This farm-yard was in a very sequestered situation; a
hill overhung it on the west, half-way up whose side stood a farm-
house to which it probably pertained. On the north-west was a most
romantic hill covered with wood to the very top. A wild valley
led, I knew not whither, to the north between crags and the wood-
covered hill. Going up to a man of respectable appearance, who
seemed to be superintending the others, I asked him in English the
way to Pentre y Dwr. He replied that I must follow the path up the
hill towards the house, behind which I should find a road which
would lead me through the wood to Pentre Dwr. As he spoke very
good English, I asked him where he had learnt it.
"Chiefly in South Wales," said he, "where they speak less Welsh
than here."
I gathered from him that he lived in the house on the hill and was
a farmer. I asked him to what place the road up the valley to the
north led.
"We generally go by that road to Wrexham," he replied; "it is a
short but a wild road through the hills."
After a little discourse on the times, which he told me were not
quite so bad for farmers as they had been, I bade him farewell.
