I was
in a Welsh mountain village, which put me much in mind of the
villages which I had strolled through of old in Castile and La
Mancha; there were the same silence and desolation here as yonder
away - the houses were built of the same material, namely stone. I
should perhaps have fancied myself for a moment in a Castilian or
Manchegan mountain pueblicito, but for the abundance of trees which
met my eye on every side.
In walking up this mountain village I saw no one, and heard no
sound but the echo of my steps amongst the houses. As I returned,
however, I saw a man standing at a door - he was a short figure,
about fifty. He had an old hat on his head, a stick in his hand,
and was dressed in a duffel greatcoat.
"Good-day, friend," said I; "what be the name of this place?"
"Pont Fadog, sir, is its name, for want of a better."
"That's a fine name," said I; "it signifies in English the bridge
of Madoc."
"Just so, sir; I see you know Welsh."
"And I see you know English," said I.
"Very little, sir; I can read English much better than I can speak
it."
"So can I Welsh," said I. "I suppose the village is named after
the bridge."
"No doubt it is, sir."
"And why was the bridge called the bridge of Madoc?" said I.
"Because one Madoc built it, sir.
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