A rustic-looking man stood in the mill-yard, who he
said was the proprietor. The honest miller went into the mill, and
the rustic-looking proprietor greeted me in Welsh, and asked me if
I was come to buy hogs.
"No," said I; "I am come to see the birth-place of Gronwy Owen;" he
stared at me for a moment, then seemed to muse, and at last walked
away saying, "Ah! a great man."
The miller presently joined me, and we proceeded farther down the
hill. Our way lay between stone walls, and sometimes over them.
The land was moory and rocky, with nothing grand about it, and the
miller described it well when he said it was tir gwael - mean land.
In about a quarter of an hour we came to the churchyard into which
we got, the gate being locked, by clambering over the wall.
The church stands low down the descent, not far distant from the
sea. A little brook, called in the language of the country a frwd,
washes its yard-wall on the south. It is a small edifice with no
spire, but to the south-west there is a little stone erection
rising from the roof, in which hangs a bell - there is a small
porch looking to the south.
