drier ground. Our black velvet shooting coat, and our nice white ducks had never made such an approximation of colour before: we had put on the sad and sober russet brown in which dame nature so much delights, and we came forth from our grassy bed a good specimen of the tints of the mountain dye-house. It was enough; our resolution was taken:—half an hour’s sharp walking down the descent brought us to the banks of the Lledr; we were not five minutes in selecting a proper spot; and there we immediately converted ourselves into our own washerwoman, after the most primitive fashion that any antenoachite ever adopted. In another half hour we were beginning to look whitish again; and by the end of the sixty minutes we were clad in garments on the most approved hydropathic principles; wet bandages we had plenty of,—for if any one had offered us the wealth of India, we could not at that moment have produced a single dry thread on our body. But here our pedestrian resources again came to our aid; the sun shone more bright than ever; we were in the bottom of the valley: the heat was intense. The village was still four miles off, and by the time we arrived abreast of the welcome notification of “Cwrw dda,” we were dried, ironed, mangled, folded, and plaited, more commodiously, (though less uniformly,) than ever our buxom little laundress could have done for us.
Once and again we got into a brown predicament in Wales, not so easily got rid of, nor leaving so few disagreeable reminiscences. You will excuse us for mentioning it, if you please; but ourtableau de mœurswould not be complete without it. And here we beg leave to give notice that fastidious readers may at once close their eyes and read no more, or else skip over this page and try another. If they become offended, ‘twill be their own fault; what business have they to be prying into our secrets?
Once upon a time we did a rash thing: we made up our mind—and also our knapsack—to go to Bardsey Island. Now, ’tis a hundred to one that you never heard of Bardsey Island; and that, though your careful parents may have paid many a guinea per quarter for you, while at school, to learn Geography and the use of the Globes, you never yet were questioned by your usher as to where Bardsey Island was, nor what sort of a place it might be. Know, then, that it lies, a solitary green isle, some three miles or so from the extreme south-western point of Caernarvonshire,—a sort ofavant-posteto Wales, like the Scilly Isles to Cornwall. On it live some five-score of inhabitants, real natives, supporting themselves on oysters and lobsters, and other marine monsters. An occasional dog-fish is there reckoned a luxury. ’Tis a vastly curious place,—the oddest kinds of sea-birds to be found there of any spot under the sun,—at least in these latitudes; the rarest shells; the most unique sea-weeds; the greatest pets of periwinkles; and such loves of limpets! We were off, then, for Bardsey:—do not go there, dear reader—take our warning by the way, and remain rather at home. We got to a place with a most out-of-the-way name—Pwllheli; a sort ofne plus ultraof stupidity and dulness; and from thence we made our way in a car to one of more euphonious denomination, Aberdaron. This was really a lovely spot, embosomed in a deep valley, at the corner of a romantic bay, with an expanse of snow-white sand, sufficient to accommodate all the bathers in England,—the sea of as deep a blue as at Madeira, and rocks like those of Land’s End, with the eternal spray of the ocean playing over them. A picturesque old church, partly converted into a school, partly into a pigeon-house—and the main entry to which was by one of the windows, stands at one end of the village with a miserable pot-house at the other. There is a stream and a bridge for loungers to lean and spit over; but other amusement in the place is none. As for public accommodation, it has not yet been thought of; strangers do not come there. None but the adjoining boors come thither to sot and gossip;—and as for our dear mellifluous Anglo-Saxon tongue, ’tis a thing never heard of. On arriving there and exploring the localities, and arranging for a boat to Bardsey next morning, we began to think about a bed, and soon perceived, on reflection, the total absence of any suitable accommodation within the limits of the village. But mark you the excellence of Welsh hospitality. The grocer of the place, the man of “the shop”par excellence, hearing of, or rather seeing us in a quandary, sent us his compliments, with a polite request that we would take up our quarters under his roof for the night. This was genuine hospitality; we hesitated not; and a better turn out in the way of feeding we have not often met with. Broiled steaks of salmon, fresh caught in the adjoining stream, fowls, and a good slice of Cheshire cheese, soon set our gastronomic capabilities at ease. Porter—some of Guinness’s best—and a glorious jorum of whisky and water, moistened our clay, and comforted our inward man. None of your wishy-washy whisky, or poor pale limpid compound, such as you buy in London; but some of the real potheen, just arrived from Wicklow—thick, yellow, oily, and slow to come out of its narrow-necked bottle. And then such a bouquet!—none but a genuine smuggler ever tasted the like. ’Twas a thing to be tasted, not described,—the real nectar of the Druids—if not of the Gods. Being somewhat fortified by these stout appliances, and having discussed half-a-dozen of Pontet’s best Havannahs, we mounted the rickety stairs that led through the lofts of our host’s dwelling to a goodly dormitory at the further end. And here the worthy man had really set out for us his best bed: all the little china and plaster images were ranged in prime order on the mantel-piece; and pictures of the Queen of Sheba and the Prodigal Son adorned the walls with unfading brilliancy. The bed looked as clean as ever we saw a bed in our lives; there was an odour of lavender about the room, and we were soon between the sheets, lost in dreamy oblivion.
We awoke: ’twas a lovely morning, with the earliest sun shining brightly in through the lattice; and we thought in our emotion to spring out of bed. Off went the bed-clothes at a bound, and we sat erect!—but how shall we describe our horror? We had gone to bed more or less white—more or less European in the tinge of our skin: we awoke of a glaring red, or, where the crimson dye was less vivid, we bore a mottled appearance, like a speckled toad. And, as Gulliver once lay among the Lilliputians, who ran from him, on his stirring, in frightened thousands, so there were now our accursed night visitants scampering away from us in every direction, possible and impossible, by thousands—nay, by myriads. The bed was literallybrownwith them; and ever, as we moved a limb, fresh gangs of latent devourers fled from beneath, and scoured across the sheets. They had lost the supernatural form our dreams had given them, and assumed the more homely one of ordinary fleas—of fleas of all sizes from a pea to a pin’s head! Old Nereus gave us some relief, for we rushed into his arms as soon as doors could be opened, and bolts forced out of their sockets; but, for many a long day after, we bore about us a vivid impression of our visitants at Aberdaron.
Do not, therefore, venture to sleep in a Welsh cottage; nor scarcely in a farm-house: trust yourself only to an inn,—your chances of sound rest and an untenanted bed are at least more favourable there;—but if ever you are benighted and forced to remain away from headquarters, make up your mind fairly to bivouac it amid the fern and the heather, or else sit up at your vigils by your host’s fire-side. The chirping cricket and the purring cat shall then be your sole companions.
We might detain you till doomsday with these “incidents of travel;” but we shall leave you to make your own experiments;—yet, ere you venture into the wilds of Taffyland, peruse and carry with you for your use and edification the following:—
Three mountains that every body goes up: Snowdon, Cadair Idris, and Penmaen Mawr.
Three mountains that nobody will repent going up: Holyhead Mountain, Carn Madryn, and the Breiddin.
Three mountains that nobody goes up: Plinlimmon, Arrenig, and Carnedd Llewelyn.
Three castles that every body sees: Caernarvon, Conwy, and Harlech.
Three castles that every body ought to see: Beaumarais, Criccaeth, and Denbigh.
Three castles that nobody sees: Flint, Dolwyddelan, and Castell Prysor.
Three wells that every body should go and drink from: Holywell, Wygfair, and Ffynnon Beuno.
The three great waterfalls of Caernarvonshire: Rhaiadr-y-Wenol, the Falls of the Conwy, and the Falls of the Ogwen.
The three great waterfalls of Merionethshire: Pistill-y-Cain, Rhaiadr-y-Mawddach, and Rhaiadr ddu.
The three grandest scenes in Wales: Llyn Idwal, Y-Glas Llyn, and Pen-y-Cil.
The three sweetest scenes in North Wales: Beddgelert, Tan-y-Bwlch, and the Banks of the Menai.
The three beautiful lakes: Llyn Gwynant, Llyn Peris, and Llyn Tegid.
Three vales that every body ought to see: the Vale of Ffestiniog, the Vale of Llanrwst, and the Vale of Dolgelly.
The three rich vales: the Vale of the Clwyd, the Vale of the Dee, and the Vale of the Severn.
Three passes that every body ought to go through: the Pass of Llanberis, the Pass of Pont Aberglaslyn, and the Pass of Nantfrancon.
Three good pools for anglers: Llyn Tegid, Lyn Ogwen, and Llyn Cwlid.
Three good rivers for fishermen: the Dee, the Conwy, and the Vyrniw.
The three finest abbeys of North Wales: Valle Crucis, Cymmer, and Basingwerk.
The three finest churches in North Wales: Wrexham, Gresford, and Mold.
The three bridges of North Wales: Conwy Bridge, Menai Bridge, and Llanrwst Bridge.
Three out-of-the-way places that people should go to: Aberdaron, Amlwch, and Dinas Mowddwy.
Three islands that are worth visiting; Puffin Island, Bardsey Island, and the South Stack.
Three places that no man dares go to the end of; Twll Du in the Llidr, Cilan Point in Llyn, and Sarn Badric off Barmouth.
Three things that nobody knows the end of; a Welchman’s pedigree, a Welchwoman’s tongue, and the landlord’s bill at ——.
Three things, without which no pedestrian should adventure into Wales; a stout pair of shoes, a light wallet, and a waterproof cape. (Some learned travellers have proposed to substitute “stick” for “wallet” in this Triad, but the fact is that, when you go to Wales, you may cut your stick.)
The three companions of the Welsh tourist; a telescope, a sketch book, and a fishing rod.
The three luxuries of travelling in Wales; a stout pony, a pleasant companion, and plenty of money.
Three things which, who ever visits Wales, is sure to take away with him; worn-out shoes, a shocking bad hat, and a delightful recollection of the country.
Three things without which no man can enjoy travelling in Wales; good health, good spirits, and good humour.
The three nastiest things in Wales; buttermilk, cwrw dda, and bacon and eggs.
Three things that the tourist should.notdo; travel in the dark—wait in doors because it may be a rainy day—and try and keep his feet dry.
The three qualifications for properly pronouncing the Welsh language; a cold in the head, a knot in the tongue, and a husk of barley in the throat.
The three languages which a man may speak in Wales when he does not know Welsh: that of the Chinese, that of the Cherokees, and that of the Houhnyhms.
The three languages which will carry a man all over Wales without knowing a word of Welsh; that of the arms, that of the eyes, and that of the pocket—Farewell! dear reader,nos-dda-wch!