Dinner at the Hospice - Evening Gossip - A Day of Rain - A Scanty Flock - The Bridge of the Minister - Legs in Danger.
I DINED in a parlour of the inn commanding an excellent view of the hollow and the Rheidol fall. Shortly after I had dined, a fierce storm of rain and wind came on. It lasted for an hour, and then everything again became calm. Just before evening was closing in Itook a stroll to a village which stands a little way to the west of the inn. It consists only of a few ruinous edifices, and is chiefly inhabited by miners and their families. I saw no men, but plenty of women and children. Seeing a knot of women and girls chatting I went up and addressed them. Some of the girls were very good-looking; none of the party had any English; all of them were very civil. I first talked to them about religion, and found that, without a single exception, they were Calvinistic-Methodists. Inext talked to them about the Plant de Bat. They laughed heartily at the first mention of their name, but seemed to know very little about their history. After some twenty minutes' discourse I bade them good-night and returned to my inn.
The night was very cold; the people of the house, however, made up for me a roaring fire of turf, and I felt very comfortable. About ten o'clock I went to bed, intending next morning to go and see Plynlimmon, which I had left behind me on entering Cardiganshire.
When the morning came, however, I saw at once that I had entered upon a day by no means adapted for excursions of any considerable length, for it rained terribly; but this gave me very little concern; my time was my own, and I said to myself: "If I can't go to-day I can perhaps go to-morrow." After breakfast I passed some hours in a manner by no means disagreeable, sometimes meditating before my turf fire, with my eyes fixed upon it, and sometimes sitting by the window, with my eyes fixed upon the cascade of the Rheidol, which was every moment becoming more magnificent. At length about twelve o'clock, fearing that if I stayed within Ishould lose my appetite for dinner, which has always been one of the greatest of my enjoyments, I determined to go and see the Minister's Bridge which my friend the old mining captain had spoken to me about. I knew that I should get a wetting by doing so, for the weather still continued very bad, but I don't care much for a wetting provided I have a good roof, a good fire, and good fare to betake myself to afterwards.
So I set out. As I passed over the bridge of the Mynach River Ilooked down over the eastern balustrade. The Bridge of the Evil One, which is just below it, was quite invisible. I could see, however, the pot or crochan distinctly enough, and a horrible sight it presented. The waters were whirling round in a manner to describe which any word but frenzied would be utterly powerless.
Half-an-hour's walking brought me to the little village through which I had passed the day before. Going up to a house I knocked at the door, and a middle-aged man opening it, I asked him the way to the Bridge of the Minister. He pointed to the little chapel to the west, and said that the way lay past it, adding that he would go with me himself, as he wanted to go to the hills on the other side to see his sheep.
We got presently into discourse. He at first talked broken English, but soon began to speak his native language. I asked him if the chapel belonged to the Methodists.
"It is not a chapel," said he, "it is a church.""Do many come to it?" said I.
"Not many, sir, for the Methodists are very powerful here. Not more than forty or fifty come.""Do you belong to the Church?" said I.
"I do, sir - thank God!"
"You may well be thankful," said I, "for it is a great privilege to belong to the Church of England.""It is so, sir," said the man, 'though few, alas! think so."I found him a highly-intelligent person. On my talking to him about the name of the place, he said that some called it Spytty Cynfyn, and others Spytty Cynwyl, and that both Cynwyl and Cynfyn were the names of people, to one or other of which the place was dedicated, and that, like the place farther on called Spytty Ystwyth, it was in the old time a hospital or inn for the convenience of the pilgrims going to the great monastery of Ystrad Flur or Strata Florida.
Passing through a field or two we came to the side of a very deep ravine, down which there was a zigzag path leading to the bridge.