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From Trefriw, we were told, a very short excursion, up to Llyn Geirionydd, would have brought us to one of the very finest points of view in all North Wales, the range of Snowdon, and the scarcely less imposing Moel Siabod, being thence seen in all their majesty. But it is always at once a regret and an alleviation, in leaving beautiful scenes, that much is left unvisited—regret that so many fair scenes have been missed, alleviation, because the very fact may form so good a reason some day for revisiting the place! As it was, with some time at our disposal after reaching Conway, we visited the splendid ruins of the castle, then went by rail to Llandudno, and after a hasty glance at the promenade by the bay, finished the memorable four days’ visit to Wales by a bracing walk of six miles, round the Great Orme’s Head on the path overlooking the sea.
The holiday had been so successful, that on the next similar opportunity it occurred to us to spend the few days at command in South Wales. We are bound, however, to confess that the charm was felt to be inferior.
Possibly we expected another Snowdonia, and so deserved to be disappointed. Nature does not repeat herself, and though the heights of Plinlimmon are commanding when attained, we do not recommend the traveller whose time is precious to traverse the intolerably circuitous path, amid bogs and morasses, which leads him wearily at last to the summit. The fresh breeze, and the wide prospect from the mountain’s top are, to some extent, a compensation for the toil; while it is interesting to explore the sources of some of the many rivers which descend from the mighty store of waters embosomed in this hill—the Severn and the Wye being chief. But the longing for the beautiful was unsatisfied until we reached Pont-y-Mynach, the Monk’s P>ridge; better known, perhaps, as “the Devil’s Bridge.” The former name denotes the fact that the monks of Strata Florida Abbey constructed the bridge: the latter, we suppose, expresses the simple wonder of the rustics, who could not conceive the daring work as wrought by any power less than supernatural. Why should they have taken for granted that the power was evil? We presume that the explanation is to be found in the sense of terror excited by the fury and the roar of the torrent. There is an awe akin to joy: a solemn yet glad uplifting of the soul, as at the sight of the starry heavens; and who could attribute the splendours of the firmament to any but a beneficent Creator? But amid the wilder scenes of this earth, there is not only the mere feeling of danger, but a dread which oppresses the spirit—a “fear that hath torment,”—an instinctive sense of sin, which has led men in such localities to imagine a malignant spirit at work.
A little way beyond the bridge are the falls of the Rheidol—a series of cascades, perhaps the most picturesque in Wales, not from the mass of water so much as from the magnificence of the narrow, rocky ravine, with its wealth of foliage. Perhaps the charms of this fair glen, with the comforts of the splendidly-placed hotel above, were heightened by the recollection of the long morning among the morasses of Plinlimmon; but our feeling as we sat at eventide watching the sunset, and listening to the roar of waters, was to surrender all the rest of our brief excursion, and to give ourselves there to the dolce far niente of three long summer days!
South Wales is so conveniently intersected with railways, that it is almost too easy for the tourist to pass from point to point. The preceding day, on a south-easterly slope of Plinlimmon, we had stood at the source of the Wye, and the desire possessed us to trace the progress of that river for awhile, to see if in its early meanderings it had the beauty which we knew so well to belong to it in its later and more familiar course. The excursion was not a disappointing one. It leads through some of the most primitive of Welsh districts: Builth, which in due time we reached, appeared quaint and attractive, and Talgarth, where our long walk was finished, might have tempted us, under other circumstances, to a longer stay, to explore the “Black Mountains,” a wonderfully fine range of hills, girt with woods, pierced by lovely glens, and extending in ranges of lofty moorland for many miles.
A short railway journey now brought us to Brecon, so nobly placed in the midst of its mountain amphitheatre as to invite a longer stay: but we had to hurry on, anxious to reach the far-famed Vale of Neath. A very wild walk led upwards for many weary miles, as it seemed, from Brecon to Maen Llia, the “Llia Stone,” near which is the source of the Llia, one of the streams whose confluence form the Neath. Descending rapidly, we soon came to the point where the Llia is joined from the north-east by the Dringarth, another confluent.
At Y-strad-fellte, a little further on, the glory of the mountain vale began to open out. We passed under the shadow of the crags to the east, as far as to the spot where, at a break in the rocky rampart, the Hepste, another tributary, hurries to meet the stream, forming a fine waterfall. At Crag-y-Dinas, a huge limestone rock, commanding from its summit both the upper glen and the lower valley as far as Swansea Bay, the beauty of the scene is at its height. Hardly any combination of scenery could be richer in its exquisite variety. The road now lay between these united streams and the Neath proper, which soon is joined from the western side by the Pyrrdin, up whose rocky glen we turned for the sake of its two charming cascades, the “Lady’s” and the “Crooked” Fall.
In fact, the whole neighbourhood teems with cataracts, many of exceeding beauty, and a day might well be spent in exploring the rocky dingles, through which the hurrying streams descend, until at Pont-Nedd-fechan, “the Little Bridge of Neath,” they meet and mingle in one.
The bridge is of one arch, thrown across the ravine near the point of confluence; it is festooned with drooping ivy, which almost reaches the surface of the stream, and in its secluded loveliness this little Welsh Lauterbrunnen, a village of many waters among the hills, may fairly compare with many scenes far better known to fame.
The route down the valley to the town of Neath and the port of Briton Ferry, is rich in varied beauty. The river runs between the high road and the railway, with, in some part of its course, a canal. The surrounding hills are lovely in outline and richly wooded; and until we reach the seats of industry near the port, the water, lying in long reaches, or hurrying over its rocky bed, is crystal-clear. At a former time Briton Ferry was lovely beyond almost any other seaside resort. The river, here expanded to a noble breadth, flowed between lofty wooded cliffs to an open bay. The surrounding hills were crowned with noble oaks, and the romantic little village, protected from the north and east, had all the attractions not only of its own exceeding beauty, but of a mild climate, and of air exceptionally pure. All this is changed!