I asked the lad whether this cairn bore a name, and
received for answer that it was generally called Bar-cluder y Cawr
Glas, words which seem to signify the top heap of the Grey Giant.
"Some king, giant, or man of old renown lies buried beneath this
cairn," said I. "Whoever he may be, I trust he will excuse me for
mounting it, seeing that I do so with no disrespectful spirit." I
then mounted the cairn, exclaiming:-
"Who lies 'neath the cairn on the headland hoar,
His hand yet holding his broad claymore,
Is it Beli, the son of Benlli Gawr?"
There stood I on the cairn of the Grey Giant, looking around me.
The prospect, on every side, was noble: the blue interminable sea
to the west and north; the whole stretch of Mona to the east; and
far away to the south the mountainous region of Eryri, comprising
some of the most romantic hills in the world. In some respects
this Pen Santaidd, this holy headland, reminded me of Finisterrae,
the Gallegan promontory which I had ascended some seventeen years
before, whilst engaged in battling the Pope with the sword of the
gospel in his favourite territory. Both are bold, bluff headlands
looking to the west, both have huge rocks in their vicinity, rising
from the bosom of the brine. For a time, as I stood on the cairn,
I almost imagined myself on the Gallegan hill; much the same
scenery presented itself as there, and a sun equally fierce struck
upon my head as that which assailed it on the Gallegan hill.
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