Satiated with looking about and thinking, I sprang from the cairn
and rejoined my guide. We now descended the eastern side of the
hill till we came to a singular looking stone, which had much the
appearance of a Druid's stone. I inquired of my guide whether
there was any tale connected with this stone.
"None," he replied; "but I have heard people say that it was a
strange stone, and on that account I brought you to look at it."
A little farther down he showed me part of a ruined wall.
"What name does this bear?" said I.
"Clawdd yr Afalon," he replied. "The dyke of the orchard."
"A strange place for an orchard," I replied. "If there was ever an
orchard on this bleak hill, the apples must have been very sour."
Over rocks and stones we descended till we found ourselves on a
road, not very far from the shore, on the south-east side of the
hill.
"I am very thirsty," said I, as I wiped the perspiration from my
face; "how I should like now to drink my fill of cool spring
water."
"If your honour is inclined for water," said my guide, "I can take
you to the finest spring in all Wales."
"Pray do so," said I, "for I really am dying of thirst."
"It is on our way to the town," said the lad, "and is scarcely a
hundred yards off."
He then led me to the fountain. It was a little well under a stone
wall, on the left side of the way. It might be about two feet
deep, was fenced with rude stones, and had a bottom of sand.
"There," said the lad, "is the fountain. It is called the Fairies'
Well, and contains the best water in Wales."
I lay down and drank. Oh, what water was that of the Fairies'
Well! I drank and drank, and thought I could never drink enough of
that delicious water; the lad all the time saying that I need not
be afraid to drink, as the water of the Fairies' Well had never
done harm to anybody. At length I got up, and standing by the
fountain repeated the lines of a bard on a spring, not of a Welsh
but a Gaelic bard, which are perhaps the finest lines ever composed
on the theme. Yet MacIntyre, for such was his name, was like
myself an admirer of good ale, to say nothing of whiskey, and loved
to indulge in it at a proper time and place. But there is a time
and place for everything, and sometimes the warmest admirer of ale
would prefer the lymph of the hill-side fountain to the choicest
ale that ever foamed in tankard from the cellars of Holkham. Here
are the lines most faithfully rendered:-
"The wild wine of nature,
Honey-like in its taste,
The genial, fair, thin element
Filtering through the sands,
Which is sweeter than cinnamon,
And is well known to us hunters.
O, that eternal, healing draught,
Which comes from under the earth,
Which contains abundance of good
And costs no money!"
Returning to the hotel I satisfied my guide and dined.
