Transcription by Alex Mager*
April 1901
Faringsoutset
We left Shrewsbury sheer against a sharp cool freshenend windbluster which grew as we anighed Wales.
My uncle Arthur Burd (sixthformmaster at Reptonschool) most kindly askt me whether I would faren mid him a-wheelriding three or four days in Northwales. This was a luckstroke, and I was allglad to go. Margaret and my mother took no end of care about the uprigging mine and mine wheels for the forthfaring.
We left Shrewsbury sheer against a sharp cool freshenend windbluster which grew as we anighed Wales. Over the childhoodtidedear Stonebridge at Montford, foreby the woodslopes of dear old Nesscliff, through wellwooded waveuplands to West Felton, a fairly pretty thorpstead, until the lovely thorp Whittington was yraught: lovely old houses and a most woulderly knightburglave, one stoneburgh mid a deal thes moats, roadborderend, greenthbegirt, a lovely onsight. “Brosnað enta geweorc.” [The work of giants is decaying]
On we foren through wavely land unto Gobowen where we halted to befresh the inner man mid a blending of gingerbeer and ale (too little beerful, learned reader, to be rightly "shandygaff" ycall'd) at the inn anigh the ironway. Then we drave ahead against the sheer headwind until the waterlodes this sides thes hills whereon Chirk standeth into sight came—thitherto I had made shift to ride “in gleichem Schritt und Tritt” mit meinem Oheim [in step with my uncle]. That was soon more than I could do, but I kept near until we reacht Llangollen. Wonderlordly and woulderly is the Prachtung [splendour] twixen Chirk and Llangollen. Old Chirk has a lordly old church, though we did not ingo; upwalkend Chirk-hill we met some Welsh rosy childer, frimm uplandbairns, and Uncle gan a-talking to them. They had been a-primrosegathering and were wellladen mid those Schlüßelblumen [primroses]. From the Chirk–Llangollen road we could see the slateworks of Ruabon; the little Dee wound about far beneath us and manyfolded hills were yonsides thereof. Soon met our eyen the old knightburglave of Dinas Bran, and we wound along the hillside by the stoneywalled road to Llangollen where we harbour'd in the oldfarand, rich Hand-Hotel, the hall of which was all overyhungen mid bilds of all kinds (inholdend a 17th yearhundreds Denbighshiremap). There we had a costly lax-luncheon, and after resting awhile in the good old hall and betalking the war we onfore towards Corwen.
Gradients
The Welsh races whatever their shortcomings are naturely wellbred; man can hardly this gainsay.
The upland-outlook was bewitchend: the treebestudded heights above us and the brawlend bickerend Dee mid his pebbly way beneath us; and yonsides thes streams were manyfolded hills. The road is a wonderly making, besonders [especially] when the kind of land is ytaken into the reckoning, but the long ruthless steady upslope was murderly riding; had I been alone all had been well as to speed. I found Uncle midspeakend mid an old Welshman and sittend on the roadbank where the road underwindeth steep streamdrippend rocks. The Welshman spake of flockless churches of which we met two or more in our farings, one near Carnarvon belongend to some Oxford-college; we onforen but I could not keep in gleichem Schritt und Tritt [in step], and when I at length raught walk- and ride-forwearied to Cerrig-y-Druidion as dusk was beginnend I found that mine uncle had been a-writing letters at the guestfriendly inn.
At Corwen we sat adown on a lampfootstone to rest and thought how unlike an English town this little frithful hillside-cheapingtown was: no throng of waggonred or manred nor hustling nor din, neither did any starers gather about us when we sat on the lampfootstone; no one stopt to stare, and in an English town they would at once have gathered and gaped at us as though something wonderful had happened. The Welsh races whatever their shortcomings are naturely wellbred; man can hardly this gainsay. The town was like most Welsh towns and thorpes of grey boulderstone and blueslate roofs ybuilded and it was an openbaring to me that blueslaten roofs coud looken well; in Wales among the slaty greycliff hills they sikerly do so, gar ohne Zweifel [without any doubt at all]. A frithful dinless neat little cheapingtown was Corwen, and we wound along the hillside ruthlessly upslopin' thereto, ywooded above us and often below us; the Dee bickered “over strong ways” far beneath us. Leavend the town foreby the ironwayhaltstead and the Godsacre (oddly near together) we onwound slowly (on my deal) up to Cerrig-y-Druidion / Cliffs of the Druids.
We were now in high land, and as mine uncle wisht to reach Bettws-y-Coed by posttime I besought him to onriden as I could only riden somewhat slowly; he did so. The road was now high up and fairly even. On either side stretcht slowly slopin’ moorlike hillsides, and the Welsh sheep have an ill wont of overthwartrunning the roads in suchlike uplands and nimbly leaping onto the loose stonen walls that are never wantin’ in Wales. The Welsh sheep are nimble indeed; so, Mr. Dodd tells me, are the Northenglish sheep. We had throughyridden one or two thorpes and bemarked that often childer selfwilles (and others) bid the inlopin’ “tourist” Bore da i chi [good morning to you] or Bore da [good morning]. In how few deals of England would any one old or young bid the wellmeanin’ wheelfarer good morning or good day!
The Deedale was allerloveliest, and we overwent the stream more than once; there is a deep waterfall thes streams not far from Cerrig-y-Druidion near an overhangbrow thes hillrocks; cots were dotted sparingly about the hillsidemoors and sheep manifoldly. Towards Pentre Voelas the road ginneth neathsliden, and beyond that comely little worldwithydrawen thorp the neathsliding is swifter and soon wortheth snell. There is a woulderly streamdell below the loose stonewall to your left and a lovely hill over your right hand; one or two old men were walkin’ about this lovely frithful worldless spot in the eveninglift, and it may be said that the Welsh live in a lordly lovely land and have a rightful pride therein; they do feel the landscapeloveliness and do not mislike fresh breezes and homely uplands, and healthy godly naturely untownly life. It was now dark, and at the hillfoot bridge overgoin’ the Conwaystream I was glad enough to find the Waterloohotel amongst the first buildings of the sweet little town Bettws-y-Coed.
To the right of Pentre Voelas were fair woods, and at Cernioge is a farmhouse once a thrivin’ coachinginn, but “old times are chang’d; old manners gone”, and in this thing we have lost metelessly; the ironway is a wretched, clammy, raw, muggy, dirty, grimy, gritty, dusty, allerugliest, clumsy, dinmakin’, rumblin’, roarin’, snortin’, crashin’, tearin’, joltin’, shrieken’, reechy smokebox-ydrawen waggonstring. In the coachdays man fared early while the world slept, and tho’ it was sharp and rough yet there was nothing like an early-morn openlift ride,
and it does not make or inhold ugliness or wastelaying and is all naturely and healthy, whereas the ironway is the plaything of a feverish everywhitherwhirlin’ Mammonworshippin’ time and is allgate utterly unhealthy, unnaturely and ugly and uglymakin’. How endlessly better were those old coachinginns than the newworld tawdry ‘hotels’, more than half French, wasteful, blatand, blarin’ and evil, “breeding scorn of simple life”. (See Zangwill’s bemarkings in his essays.)
The Waterloo-hotel was all-too much a first class hotel tho’ now in this un-‘season’-ly time not so blarin’ as a London-horror; it was a good grey stonen building of Welsh stone ywroughten and mid Tudor-windows yfitted lookin’ towards the stream, sober and handsome enough withouten but mid “a very very long hill” like ‘the Raven of Zürich’ (see Longfellow’s Hyperion). It was gasbelighted. I had never stayed a night in a hotel before so far as I can bemind me and was astonied to find nothing to read, naught but a few measly Tory-papers, mostly Liverpoolish.
There was a woulderly sunsetting thes evenings near Cerrig-y-Druidion of me yseyn; a Welsh sunset is sightworthy indeed. Cernioge seemingly is that one farmhouse (erstwhile a coachinginn) aforenamed, mid a barn yonsides the road; it was once wellknown and is markt on almost the scantiest maps. The ending thes downruns into Bettws-y-Coed is elfsheen. The Waterloo-ironbridge was built in 1815; the first English ironbridge gave his name to a Shropshiretown in 1771.
The full sheennesses thes slopes and brookdells couden not in the dusk well be seen. We had a dinner of pressed beef, pickles, good ale, u.s.w. [etc.] in the smart guesthofmealroom and thereafter withdrew into the billiardroom where several folk were a-playing. Afterwards Uncle gave me a first billiardsteaching. My aiming was needless to say wretched. The marker (why should it be the French shaping marqueur?) was a thoroughly good player. He was a Manchesterman as he told us next day but had come to Wales from an hearthatred of towns—Liverpool and Manchester were “the two most miserable places in the world”. He coud not often gone outside even here for he might be wanted almost any time; he told us that primroses were out at Yuletide there, and we heard much the same at Criccieth.
There was but a small sprinkling of stayers at this guesthof the while that we were there. Wales, the marker said, was swithe rainy and the Bettws-y-Coed-neighbourhood overall; the slates ondrew the rain. At Alberbury on Thursday half the primroses were outbloomin’ half not yet outycomen. The slatermist is an odd happ(en)ing. In speaking of mists how lovely is the moonlight-dag (Suffolkshireword, ursprunglich [originally] Danish as in Dagmar) which I see anightes from my window inswathend Christchurchmeadows. We befresht and bewarmed the inner man mid Benedictine but I fear that must be indeed a ‘rotgut’-firewater.
I have forgotten to bemark that in the wild uplands about Cerrig-y-Druidion we saw some of those lordly hillbrooks neathtumblin’ adown. In Langollen and Corwen and elsewhere the shops and shopboards are English-bewritten, but notices in Welsh ywritten abounden everywhere: ysgrifion Cymreg, Rhubydd Cymreg. We were glad erelong to seek rest and uptook our candles from the landing.
Weathermisbehavings
I awoke early and found that the weather was ill; a steady rain was fallin’ and lookt as though it would inkeep us all day. The hillonsight from my window was lordly; the hills were craggy and manyhued beforen us and thicklybewooded ahint us, and weren on both sides near and steep. The Conwaystream ran clear and ripplin’ by the roadside, and higher up it was overspanned by a lovely old stonebridge that seemed to have outgrown from the rocks, and beneath the stream brawl’d about the boulderclumps; I think the bridge hight Pont-y-pair, but I can not sikerly sayen. We could not, alack, see the allerwoulderliest Umgegend [surroundings] but upwalkt into the frithful homely and worldwithydrawen Welsh town während [during] a rainlull, up to the poststead; there were newssheets, a many in Welsh ywritten; the ybuilding is like that of Corwen but the besteading is beyond words elfsheen. We were inkept während [during] the morn and wearily read dull newssheets in the smokingroom and had a slight game of billiards; there was little else to do and nothing readingworthy.
Tiresupburst and edstarting
We had a good lunch like our dinner, and at last about 2 p.m. or a little later the weather upcleared, but we were still yblest mid a sharp headwind. The Welsh porter at the hotel (which belongs to some Scotchman, McCurragh methinketh) was an odd fellow, mid silvergrey hair and a strong Cymrish accent. Bettws-y-Coed is fearfully touristoveryrunnen in the summertide but luckily not this cold April; a few anglers were there amongst our fellowstayers. We went over through the garden to the wellybuilded twaywheelhouse, outfetcht our wheels, but no sooner had I onyclimb’d mine than a gunshotly outburstsdin oftold a tyreprick; the outer decking thes tyres was throughrotten, and we had to go to a twaywheelmendingsshop (luckily there was such a shop here) where a shrewd man set a sailclothpatch within the outer cover and upbound the whole with black tape—which tape however soon offrotted. At last we were offstarted towards Capel Curig.
Socialismsoverthinkings
How utterly away man there is from the townhellworld of latterday England.
The whole way was elfsheenest; at the start we wounden between wooded hillsides, and soon at the side thes roads we beheld the lordly Swallowfalls wellbekenn’d throughout Great Britain. Some wretched lord or other owns this Godgiven hillsweep but his lordship or ‘grace’ or whatnot ‘graciously’ leaves ‘the public’ ingone the little groundpatch overlookend the Swallowfalls and sit on the seats therewithin yset. To think that the wonders of Wales should be “private property”! Why not the fresh air eke? I wish I had neathwritten my farings earlier; I am writing in May, and the truly ‘horrid’ (Miltonwise) and hateful military sounds of the Universitysvolunteersdrilling in Mertonfields graten e’en now on mine ear. It is eventide and my wonderonsight- and wonderoutlook-windows are open. But I must not think of militaristish helldoms or I shall not kennen writen. The land grew slowly ruggeder and the greenth fordwined until we onsighted Capel Curig, a kindly Welshstamply stead mid the wont Welsh y-building, and there we offwended over the streambridge into allerwildest hillland and an hilly road which although Welshmade was good and hard enough; a lonely wild mere was to our left hand, and hoary bergrills wallowed adown the rocky hillsides. Thus we at length upclomb to the lone innhouse which is so wellknown as Pen-y-gwryd, benamed and bespoken in Charles Kingsleys poems (the rimes ywritten in the innbook ygiven in most Welsh guidebooks, zum Beispiel [for example], the Gossipping Guide to Wales) and his Two Years Ago, mid the Glyders, Llanberis-pass, Snowdon and the landship: a lovely wild rugged soulstamply Welsh spot away from the whole Manchesterish Mammonworld; we indeed come not only into other lands but other times in woulderly old Walesland. Ever and anon in Wales the hills seem to inshut all things, and I was ever a-wondering where and how the road would ongone. There seemed to be no room for a road and no maybiness of his ongoing. From Pen-y-gwryd the road at once neathslopes and so slideth for miles the greater deal thes ways to Beddgellert.
Snowdon had been y-seen ere we had yraught Capel Curig; a diamondlike spit outstandin’ o’er the bergbulk was the headpoint Snowdons, the earnhome Craig Eryri. “And I would that my tongue could utter” the inlockt bergonsight yonsides Capel Curig. How yearn would I bring the forswunken Manchester- and London-thralls to see it. How utterly away man there is from the townhellworld of latterday England. I dare not try to bewriten it. It is all unbeschreiblich [indescr
ibable].
The ride from Pen-y-gwryd to Beddgellert
Few things are gladsomer than the swirlin’ roadslope from Pen-y-gwryd to Beddgellert: in all ways lordly and lovely. Far below to our right slept Llyn Gwynant, and on the one hand the foamy young Glaslyn-stream leapeth adown into and out Llyn Gwynant, and on the other hand a many hoary cloudborn rills rush gladly adown beneath the road and bound towards the bluewater mere from whose sides outriseth the lordly rough outslope of Earncliff or Craig Eryri. The road windeth swiftly sweepin’ um many curvings and rockoutthrustings along the hillside until it reaches the shores of Llyn Gwynant on which it proudly lookt adown near Pen-y-gwryd.
Sometimes the hill to our left has treeclumps, and on the further shore of Llyn Gwynant is a pretty firtreeclump. The whole woulder thereof is yet on my mind ywritten, and I hope that it ever will be. There lacken not stumblingblocks to the rider—the curves are sudden and quick-comin’; the road is narrow; and sheep are almost always leapin’ from the wall into the road or through sheepholes in the walls, wontly round a curve. There is a wellwooded way from Llyn Gwynant to Beddgellert (the grave of what Gellert? Not the german poet Gellert!); the wood and the hills are allerloveliest, and the lithe little Glaslyn-stream holdeth his boulderthwarted way.
On the wall of the streambridge at Beddgellert I wrote a lettercard to my mother (anunculo
insistente et monente [with uncle insisting and advising]); such things can be done in Wales without drawing a crowd of gapin’ blackguards or noodles, such as are ever at hand in an English town, townkin, thorp or hamlet. I feel how poor and meanly is my bewritingscraft; this pretty old ironwayless shady becksilvery hilloveryhungen worldwithdrawn wondertownling
overtasketh my wordcraft. It is a thoroughly Welsh stead; rough grey stones and grey slates (never amiss among the Welsh hills tho’ ugly in England—everything has his right stead) are the buildingsstuff.
There is a coach to Porthmadog and a goodly old coaching inn here; the stream bickers gladly through the tiny town, and memory must do for it what words cannot. Bemarkworthy is the Goatinn yonsides thes streams mid the odd old goatshape over the door.
The hills inshut more and more and we ride beneath great steep heights highloomin’ on either side along Aberglaslynpass. The little stream onbickereth towards Pontaberglaslyn; the latter is “a joy for ever”. The loveliest landscapeswoulderliness that I have ever seen.
The greystonen bridge grows naturelike out of the rock on either side and Nature seems to have self overspanned the boulderthwarted foamy green heavenwaters below; on the hillsides overhang tall firs, and in summer there is a great greenthwealth. The waters roar and thunder aneath among the rough and lordly boulders; their hue is ivygreen (Glaslyn means greenwater). Their thunder is rapturous and whirls me away into Songland: to live mid that waterroar forever in his ears would make a poet of a stockgambler even or a gapemouthed ginpatriotic Oxford-Yahoo.
Set beside it the mean mechanish rumble and clatter of dirty ironways, and then come and hear Nature’s own music: the music of the turnin’ spheres, the ninefold harmony; I can hear that water again as I write. Greenth above and greenth below the swirlin’ waterrush in wild worldwithdrawn wondernook, the great manyhued hillheights steepuploomin’ above.
The pretty little cot on the roadside where I would gladly live, the perfect little bridge and the road windin’ along the hillfoot. Let Memory worship it; my bewritingswords are unworthy it.
Excessive wild words
At Pont-Aberglaslyn was a cotkin, and two or three little girls were a-playing marbles thereby. They spaken in Welsh, whereat I gladden’d. When Uncle spake to them they curtsied naturely and prettily. I thought of Ruskin, how he said he would have all the girls taughten to curtsy whenever a professor or any other grave person went by. Many of the best old lifewonts and oldworldly lifeonsights yet linger in beloved Walesland. May they ever linger, away from the forsoakin’ towny marshslime of English “civilization” which we would fain foist upon an hardy godly swainfolk in South Africa, one of the few yet-onlivin’ races which yet lived as God meant man to live, without citycorruptions and luxuries, and with open air, soilsubsistence and godfearing, home-shrewdness for our booklearning, godliness for our worldcunning and a right-standard for our trade-standard. These we are to crush and ontrample forsooth! And if they (bein’ only a small Republic instead of a large monarchy such as Russia) are foolish enough to settle where we may some day wish to “expand”, then they must be utterly outwiped and outburnt, and Roberts must have his £100,000 pounds for doing so; mark well that his men get nothing! Such is Tory-sway.
There is a potential bully in every man, and this element is to be exploited to save the face of such a scoundrelpack as even Westminster has seldom seen. All progresshopes are utterly dead while this conscriptionmongerin’, arsenic-representin’, vestedinterest-protectin’
Tory-scoundrelswarm yet remains to exploit the hotheaded foolfury which has overswept
Britain. Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour. If ever the ambitious (fool) St John Brodrick succeeds in enslaving his fatherland all socialreformhopes are dead, and things must go from bad to worse to end haply in no bloodless revolution. Such is the cost of the colossal idiocy of that Jingoism by which Tory-scoundrels steer for their lives.
Mark well that your fullblown Jingo yields Heligoland to Germany and is chary of discussing heavy taxations or social wrongs in Afghanistan or Russland! Lord Salisbury tried by utterly shameless methods to “imperialize” in Afghanistan and found that he had “put his money on the wrong horse.” ‘Tis a mistake to think that all small races tumble in the dust and cower at the name of a “great Power”. Meseems that the small races are often the earthsalt, as Holland or Norway. Some more or less Tory liberals are strivin’ to make the Liberal party a war-party, in fact a Tory-party in all but name. “Peace, Retrenchment and Reform” are to be forgotten, Expansion, Annexation, Devastation, Bismarckism, militarism, conscription, defiance, aggression (against ‘small’ races), commercialism, etc etc. are to be our motto; if Lord Rosebery have his way. “A striking display of British Power” is the policy of an once-Liberal newly belorded despot, Alfred Milner to name. I do not think the Cabinet wishes to only make our defence sure, but to suppress liberalism by militarism also; the insolent behavings of that official parasite Lord George Stanley are noticeable.
After Pont Aberglaslyn on the lefthand the hills withdrawen and slopen aneath ???-wards; there is a pretty stretch of Welsh marshlands and rushy watermeads through which the tamed Glaslyn-stream slowly wanders. The road climbs slowly towards Tremadoc and falls again thereinto. On the right are wellbewooded hills, and in one reach the slope on the lefthand is also wellwooded a bosky a riverbank. The hues of the Welsh hills forever otherin’ mid the otherin’ clouds and takin’ ever another hue as rain anigheth or offgoeth are a study for all Naturelovers. Oh the rich fools who go to Switzerland and know not Wales save an hotel or two at some beastly tripper-spoilt ‘wateringplace’.
Pont Aberglaslyn was at best mid fullest water in this yeartide. There is one very pretty part where the road bends through a small thorp or hamlet near Tremadoc, and on the lefthand the woods have given way to bosky bluffs among which childer were playin’ and shoutin’ in Welsh. Jackdaws had their nests thereon, and in the lovely April-evenhues worldfrith overhover’d the whole. Tremadoc is a comely little grey town minglin’ well mid the neighbourhood, and a mile away is seen Porthmadog (miswritten Portmadoc) mid masts and shipping undernestlin’ the western slopes of a tall slaty hill whereon are slateworks; ever and anon rumbled thro’ the eventidelift the sound of blasting from afar.
Is Tremadog ‘the town of Madog’ (Southey’s helt)?
Very pretty are the neat little Welsh roadside- or hillside-cots, each mid his small garth; selfhelp still onliveth here, and man sees the children drivin’ haywaggons and otherwise helpin’. All this set me a-thinking of The Crofter’s Team and the description of the old Eastenglish yeomen-smallfarms in Dr. Jessopp’s Arcady, for Better for Worse.
Beyond Porthmadog is a small stretch of what in Eastengland would be call’d marshes, and fenbirdcalls were to hearen. Random sunstreaks over cloudy hills and the fresh rainy lift of the eveningheaven thereover shonen. Thence a wavy road wanders up and down through a woody slope and one or two little Welsh thorpes and so outcomes onto the slopy moorlands beeast Criccieth. Soon Uncle outcall’d “θαλαττα” [sea] (in Greekish) and over the mooredges there was seen the blue merewater. Dusk was gatherin’; and the frithful lights of the quiet townkin twinkleden at the end of the long roadslope; and we put in at the George Hotel, built of Welsh stone mid Tudor-windows, not unhandsome nor undear. For this evening we had the room to ourselves but for a quiet man who, as I afterwards found out from the visitorsbook, was Mr. Slaney Eyton of Baschurch or thereanear. Fairhaired mid a rollin’ gait he was a good billiardplayer. Criccieth was not curst mid gas like the hotel at Bettws-y-Coed; guesthouse and town alike weren oillighted. Thank heaven—this was not the season, and few folk were about, only the sober chapelkeepin’ Welshfolk; quiet groups were walkin’ about the eveningcool streets, somewhat unlike the noisy ghastly swarm of Yahoos (male and female) that make night hideous in most English towns, such as Cowswamp [Oxford].
The hotel though hotellish was compar’d to the smart fashioniness of Bettws-y-Coed (Waterloohotel) almost homelike and guestly.
Once we came to Criccieth for an afternoon by ironway when we stay’d at Harlech in 1891. Then it was more ycrowded. The old knightburglave overlookin’ the endless worldmere from his cliffy shoreknoll, likehued mid the knoll, gave an higher touch to the little town.
Uncle had often been here. ‘Twas Saturdaynight.
There is no damned casteliness here.
Uncle went to two or three shops after dinner to ‘gossip’, not to buy. First we went to an ironmonger’s, where the shopassistants were his own sons and daughters mostly, and they talkt as old friends and neighbours and showed Uncle new twaywheelbetterings, etc. etc. All shopkeepers said that trade was very slack out of the vulgar ‘season’. Courteous mid unsophisticated courtesy, manly and natural, quick yet never servile—what a contrast to the crawling cringing cunning sneakiness and snobbishness of Oxfordshops! So at the chemist’s. They spoken Welsh among themselves always but knew English well. So it is with almost all the folk we met in this Welsh Northwales. I am glad that they do not drop their grand old tongue nor heed the foolsrede which the vulgar and blatand English Jingo ever wishes to give them. Truly Wales is yet another land. We may go abroad yet not leave England’s shores.
May Wales never sink down into the blurry flat smudge of our corrupt miscall’d civilization. Haply Swansea and Cardiff would spoil my Walesdream saw I them, but gladly I say that I have not seen them, neither am I impress’d or impos’d upon by reports as to their grandeur, expanding commerce, prosperity. Lately I rode through some 16 miles or so of glorious commercial prosperity, and I am tryin’ to forget it. From Coventry I inrode to Birmingham on the Smallheathside and rode through Smethwick, Oldbury, Tividale and Dudley to Kingswinford. I saw prosperous ginshops and expanding slums, glorious sootmists doin’ duty for clouds and colossal brutal Mammonisms for grandeur. Enough! Perish the whole factorysystem, the accurst Englandblight, speedily as may be utterly out of the land! So I pray it may.
Uncle can just remember the Welsh steeplehats. Would that they yet onliveden!
In the drawingroom on Sundayafternoon I found a copy of the New Literal Review mid several good articles on Church- and state-questions and ‘chances for Liberalism’, socialistish. There was a fire therein, and we had a good siesta, lazy though, I fear.
In Criccieth was only one redbricken house, a great landscapeblot. There is an ironway along which an all-but empty train comes, mostly for letters, twice on weekdays and once on Sundays. Behind Criccieth upslopen wild moorlands. The onsight of the shorehills from Porthmadog to Harlech was allerlordliest.
Break, at the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
On Sundaymorning we sat by the shore under the westslopes thes castleknolls on the shingle and watcht the sea. My mind was Tennyson-forsoakt; Uncle was quotin’ Omar Khayyam betweenwhiles. Omar has deeply sunken into him; I too have theresince felt his charm, readin’ Fitzgerald’s living verses in bed in a room of Pembrokecollege Cambridge on a bright moonlightnight, from speech and fellowship but late with(y)drawn (end of July 1901). I think that Uncle is an agnostic and that Omar almost guides his lifeonsight. We had a long argument in the evening walking up and down the road at the end of Criccieth and in the sleepstill town as to inwit and reason; he holds that reason is the one test.
We sat and watcht the spindrift and foam of the sea. The little foamy waves ride in exactly as the old Greekish and Romish fogies drew Poseidon- and Triton-steeds. Sunlightshafts
throughpeering cloudpatches made the sea take many hues. Faraway ‘twas like a ripply
quicksilversheet; near golden-green or goldflaky green, anon bluish. The misty hills of the Harlechshore were the background. I thought of the great ocean and how it sloped and curved adown beyond the sightborder till it reacht another land of slums and smoke, America to wit, and I tried to oversail the sightborder mid mine mindseye.
The shinglestones were wet underneath even above highwatermark. Why is this? There was not a soul about; we had the sea and the beach to our little selves, allein mit Natur [alone with nature]. ‘Tis great and upliftin’ to have in the ears the searoaring lullin’ and waxin’, to watch the sea’s landhunger. The Welsh seemingly spend the Sabbath within doors hymnsingend. I have often heard that the Southwelsh speech is all-other than the Northwelsh speech. Some first cousin of my father’s (I forget which it was) lately married a Welsh girl who could hardly understanden Northwelsh but spake Southwelsh flowingly. I wish I knew where they lived.
The waiter was a Malverner and had lived in Liverpool; he is an excellent billiard-player. In billiards I have not made any forthtread.
In Criccieth on Saturdaynight we rested sittin’ on shopwindowsills, whereat none came to stare. In every English thorp and town scores of folk love above all other things in Earth and heaven an untirin’ soulless mindless gasheaded brute stare; when will that be driven out of them?
Criccieth on Sunday was grave-still. At the guesthouse were two folk that can only belongen to this time of ‘glorious empire’ and ‘commercial supremacy’. From all that I coud gather they were Manchester-cockneys: one young and the other about 36 or so. They were not ruffianly in the least, but bumptious bounders—there is no other word for it. The way in which the elder inwrote his name in the visitorsbook was such as only a “bumptious Briton” could hit upon.
One evening (I think that it was Sundayeven) we were havin’ Welsh mutton for dinner. Suddenly the elder of the two turned to his fellow and said “Noice bit o’ bleater.” “Proime” answer’d the other.
On Mondaymorning rain had stopt at last. We offset along the road towards Pwllheli but upwent to Chwilog where was an ironwaythwarting. Bewest Criccieth were Englishly hedges and hursts and meadows slopin’ adown to such watermarshes as those which the sea has left before the foot of the gaunt knightburgcliff at Harlech. Uncle knows all this Wales-deal well: Nevin & Pwllheli and Porth Dythy-? [Porthdinllaen]; in the first of these landships English speech is least yknowen.
Beyond the thorps Chwilog and the ‘Four Crosses’ the road onwindeth between low stonewalls often gorseyclad upon more or less even stretches of lowmeadows broken by pretty hursts and tufts, cots and farmsteads, while on the lefthand we anighen the Yr Eifel (which some trippers lost to all hopes of salvation sullied into ‘the Rivals’, and the corruption has spread even among the Welsh folk; I am sure this is typical Jingoism) under the lee whereof we ongo up slowly risin’ ground until we see a little way below us θαλαττα [sea] the foamwhite surfsilvery
skysheen sailbright seastretch sunshimmery.
On the right hand rugged hills lead up to the stern worldold timemockin’ Snowdonrange, which is not altogether “impos’d” upon by our bignesses—whether of force and empire, or trade and swindling, or slumhells and society-hells, or any other; these are “imposing” indeed as bein’ impostures. Snowdon, the Cymmrish Craig Eryri methinks looks coolly upon such not without scorn. A corrupt Empire and a 5-million-manstye are not so very ‘big’ after all; in some moods I fail to admire a cesspool for its mere size. But in Northwales hells are still few and small.
The sun was all-bright, the lift cool and fresh. The sea laugh’d below us. The misty snowhooded
bergranges beright us upstood rank behind rank. It was a day to be alive, a morn whereon to breathe. I felt such lifestir as I had not known for months and ready to burst into laughter and song. The road was good and at a slight uplifting from the seamarshes sandybordered ran evenly along between copses and fields and anon under overshadowin’ treebows; one park that I bemarkt has I believe been boughten by that monarch to whom fickle crowds and slippery newssheets upoffer the thrallish incense of hypocritish grovelling. We forebywent an old church at Llandwrog, one of those old all-forlorn flockless churches of Methodistish Wales. As far as I can bemind me it was a decorated and perpendicular building.
Ere long we came into the comely town of Caernarfon, larger than those towns that we had heretofore seen. The castle I can never forget. It is wonderly bestead low down mid a thick mastgirdling before and about it. The town slopes aneath towards it, bein’ hillybuilded. The outer wall is almost if not altogether flawless, and the old windows wherefrom the Cymmry were shown their babyprince (‘who coud not speak one word of English’) is yet seen as it was then. It tells loudly of ironstrength. We wonder’d about its passages, corridors and lookt into its underrooms and overwalkt its broad green courtyard. I have never seen an old knightburg of which so much was left to bring home to me the elddays of weirdly middleald so hard to ofthink, always seemin’ halffabled. I have seen castles at Framlingham, Ludlow, Whittington, Middle, Harlech, Norwich, Shrewsbury, Clun, Oxford, Acton Burnell, Broughton, and elsewhere, but never others so fair as those of Ludlow and Caernarfon.
Heavy rains set in but soon overwent. We went through fair wavy land through Pont Rug and reacht Llanrug, Cwm-y-glo and Llyndolbadarn blue and heavensheen at the foot of the slaty Glyders on the one hand and the rugged Snowdon on the other; slates were a-working on the Glyders. There is a pretty little town at Llanberis mid too many new guesthouses; and I hate the steamtramway up Snowdon. The gaunt old Craig Eryri at first spurned this irreverent insult over the edge, but still it puffs and rattles up the naturefrithful and worldold Earncliff or Snawdun.
We reacht the allerlordliest gauntlordly kingly rugged wild eotenish Llanberis-Pass; the stronghold road upwinds through the inshutten pass. On either hand the stern timefast old bergsides loom up into cloudland; hoary bergbatches foameth adown into the dalebeck; and mid the shiftin cloudheaps and sunflashes shiften the hues of cliff, crag and bergheighth. Ever and anon man umwendeth him to snatch the heavenly backglimpse or Rücksicht, ere he plods up the risin windin way ahead and reaches the Pen-y-pass inn: worldwithdrawn.
Why was all this made in man’s dwellingroom if man was God-meant to live in the slumhells of ‘civilization’? Did not God mean these unspeakable glories to be man’s gladness and worship?
Can there be two answers to this? Our own inwit answereth. ‘Tis more than saddenin’ to think that millions of slumstifled wretches never set eyes on the dwellingroom that God hath given mankind.
We reacht Pen-y-gwryd Inn, costly and worldwithdrawn comely and Kingsley-famed, and so adown between the afterslopes of Moel Siabod and the westslopes of Snowdon, on whom we could see much snow from Llanberis Pass—we had not time to upclimben Snowdon and it was far too misty. In the thorp near Llyn-Dolbadarn the men wore white clothen breeks. One whom I’d askt the way knew no English. I was not sorry. I do not think they should learn English unless they wish to. I am heartglad that the old Eisteddfod has upysprungen into new life and thriving.
Céad míle fáilte [one hundred thousand welcomes]. It was gladdenin’ to find that in Wales all readily answered my “Bore da i chi” [good morning to you] and often said it of their own accord, childer besonders [especially].
At Pont-Aberglaslyn even Uncle halts, tho’ he hardly ever halts to look at anything in the land wherethrough he spins uphill and adowndale at such a dizzy deathspeed. The roar and thunder is allerlordliest—to think of living mid that waterroar and thundery streamspray for ever in your ears! O haggard Manchesterer, oh starveling Bradforder, oh slumsunken Birminghamer, O featherheaded loudlunged Oxford-townsman, if you could hear for five minutes that worldsong, endlessly more lofty than Goethe’s Masonic Lodge and ‘roaring loom of time’, would it not open your ears and eyes a wee bit?
Near Pont-Aberglaslyn my tyre broke down. I had to walk the last 11 miles into Criccieth. Adown the sloping moorlandway into Criccieth I felt the sealordliness, and I thought of my father (would God I thought oftener of him) beyond the Lightbringer, and of Tennyson’s In Memoriam, which by the by was one of his bestloved books. He loved Tennyson, Dickens and Thackeray, I think, best among his books, but he almost never had time for reading; what little timescraps he could snatch from the long and toilsome daily workround he gave to outdoor-gardening. He had a good—a very good—memory; he remembered thoroughly the Dickens- and Thackeray-books he had read in his younger days, and among other books of which he held a lively memory was Feats on the Fiord. Of Mildenhall in Suffolk and the fens and fenfowls and of Norway he ever spake most lovingly. A Dr. Harris lived there who was his friend. Dr. Harris is yet livin’, I know not where. I should love to call on him and ask him to tell me what he remember’d of my father.
When I last stayed at Coreley mid Leonard Joyce, I came back when all the others were out or away (I think ‘twas April 1899), and there call’d a noble stalwart kindly man, a doctor from Tunbridge Wells (I will uplook his name on his photograph), who had come to see my father. He was an old Kingscollegefriend; they had not met since their Kingscollege-days, and Father was deeply joyed to hear of his call when I told him on his homecoming. He was a noble man mid a strong kindly Christen face. I should like to meet him again. He askt me to oncall him if ever I went that way. Poor Aunt Katie of Shirley (wife of Rev. Charles Burd my great uncle) is among those who are now forthgone into the beyond. She was a kindly and good soul and did her most to cheer Uncle Charlie’s gloomy sadness. Poor Uncle Charlie was very good to me; I have often and often wondered what was the root of his sadness, for it was deep and sincere. I know mine well enough.
The old order changeth, yielding place to new
On Monday morning we started in drivin rainspouts. Foreby Moel Hebog and the hehre [sublime] hillhues all about us we foren into Porthmadog, foreby the new yet handsome church, which is a good landmark. Porthmadog seem’d fearfully dirty, but then the day was so rainy and muddy. There is a sea-inlet here. Very comely from afar is the mastforest at Porthmadog-harbour, if we may call it an harbour. Along we went up and adown into the straggling thorp Penrhyndeudraeth.
We soughten shelter at the station. The stationmaster was a thoroughly kindly uncunnin’ Welsh soul and guestfriendly set me before the fire. Uncle Arthur rode aback to Criccieth, and I onwent so soon as the rain stopt along the shorebend through several hillfoot-thorpes treeoverbrowed and hillovershadowed. There were rangin’ woods, occasional countryhouses and manyhued hillslopes; the road upwound high above the flat rushy
lowmeadows (to use a Suffolkwording) ywon from the withydrawen sea. The sun came and smote beamy gladness into the sea, and soon the gauntbestead grey Harlech-castle was in sight. At Harlech we stayed in 1891, all of us and Uncle Arthur and Aunt Mary Atkinson eke. Aunt Harrie and Uncle Charles Ward of Dulwich there stayed awhile at the same time.
This year (1901) Norah Dodd and her childer have at Llanfair stayed, eke Uncle Arthur Burd and Aunt Gertrude and their childer. Uncle was meanin to onride so far as Llanfair to look for an house but the rain abackdrave him. In 1891 we found two dusky shearwaters, one on the beach and another under the railwaywires (the last I found myself if not the first), both dead yet fresh, and they were stuffed by Henry Shaw and we have them still. Uncle Arthur (Atkinson) and my father went afishing in some tarn anigh Harlech and brought home some good trout. We six childer spent most of our time on the beach. I was then very fond of trying to keep an ‘aquarium’; I remember that I got several saltwater-bullheads for it. At home I got (in 1892) freshwater-millersthumbs and stoneloaches, minnows and young dace- and roach-fry for my aquarium there. The brook that runs through the great field overagainst Mr. Fox’s house on the Berwickroad was fill of minnows, and I made a net of mine own Entwurf [devising, design] for their taking. It sped well. I was a little proud of mine own handmade net. Haply I had more right to be a little vain of this than of most things that I have done.
I onrode through some very pretty thorps to Abermawddach, or in tripperish ‘Barmouth’. It was by no means so ugly as I had thought to see it. It was not the season. Luckily it has not room to grow into a Blackpool or Brighton. It is cliffinhemm’d; some very sham-castles have percht high up, however. The buildings are mostly of that rough stone and slates which are right in Wales and in Wales only. The brickbuildings are ghastly, though luckily few. I sat and waited on the beach for the train. The sun had outycomen, and all was glorious and I could see Criccieth castle afar; beautiful is the inlet besouth Abermawddach. The beach was almost abandon’d and folkless. In the train were a knot of Aberystwith students talkin hard in Welsh and later on a hearty Welsh small farmer who had known a man lately buried who had driven pigs from Pwllheli to Birmingham. “The old order changeth.”
*Editorial note:
Some changes were made to the original text in order to assist with legibility, for instance:
Punctuation and capitalisation added
Subheadings added (mostly from marginal headings and notes)
Digits changed to written numbers for consistency
Underlining ignored
Welsh corrected
Some later additions ignored
Don't forget that the original manuscript is available to view at Shropshire Archives, ref 1436/1.
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