"To what place does this water run?" said I in English.
"I know no Saxon," said he in trembling accents.
I repeated my question in Welsh.
"To the sea," he said, "which is not far off, indeed it is so near,
that when there are high tides, the salt water comes up to this
bridge."
"You seem feeble?" said I.
"I am so," said he, "for I am old."
"How old are you?" said I.
"Sixteen after sixty," said the old man with a sigh; "and I have
nearly lost my sight and my hearing."
"Are you poor?" said I.
"Very," said the old man.
I gave him a trifle which he accepted with thanks.
"Why is this sand called the red sand?" said I.
"I cannot tell you," said the old man, "I wish I could, for you
have been kind to me."
Bidding him farewell I passed through the northern part of the
village to the top of the hill. I walked a little way forward and
then stopped, as I had done at the bridge in the dale, and looked
to the east, over a low stone wall.
Before me lay the sea or rather the northern entrance of the Menai
Straits. To my right was mountain Lidiart projecting some way into
the sea; to my left, that is to the north, was a high hill, with a
few white houses near its base, forming a small village, which a
woman who passed by knitting told me was called Llan Peder Goch or
the Church of Red Saint Peter.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297