Chapter II: Part 2

At Whitchurch we must draw up at the door of St. Alkmund’s Church; not because it is old or beautiful, for the original church fell down in 1711 and was entirely rebuilt; nor because Dean Swift subscribed to the rebuilding of it; but because it contains the dust of the great Talbot, first Earl of Shrewsbury, “the scourge of France.” His valiant heart lies beneath the white stone in the porch, where careless thousands have trodden it underfoot. It was found there in an urn when the church was rebuilt, and with it were some figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary from Talbot’s rosary. His bones are in the chancel, whither, about fifty years after his death, they were brought from the battlefield of Chastillon, where a little chapel had been raised on the spot where he fell.[3] His effigy lies on a tomb that is an exact copy of the original one. While this restoration was in progress the bones of the great soldier were shown to the public, with the skull cleft by the axe that killed him. “This is that terrible Talbot,” says Thomas Fuller, “so famous for his sword ... which constantly conquered where it came, insomuch that the bare fame of his approach frighted the French from the siege of Bordeaux. Being victorious for twenty-four years together, success failed him at last.... Henceforward we may say ‘Good-night to the English in France,’ whose victories were buried with the body of this earl.”

From Whitchurch we drive about fourteen miles in a westerly direction to Overton Bridge, by Hanmer and Overton village, a pretty little place with a churchyard surrounded by yew-trees. Having crossed the bridge, which is about two miles beyond the village, we turn to the left at right angles and approach Erbistock by a road whose greatest recommendation to inveterate lovers of speed will be that it is short. After one experience, however, most of us will agree, I think, that this by-road needs no recommendation but the fact that it leads to Erbistock. A tiny church and a tiny inn at the brim of the Dee--that is all that there is at Erbistock. But it is all enclosed in trees, and the trees dip into the river, and the river is rather big and gentle and gurgles sweetly at one’s feet, and the woods on the other side are tangled and mysterious and full of fairies. One may have one’s tea close beside the water, or one may cross the river in a ferry, and soon be quite alone in the woods. There is no need to hurry, for when we leave Erbistock we need not stop again till we reach Shrewsbury.

For Ellesmere, “wher was a castelle,” says Leland, “and very fair polis yet be,” has now nothing left of its castle but the memory of it, and the fair pools may be seen as we pass. More than once Ellesmere was given as a dowry to the daughters of English kings, on their marriage with Cymric princes; for as the rulers of the two countries were sure to fall out soon after the wedding the gift was quickly taken back by the donor, and so was ready for the next bride. Thus, though Henry II. gave it to his sister Emma, there was nothing to prevent King John from giving it to his daughter Joan, twenty-seven years later, when she married Llewelyn the Great.

I think it must have been beside the lake, where on the level ground there would be room for the dramatic scene, that Rupert, halting here at Ellesmere, made his prisoners cast lots upon the drum to decide which of them should die. Thirteen were doomed; but at the last moment one of them was saved by Sir Vincent Corbet, who as he rode past interceded for the man, who had been a servant in his family. The rest were hanged there and then. Yet it is not they who haunt the rushy banks of the mere; but the White Lady of Oteley. Long ago, it is said, she robbed and ruined a monastery, and built herself a home here with the spoils--a home that she has never left since then, except to walk by night along the margin of the water. She was not even allowed to move to the new house when it was built about a hundred years ago, for a fragment of the old one was left standing in the park on purpose for her accommodation. The new house faces us very conspicuously as we drive close beside the water on the opposite side of the mere, and go on our way to Shrewsbury, which is about sixteen miles away.

* * * * *

In the south-west, which is the hilliest, and therefore the prettiest, part of Shropshire, there is a variety of little runs, which may be lengthened or shortened according to circumstances and tastes. A pretty round of about fifty miles is by Chirbury and Bishop’s Castle, whence either of two lovely roads will bring us back to Shrewsbury. Nineteen miles of nearly level road lead to Chirbury through several villages--Westbury, Worthen, Marton, and others--all of which are fairly picturesque, but with nothing very noteworthy about them. Just before Marton is reached there is an exceedingly sharp turn, which should be borne in mind. At Chirbury our road turns to the left in the middle of the village.

The name of this obscure little place has been known to the world for some centuries in connection with that strange person Lord Herbert of Chirbury, half ruffler, half scholar, who in a house only a few miles from here, across the Welsh border, wrote the famous autobiography that Horace Walpole called “perhaps the most extraordinary account that was ever given seriously by a wise man of himself.” His home for the greater part of his life, when he was not seeking adventures and duels in France or London, was in Montgomery Castle, whose ruins we may see by driving four miles further. Nothing but a fragment is left of it now, but when the Herberts lived there it must have been a fine sight on its wild crag; a more fitting home for Edward the soldier than for his gentler and still more famous brother George. Chirbury itself had a castle and a priory once; but of the castle, which was built by the ever active Ethelfleda, nothing remains but the site; and of the monastery there are only fragments left, for the present church, ancient as it is, was not used by the monks, but was then, as now, the parish church.[4] It has seen strange doings. It is hard to realise, when the bells ring in this lonely little village, and the quiet country folk take their seats for the morning service, that here within these very walls the congregation of Chirbury was once electrified by the clashing of armour and the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the aisle. It was during the Civil War, and Mr. Edward Lewis, “a very goodly man, did preach twice a day”; a rash thing for a Puritan to do when Captain Corbet was no further off than Caus Castle. A party of Royalist horse “rode into the church to the great fright and amazement of the people; and with their pistols charged and cocked went up into the pulpit and pulled down Mr. Lewis, pulling and tugging him in a most unworthy manner ... and so left the people without their pastor because they would not be content with one sermon a day.”

It was this same Edward Lewis who brought to Chirbury the chained library that almost certainly belonged to George Herbert; for Isaac Walton tells us of “a choice library which Mr. Herbert had fastened with chains in a fit room in Montgomery Castle.” This choice library contains books dating from 1530 to 1684, and among them is a black-letter folio copy of Chaucer. They are kept in the vicarage, and I believe may be seen by any one.

Turning to the left in Chirbury we soon pass Marrington Hall, or _Havodwen_, the White Summer-house, as the Welsh call it; a very fine example of sixteenth-century black-and-white work. The lovely little valley beyond it is Marrington Dingle, and a mile or two further on is Churchstoke. It is in this pretty part of Shropshire that the uses of the motor-car are especially noticeable, for railway stations are few and distant from each other, and the hilliness of the country is not encouraging to bicyclists. Of Bishop’s Castle there is little to be said, for pretty as the country is all round it, the town itself is unattractive, and the castle is no more. But all the ways back to Shrewsbury from here are lovely. We may join the Stretton road, which we already know, at Marshbrook, and so see one of the most charming little bits of wooded country in Shropshire; or we may follow the hilly road through the wild scenery near Ratlinghope, down Cothercott Hill, and through Longden and Hookagate. Cothercott Hill is very steep and has a bad surface, but it is only for a short way that the gradient is really severe, and the view from the top is one of the wildest in the country. Personally, however, I should recommend the third way back to Shrewsbury--over the moor to the Roman Gravels, and down through the woods of the winding Hope Valley to Minsterley.

As there is nothing in the whole of this little run to delay us, we may lengthen it, if our car is good on hills and we are of an enterprising temperament, by going on from Bishop’s Castle to Clun, or even to Knighton, and round by Leintwardine to join the Ludlow road. This is a beautiful bit of country, and full of interest. Leland tells us of the “faire forest of Clun.” “Cumming from Bisshop’s Castelle to Clunne lordshippe,” he says, “cummeth doune a greate woode grouing on a hille.” Much of this great wood is gone now, but there is still enough to make the country very “faire,” and to compensate a motorist for the climbing of a long hill. Suddenly, as we round a corner, Clun comes into sight between two hills, with the stern tower of its castle standing conspicuously above the river. “Clunne Castell,” says Leland, “longynge to the Erle of Arundel, sumewhat ruinus. It hath bene bothe stronge and well builded.” It is more than somewhat ruinous now, which is hardly surprising when one considers all it has gone through at the hands of Welshmen and Roundheads since it was built in Stephen’s reign. There is a story that the stones of which it is made were passed from hand to hand by a chain of men, from the quarry, a mile away, to the river-bank where the castle stands; but be that as it may, these crumbling stones, with their soft tints of grey and yellow, embody enough romance to satisfy us, I think, seeing that they are connected with all the greatest names of Wales. They have been stormed and burnt by Rhys of the south; they have been attacked in vain by great Llewelyn of the north; they have been overcome by Owen Glyndwr. They are connected with modern romance, too, for it is supposed that the “Garde Dolareuse,” in the “Betrothed,” represents the Castle of Clun, and the Buffalo Inn claims to have sheltered Sir Walter Scott while he was writing part of the book.

Everything is old at Clun: the church; the fine old bridge, of whose building there is no record; and the “Hospital of the Holy and Undivided Trinity at Clunn,” which was founded by the Duke of Norfolk in 1614 for distressed tradesmen, who were each to receive yearly “a gown ready-made of strong cloth or kersey, of a sad colour.”

The road between Clun and Knighton is not one to be undertaken lightly by small cars of uncertain hill-climbing powers, for it is mostly composed of long and precipitous hills, with gradients varying from 1 in 8 to 1 in 10; but the surface is good, and though the scenery is not particularly interesting at first, it becomes really lovely as we draw near Knighton, which lies in a valley, surrounded by wooded hills. Here we turn to the left, and by way of compensation the road from Knighton to Leintwardine is particularly level, along a narrow valley between green hills that belong to Shropshire on the left and to Herefordshire on the right. As the valley widens out into open country we reach Brampton Brian, associated for ever with the name of Brilliana, Lady Harley. That gallant-hearted lady was alone in her husband’s castle of Brampton when it was threatened by the forces of Charles I., for the Harleys were “Parliament men.” “I acknowleg,” she writes, “I doe not thinke meself safe wheare I am.” Safe she certainly was not, but she thanked God that she was “not afraide”; and when the Royalists bade her surrender she simply answered, “I must endeavour to keep what is mine as well as I can, in which I have the law of nature, of reason, and of the law on my side, and you none to take it from me.” The siege lasted some weeks, and Lady Harley, always delicate, suffered greatly; but when pressed to yield said “she would rather choose an honourable death.” She died; but this first siege was raised before her “heavenly and happy end,” and so she never knew that the castle was besieged again, was surrendered, and burnt to the ground.[5]

A few miles further on is Leintwardine, which I believe to be full of antiquarian interest, and know to be picturesque as an artist’s dream; and here, if we care to face a narrow byway with a rough surface, we may leave the main road and take the more direct route to Craven Arms by way of Clungunford. At Craven Arms we rejoin the road from Ludlow to Shrewsbury.

* * * * *

Of the many main roads that converge in Shrewsbury I have left to the last the one that is in some ways the most important, the one that is certainly the most famous; that road of great memories and great achievement, by which so many Royal Mails have travelled breathlessly at the dashing pace of eleven miles an hour, and by which we may travel to-day at a pace that nothing shall induce me to betray: Telford’s road to Holyhead. It is the road by which, if we are fortunate, we are going into North Wales. If, however, it is our sad fate to turn our backs on that most beautiful land, we must on no account neglect to run over to Llangollen, a distance of thirty miles: for though I have left it to the last on the assumption that we are going on to Wales, it is one of the most enjoyable drives in this neighbourhood.

We leave Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge, the scene of Henry VII.’s remarkable entry into the town over the body of the stout, wise bailiff; and as we reach the top of the hill beyond it we pass on the right the house in which Charles Darwin was born. At the corner where the Holyhead road turns sharply to the right, about half a mile beyond the last houses of the town, there stands in a private garden a famous tree known as the Shelton Oak. I mention it merely because its fame rests on a libel. There are those who will tell you--cheerfully taking a great man’s name in vain--that Owen Glyndwr sat in this tree watching the Battle of Shrewsbury when he should have been taking part in it. Our knowledge of this fiery prince’s characteristics might be enough, one would think, to discredit the tale, without the proved fact that he was extremely occupied in South Wales at the time! But still the tale is told.

Soon, at Montford Bridge, we cross the Severn, white with water-weeds in the summer, and fringed with purple wild-flowers, and then, with what speed we may, spin happily towards the Welsh hills. We can see them on our left; the striking outline of the Breidden, with Rodney’s Pillar on its topmost point, and beyond it a long blue range that limits all the western horizon. At one spot only we have a choice of roads. Telford’s road goes by Oswestry, an ancient town with an immense history but few relics; but if at the “Queen’s Head,” fourteen miles from Shrewsbury, we turn to the right, following the telegraph-posts, we shall cut off more than a mile of distance and shall see Whittington.

There are some places that are peculiarly haunted. One is infinitely more conscious in them of the past than of the present. Such are Hay and Beaupré--both of which we shall see later on. But Whittington is not so much haunted as haunting. Hay and Beaupré are enchanted: Whittington is itself the enchantment. It stands in a clump of trees by the wayside, in the middle of the village, and one comes upon it suddenly: a great fortified gateway of pale grey stone, reflected in the weed-grown water of what was once its moat--and leading nowhere. One thinks, not of its history, but of itself. One cannot believe that it is merely the entrance to a vanished mediæval castle; it is rather the Gate of Dreams, through which every man sometimes passes in search of his heart’s desire.

There is an old Norman-French romance that tells us how the White Tower was built by William Peverel of the Peak, and how he promised it as a dowry to Melette, the fairest of his nieces. “But none found favour with her. And William reasoned with her, and besought her that she would discover unto him if there was in the world any knight whom she would take for lord.... ‘Certes, Sire,’ said she, ‘no knight is there in all the world that I would take for the sake of riches and the honour of lands, but if I ever take such an one he shall be handsome, and courteous, and the most valiant of his order in Christendom.’” So William proclaimed a tourney at the Peak, with Melette and the White Tower for the prize; and among those who came to try their fortune was one Guarin de Metz, well clad in red samite, with a crest of gold. “To record the blows and the issues I am not minded,” says the story, “but Guarin de Metz and his company proved that day the best, the fairest, and the most valiant, and above all, Guarin was the most praised in all ways.” So Guarin won the fastidious Melette of the White Tower, “and with great joy did he take her, and the damsel him.”[6]

This romance is not very reliable history, I fear, but it is true that Whittington belonged at one time to the Peverels, and later to the Fitz-Warines or Guarins, of whom it was probably the third who built this gate in the reign of John.

Two miles beyond Whittington is Gobowen, where we rejoin the main road; and soon afterwards we dip into the narrow valley below Chirk, and with the railway and the canal high above us on the left, cross the little Ceiriog into Wales.

A TOUR IN NORTH WALES

Here, on the very border of Wales, one is conscious of the Celtic atmosphere. We left the quiet orderliness of England behind us when we dipped down into this little valley, where the sparkling, bubbling Ceiriog--every inch a Celt--calls to us to follow it up into the hills. And so we will, as soon as we have climbed the other side of the valley into Chirk village; turning there to the left, though our rightful road, the road to Llangollen, lies directly in front of us. In Wales we shall find ourselves constantly tempted to leave the highway, and in most cases we shall be rewarded if we yield to the temptation without ado. In this particular case we shall be rewarded with a dear little glen, feathery birch-trees on the steep slopes, a yellow carpet in primrose time, and a most charming little hotel about six miles up the valley, at Glyn Ceiriog.

Near Chirk the road sweeps round under the trees of the deer-park, where “there is on a smaul hille a mighty large and stronge castel with dyvers towers”; towers that have stood here for many generations, defying time and war; for this castle of Chirk is no ruin like most of its contemporaries, but an inhabited house. Yet not these towers, I believe, but the old Welsh Castell Crogen, stood here when Henry II., with “the chosen warriors of England,” and of several other countries, marched up this valley to join battle with the great Owen Gwynedd and all the might of Wales, who were encamped near Corwen. The English, finding the trees in their way, cut them down as they advanced, which so much infuriated some of the Welsh who were separated from their main army, that the Ceiriog ran red with the blood of Henry’s chosen warriors. This Battle of Crogen took place just below the older castle.

Perhaps the most dramatic event in the life of the present Chirk Castle was when it fell into the hands of the cavaliers, and its owner, Sir Thomas Myddleton, a Parliamentary leader, was obliged to besiege his own house in his own person. I believe that on one day of the week the world at large is allowed to pass through the beautiful gates of wrought iron, and up the long slope of the avenue, and into the castle itself, to see all the treasures of art and history that George Borrow saw when he was here: the cabinet of Charles II., and the portraits of Nell Gwynne, and of “the very proud daughter of the house,” as Borrow calls Addison’s wife, “the Warwick Dowager who married the Spectator, and led him the life of a dog.”

Across Chirk Park runs Offa’s Dyke, the long embankment “that was cast up with great labour and industry by Offa the Mercian, as a boundary between his Subjects and the Britains, from the mouth of Dee to that of the River Wye.... Concerning which Joannes Sarisburiensis in his ‘Polycration’ saith that Harald establish’d a law that whatever Welshman should be found arm’d on this side the limit he had set up, then ... his right hand should be cut off by the King’s Officers.” It touches the high-road a few miles beyond Chirk, just before we begin the wonderful descent into the Vale of Llangollen; that long slope down which we swing for several miles on a perfect gradient and a perfect surface--marred, however, by an awkward turn--with the whole beautiful valley spread out before us, and the Dee sweeping far below us, spanned by the remarkable aqueduct called Pont-y-Cysylltau. Beyond it rise the Eglwyseg crags, and far away the shattered fortress of Dinas Bran is visible almost from the first on its peak above Llangollen. “The castelle of Dinas Brane,” says Leland, “was never a bigge thing, but sette al for strenght as in a place half inaccessible for enemyes.” Even in his day it was “al in ruine,” and now there is only a fragment left of it to remind us of those princes of ancient Powys who built it in days so old as to be unchronicled, and defied the power of the Saxon from within its walls; and of its owner in later days, Madoc ap Gryffyth Maelor, who built the Abbey of Valle Crucis; and of the fair Myfanwy, “all smiles and light,” who was loved by a poor bard of the fourteenth century, and celebrated by him in a poem that still exists.

At the foot of the crag on which Dinas Bran is perched lies Llangollen--a little town that owes its charm entirely to its position. Only a few miles away, in Shropshire, an ugly house is an exception: in Wales it is unfortunately the rule. A town or village that is really pretty in itself, apart from its surroundings, is almost unknown. But so lovely is the position of Llangollen that in spite of its rather squalid streets it is an entrancing place; so entrancing that Robert Browning lived for some time at the Hand Hotel, and the two famous “Ladies of Llangollen,” Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby, chose it out of all the world for their life-long home. Llangollen is still dominated by “the Ladies,” almost as much as by Dinas Bran itself. They adorn the windows of all its photograph shops; they shine in crude colours from all its china mugs; and in its churchyard we learn from an extremely ugly tombstone that one of them, in the opinion of the other, had “manners worthy of her Illustrious Birth.” It must be admitted that such is not the impression given by the impartial. It became the fashion for travellers of mark to visit this quaint couple in their house up there on the hill, and they themselves insisted on its being also the fashion to give them presents--carvings, miniatures, curiosities of all kinds. If we care to climb a steep hill we may see the outside of Plas Newydd now, a black-and-white house, which must have been really pretty in its original simplicity, but is now overladen with a mass of carving. From the road we can see the porch in which “the Ladies” once stood “fussing and tottering about in an agony of expectation,” waiting for Sir Walter Scott, and looking, says Lockhart, “like a couple of hazy or crazy old sailors.” “Who could paint,” he goes on, “the prints, the dogs, the cats, the miniatures, the cram of cabinets, clocks, glass-cases, books, bijouterie, dragon-china, nodding mandarins, and whirligigs of every shape and hue--the whole house outside and in _covered_ with carved oak ... and the illustrated copies of Sir W.’s poems, and the joking, simpering compliments about Waverley.” But whether their manners were worthy of their Illustrious Birth or not, they were true friends to each other, and the guardian angels, as Lockhart admits, of Llangollen. It is an interesting fact (which should not be forgotten) that the church under whose shadow they lie is dedicated to St. Collen ap Gwynnawg ap Clydawg ap Cowrda ap Caradog Freichfras ap Llyr Merimap Eini Yrth ap Cunedda Wledig.

Far more important than Plas Newydd or its memories of vanished mandarins and whirligigs is the work of that prince of Powys, whose name I mentioned in connection with Dinas Bran--Madoc ap Gryffyth Maelor. In Pant-y-Groes, or the Valley of the Cross, stands Madoc’s ruined abbey, the most perfect retreat, surely, that ever brought comfort to the sad or sinful. It was of the Vale of Llangollen that Ruskin characteristically wrote: “The whole valley, when once I got up past the Works (whatever the accursed business of them) seemed to me entirely lovely in its gentle wildness.” And it is this very quality of gentle wildness that gives such charm to the little Glen of the Cross, which joins the larger valley of the Dee just above Llangollen, and is reached by way of the old stone bridge that was the first of its kind in Wales.

When, in a few minutes, we see the gable of Valle Crucis Abbey below us on the right, we leave our car by the roadside. We leave, indeed, the whole world behind us as we pass through the heavy door by which there was once no returning. The narrow wooded valley hems us in, the trees are close round us, the waters of the fishpond, in their absolute stillness, add to the sense of aloofness and peace. And under our very feet, perhaps, is the dust of Iolo Goch, the famous bard who sang of “Owain Glyndwr, the great, the good”; for Iolo’s unmarked grave is here; and here, too, lies Madoc, who built this abbey in the last year of the twelfth century; and Myfanwy, the beautiful princess, “fairer than the cherry’s bloom”; and others who died long, long before them. To antiquarians the tombs of Valle Crucis are full of interest, for there are some that seem to prove, says the custodian--himself an antiquarian--that this Cistercian house rose on the site of an older Benedictine building. The Cistercians never used warlike symbols, but always the sign of the Cross; yet here on two stones of very early date--the sixth or seventh century--are carved the sword, the spear, and the battleaxe. Fragments of stained glass, too, have been unearthed, and coloured tiles, though the Cistercian Rule forbade the use of colour in any form. This austere Order, however, while avoiding the use of the sword as a symbol, was apparently not averse to using it as a weapon on occasion, for it was by fighting the Benedictines in a neighbouring field, according to the custodian’s theory, that they became possessed of the site of their abbey. Truth to tell, the extreme austerity of the Cistercians seems to have relaxed in later days, for we hear after a time of four courses of meat in silver dishes at Valle Crucis, and of an abbot with three of his fingers covered with rings. But these are disturbing thoughts. Let us rather take away with us a picture of the quiet fishpond, with its water-weeds and clumps of yellow flags, and the gable of the church reflected in it line for line, and on the bank a hooded figure, dressed in white, with a placid face and a busy fishing-rod.

Quite near the abbey in a field is a far older relic, Eliseg’s Pillar, the rough stone monument that gave its name to the Valley of the Cross, though as a matter of fact it was probably never a cross. It was once much higher than it is now, but in the days of the Civil War the name of the valley was enough to make it _suspect_, and the pillar was thrown down by the Puritans on the chance of its once having been a cross. It has been much discussed and disagreed about, but at all events its very great antiquity is a certainty, and the inscription that is now illegible was luckily copied several centuries ago. “Concenn,” it tells us, “the great grandson of Eliseg, erected this stone to the memory of his great-grandfather, Eliseg. This is that Eliseg who recovered his inheritance of Powis by his sword from the power of the Angles.”

Returning to Llangollen we cross the Dee again and go on our way upon the road to Holyhead, up the ridge of Rhysgog, past Berwyn Station, and so out of the Vale of Llangollen into that of Edeyrnion. The Dee is still below us on the right, with thickly wooded hills beyond it; and on the left are rocky heights, sometimes bare and sometimes softened by trees. We have a lovely run before us down the valley, but if we are prudent we will _drive slowly in the neighbourhood of Corwen_.

But here, at the head of the valley, we are eight miles away from Corwen, and have other things to think of--great things, indeed: the last struggle for Welsh freedom, and the man who was the heart and the head of it, that strange mixture of ruthless vengeance and lovableness, Owen Glyndwr, who as a pattern squire, rather scholarly and very hospitable, spent many quiet years, living sometimes here at Glyndyfrdwy beside the Dee and sometimes at his other house at Sycharth, and then suddenly, at the touch of injustice, unfurled the red dragon of Uther and became the implacable devastator whose name meets us in every ruin in Wales. Nothing remains now of his house, for Prince Hal descended upon it one day, and, having left it level with the ground, wrote to his “very dear and entirely beloved” Wardens of the Marches to tell them all about it. After describing the burning of Sycharth and of many houses round it he goes on: “Then we went straight away to his other place of Glyndourdy, to seek for him there. There we burnt a fine lodge in his park, and all the country round; and we remained there all that night.” Above the spot where the fine lodge stood is a curious tumulus crowned with firs, quite close to the road. It is known as Owen’s Mount, not because he made it, for it is far older than he, but because there is a story that he used it as a kind of watch-tower. It was at Corwen, some say, that he first raised his standard; but the other memories of him here are legendary and trivial.

From Corwen to wild Cerrig-y-Druidion--the Rock of the Druids--the road rises steadily, and leads to nothing of note but the lovely little Pass of Glyndyffws, a deep and narrow defile of sudden unexpected beauty that connects two tracts of rather dull country. Here, where the Ceirw flings itself into the ravine from a great height and foams among the rocks far below us, Telford has thoughtfully supplied us with several little recesses in the wall from which to enjoy the view. I have heard that he cut his name in the stone of one of them, but I have never been able to find it. Perhaps it was to his name that George Borrow objected when he came here and laughed at “Mr. T.” for being eager for immortality. There was no need for Telford to be over-anxious about his immortality; nor yet, indeed, was there any for Borrow to flout him because he was not a Welsh bard!

Tyn-y-nant, where “little Dick Vickers,” late of Shrewsbury Mail, hanged himself rather exclusively, is a place of a dreary sort; and so is Cerrig-y-Druidion; and so, most of all, is the straight road from Cerrig to Cernioge, a piece of road that catches all the winds of heaven, and always seems longer than it was last time. Open the throttle here, and be thankful--if the weather be cold--that your good engine is humming before you, and is making a better pace than the eleven miles an hour of which the shivering travellers on this road used to boast. Cernioge is to us merely an unkempt farmhouse, but to them it meant a fire and hot drinks, for it was once a posting-house of considerable renown.

At Cernioge begins the descent into the valley of the Conway; and it is here that we first see, stretched out before us like the Promised Land, the distant grandeur of Snowdonia, the wild, impenetrable fortress of the Welsh and the trap of the invading English. When Pentre Voelas is passed the beauty grows and grows, mile by mile, and we are gently gliding down into the very heart of it; wild crags to the right of us, and before and below us a sea of woodland, valley beyond valley and hill beyond hill. There is one turn of the road where nearly every car draws up. The valley of the Conway lies at our feet, with here and there the river shining through the trees; the Lledr Valley stretches away and merges into the distant moors; Moel Siabod’s peak rises at the end of it; and over Siabod’s shoulder appears, on a clear day, a wedge-shaped corner of Snowdon, faintly blue. I have seen this view at many times of the year, and the best time of all is May.

For the woods that are at our feet, the woods that gave its name to Bettws-y-Coed, the Chapel in the Wood, are at their best in May, when every tree has its own individual shade of colour, the larch its tender green, and the budding oak its pink and gold. But, indeed, Bettws is always lovely. Nothing can spoil its innate simplicity; not even the smart hats and parasols that look so incongruous in its little street in July and August. It exists only for tourists; there are several good hotels, and, roughly speaking, all the other houses are lodgings; yet in spite of all, Bettws is a village still. Those who like to settle down comfortably and motor round a centre, instead of touring from place to place, will find this much the most central and convenient spot from which to explore North Wales. And in any case, I think we must stay here for a night or two. We must drive to Rhuddlan and Conway and Dolwyddelan; we must stand on the Pont-y-Pair and watch the tempestuous Llugwy; we must inspect David Cox’s famous signboard at the Royal Oak; and in the evening, when the dusky yews are all in shadow, we must sit in the churchyard beside the Conway, where the great artist loved to paint. The church--the “Chapel in the Wood”--is uncouth and bare, and not improved by modern windows; but it has stood here for many centuries, and among its ugly pews we realise with a thrill that the tomb at our feet holds the dust of a prince of Llewelyn’s house.

This is the country of Llewelyn the Great. On one side of us is the valley that tradition names as his birthplace; on the other the valley where he was buried. His grave we cannot see, for his burial-place at Aberconwy was desecrated when Edward I. built his great castle; but on the way from Bettws to Rhuddlan we may pause at the church of Llanrwst and see there, on the floor of Inigo Jones’s chapel of the Wynnes, the coffin of stone that once held the bones of the greatest of the Welsh princes. There are a good many interesting things here--things much older than the church itself; but not the least pleasing, I think, is the Latin epitaph that the former rector composed, with a pretty wit, for his own tomb. It has been thus translated:--

“Once the undeserving schoolmaster,
Then the more undeserving lecturer,
Last of all the most undeserving rector of this parish.
Do not think, speak, or write anything evil of the dead.”

If we are going to Rhuddlan it will not be necessary for us to cross the shaking bridge, designed--perhaps--by Inigo Jones. I see no object in a bridge shaking, myself, but there are always those at hand who for a consideration will shake you the bridge if it gives you pleasure. Our way, however, lies to the right, up a winding hill three miles in length, with an average gradient of 1 in 12. It is a serious climb; but the backward view of the mountain range beyond the Conway is magnificent--a view of rather a rare quality, and not often seen by those who depend upon horses’ legs or their own. The road that crosses the top of the hills runs through scenery of rather a commonplace type; then, as we drop down into Abergele the Morfa Rhuddlan lies before us like a map--a dull map--with fashionable Rhyl in the distance; and from Abergele to Rhuddlan the road is surely the straightest and flattest that ever was seen.

The ivy-smothered towers of Rhuddlan Castle stand on the banks of the Clwyd. That great statesman and soldier, Edward I., being weary of the “Welsh Question,” determined to get the affair finished once for all; so he rebuilt this castle, settled down here with his Court and family, conquered the country, made its laws, and saw that they were carried out. There is a remnant still standing of the house where he held his parliament and “secured its independence to the Principality of Wales.” These words, though not Edward’s, are quite in the spirit of his little jokes. It was here that he played his historical practical joke upon the Welsh nation, when he promised them a prince who was a native of Wales and could not speak a word of English--and then showed them the baby. There is nothing for us to see inside this castle, for Cromwell altogether dismantled it, and its heavy green towers, though impressive enough as being the grave of Welsh independence, are not nearly so typical of the “ruthless king” as his great fortresses of Carnarvon and Harlech and Conway.

Conway is only seventeen miles away, and we may see it on our return journey to Bettws, by driving back to Abergele, where there is a nice old posting-house, and thence passing on above Colwyn Bay. Five hundred years ago another traveller came by this way from Conway: a poor, duped, heart-sick king riding helplessly to imprisonment and mysterious death. It was at Conway that Bolingbroke’s messenger Northumberland, a man of a most treacherous heart, met Richard II. with solemn vows of friendship; and along this coast that they rode together, still smiling, the knave and the fool, to Rhuddlan and Flint, where Bolingbroke’s army lay waiting on the sands o’ Dee. Those splendid walls and towers of Conway that we see beyond the estuary, piled high above the water-side, were Richard II.’s last refuge. From that day forward every roof that sheltered him was a prison.

All through the history of Wales this estuary has played an important part. Long, long before Edward’s magnificent towers rose over the desecrated burial-place of the great Llewelyn there was a castle guarding the river-mouth at Deganwy. We can see its fragments still if we choose to drive round that way before crossing to Conway; but there is only a remnant left, a few stones on a hillside facing the sea--stones that tell of Maelgwyn of the sixth century, and of Norman Robert, lord of Rhuddlan, who rebuilt Maelgwyn’s fortress and met his death there, and of King John of England, who was starved out by the Welsh. Robert of Rhuddlan’s death was picturesque, and, I imagine, well deserved. This was the manner of it. He was still employed in rebuilding the Welsh castle of Deganwy for the harrying of the people to whom it really belonged, when one day he fell asleep--a rash thing to do in those days and in that place. Then came Griffith, Prince of Gwynedd, with his ships, and stole all Robert’s cattle, and was just setting sail again when Robert awoke and saw what was going forward. Down this steep bank below the castle he dashed to the shore, and fought desperately, with only one follower to support him; but soon died, of course, by the spears of the Welsh. Griffith nailed his head to the mast and sailed away; then, when the Normans chased him, flung it into the sea before their eyes.

As for King John, when he in his turn tried to strengthen the fortress of Deganwy, he was glad enough to escape with his wicked head on his shoulders. He had come into Wales “minded to destroy all that had life within the country”; but he departed, we are told, in a great fury, leaving a large proportion of his army behind him for Llewelyn to bury. For the Welsh had cut off all the supplies of the English, “so that in time they were glad to take up with horseflesh or anything, were it never so mean, which might fill up their greedy and empty stomachs.” So says Caradoc of Llancarvan. Other historians give us a letter written on the spot by a certain knight, a man of parts, of whose life and letters one would like to know more. He describes the royal army as “watching, fasting, praying, and freezing. We watch,” he continues, “for fear of the Welsh.... We fast for want of provisions.... We pray that we may speedily return safe and scot-free home; and we freeze for want of winter garments, having but a thin linen shirt to keep us from the wind.” This vivid letter-writer goes on to tell us of the spoiling of Aberconwy Abbey and the burning of all the valuable old Welsh records there, and he shows a good deal of nice feeling in the matter.

It was on the ruins of Aberconwy that Edward’s glorious castle rose later on to overawe the Welsh. This Castle of Conway is the most beautiful of all Henry de Elfreton’s works, I think; more beautiful in itself even than Harlech; and we can well believe, as we drive across the bridge and under the great machicolated town gate, that in early days it could only be taken by the help of guile or famine. Glyndwr’s men won their way in by disguising one of their number as a carpenter, and to dislodge them Hotspur, finding his engines useless, was obliged to starve them out. During the Civil War the castle was held for the King by the Archbishop of York, an extremely “muscular Christian,” who on being superseded in his command felt the slight so deeply that he joined Mytton the Roundhead, and himself led the assault! And these great walls, fifteen feet in thickness, yielded at last. As one climbs the long flight of steps to the entrance with all these things in one’s mind there is something almost overwhelming in the grandeur of these strong towers.

“A very neat castle,” says Camden.

When we have had our luncheon at the Castle Hotel we must cross the road to Plas Mawr, the town house of the Wynnes of Gwydir, who entertained Queen Elizabeth there more than once, and even decorated her rooms with appropriate symbols, royal arms, and monograms. The plaster mouldings in this house are its special feature: fireplaces, ceilings, walls, all are ornamented with them, and in each room the design is different. One cannot, however, enjoy the mouldings and the oak furniture and the priests’ hiding-hole and the lantern window with an undivided mind, for the Plas Mawr ghost--unconventional soul!--walks by daylight.

We leave Conway by the road that follows the western bank of the river, for by so doing we secure an impressive backward view of the old town walls, which is ample compensation for the steep ascent that soon carries us out of sight. Moreover this road, after a few more hills and a few more miles of level going, with a view up the valley that grows lovelier every moment, will lead us to Trefriew, a dear little watering-place with a good hotel. The tiny church here has no outward attractions; it has not even any appearance of age. Yet it has its own romance; for it is said that when the English wife of Llewelyn the Great--Joan, the daughter of King John--found the severe climb to the old church of Llanrhychwyn too much for her, her thoughtful husband built this one for her at the foot of the hill. Those who do not share her feelings may still see, on the heights above the village, the yet older church where Llewelyn worshipped before his wife objected to the walk. And beyond it again, on the wild hill-top, is Llyn Geirionydd, on whose shores lived Taliesin, the Bard of the Radiant Brow, the most famous of all the Welsh bards.

Between Trefriew and Bettws there are but a few miles of level road and very lovely scenery. Gwydir Castle, the old house of the Wynnes, stands between us and the river, and may be seen when Lord Carrington is away. It is full, I believe, of carvings and tapestry and relics of history. Queen Elizabeth stayed here, and Leicester, and Charles I.

But here among these wild Welsh hills Elizabeth’s starched ruff and Charles’s curls strike one as a little out of place. We may find memories of Elizabeth--who seems to have slept in as many different places as a motorist--in half the towns and big houses of England. This is the country of the Kings of Gwynedd.

We saw the Lledr Valley stretched out before us as we came down the hill from Pentre Voelas to Bettws. But that bird’s-eye view of it gives one no idea at all of its extreme beauty; of the towering height of its steep slopes, now bare and rocky, now richly wooded: of its brilliant colouring and deep purple shadows. At the head of it, where its beauty is partly spoiled by quarries and all their works, is Dolwyddelan village; and beyond that again, standing alone among the desolate hills, is the stern tower where Llewelyn the Great, the “eagle of men,” is believed to have been born. It is only a square tower now, and though it once had two towers it was never a place of any size; for Dolwyddelan and Dolbadarn, the two mountain strongholds of the princes of Gwynedd, did not rely upon their own strength, but on the great bewildering hills that defended them on every side. Thus it was that this small fortress was the last to yield to Edward I. And while remembering Llewelyn here do not let us forget to dedicate one sigh to his poor father, Iorwerth Drwyndwn--of the broken nose--who, when that unfortunate feature kept him from his princedom, was given this country and its tower by way of compensation.

It is the custom to return to Bettws from this point, for reasons that a glance at the Contour Book may perhaps explain. But the fashion has been set, I think, by bicyclists, whom one really cannot blame for shirking the hill that rises between Dolwyddelan and Maentwrog. Here let me assure motorists that there is little reason why they should miss the wild beauty of the moors above this point; the rolling expanse of brown and purple bogland, the endless succession of hills, the grand outline of Moel Siabod. For though the road is certainly steep the surface is excellent, except for a mile or so above Blaenau Festiniog, that strange town on the mountain ledge that entirely owes its existence to the neighbouring quarries, and yet is more than a mile long and has three railway stations. There is no need to brave the hill again to return to Bettws, for the road by Maentwrog, Penrhyndeudraeth, and the Pass of Aberglaslyn is one of the loveliest in Wales, and though we shall come down the Pass by and by there is no hardship in going over the ground twice. It is worth remembering, too, that at Maentwrog it is possible, if time allows, to cross the valley and approach the famous toy railway-line at its prettiest point, Tan-y-Bwlch, where a lake lies hidden among the woods, and where we may have tea on the grass close beside the water, facing a scene of rich colouring and deep, cool shadows.

All this, however, is a digression. It is highly probable that the great majority of motorists will look at the Contour Book and return to Bettws from Dolwyddelan. They will have the advantage of seeing the Lledr Valley from a new point of view.

Now in the Snowdon country there are three great passes through the mountains to the sea: the Passes of Nant Ffrancon, Llanberis, and Nant Gwynant combined with Aberglaslyn. It is hard to say which is the most beautiful of the three; and it is quite imperative, and also quite easy, to see them all by pursuing rather a zigzag course. Nant Ffrancon is the route of the Holyhead Road and the nearest to Bettws: so we will go down by Nant Ffrancon, and come up again by Llanberis on the same day; and on the next start off again by way of Nant Gwynant and Aberglaslyn, passing through Bedd Gelert.

The road climbs out of Bettws through a thick wood beside the rushing Llugwy, and soon draws near the Swallow Falls.[7] This triple fall is only a stone’s-throw from the road, and it is worth while to follow the slippery path across the pine-needles, and stand for a moment in the pricking spray watching the commotion. In the thick of the hubbub they say the spirit of Sir John Wynne, which left this mortal coil early in the seventeenth century, is being “purged, punished, and spouted upon”; though I have never heard anything definite against him except that he was “shrewd and successful.” He was a member of that Court of the Marches of which we heard so much at Ludlow, and he left a very valuable record of his family behind him.

This bit of country between Bettws and Capel Curig is one of the gems of North Wales. Moel Siabod towers above us; and beyond it soon appears that cloud-capped peak whose name quickens every Welsh heart--the rallying-point of heroes, the symbol and stronghold of the liberties of Wales. The finest view of Snowdon is from Capel Curig, where the double peak is reflected in the double lake.