but dirt and wretchedness were now visible.
Having reached the top of the hill I entered upon a wild moory region.
Presently I crossed a little bridge over a rivulet, and seeing a small
house on the shutter of which was painted "cwrw," I went in, sat down on
an old chair, which I found vacant, and said in English to an old woman
who sat knitting by the window: "Bring me a pint of ale!"

"Dim Saesneg!" said the old woman.

"I told you to bring me a pint of ale," said I to her in her own
language.

"You shall have it immediately, sir," said she, and going to a cask, she
filled a jug with ale, and after handing it to me resumed her seat and
knitting.

"It is not very bad ale," said I, after I had tasted it.

"It ought to be very good," said the old woman, "for I brewed it myself."

"The goodness of ale," said I, "does not so much depend on who brews it
as on what it is brewed of. Now there is something in this ale which
ought not to be. What is it made of?"

"Malt and hop."

"It tastes very bitter," said I. "Is there no chwerwlys {13} in it?"

"I do not know what chwerwlys is," said the old woman.

"It is what the Saxons call wormwood," said I.

"Oh, wermod. No, there is no wermod in my beer, at least not much."

"Oh, then there is some; I thought there was. Why do you put such stuff
into your ale?"

"We are glad to put it in sometimes when hops are dear, as they are this
year. Moreover, wermod is not bad stuff, and some folks like the taste
better than that of hops."

"Well, I don't. However, the ale is drinkable. What am I to give you
for the pint?"

"You are to give me a groat."

"That is a great deal," said I, "for a groat I ought to have a pint of
ale made of the best malt and hops."

"I give you the best I can afford. One must live by what one sells. I
do not find that easy work."

"Is this house your own?"

"Oh no! I pay rent for it, and not a cheap one."

"Have you a husband?

"I had, but he is dead."

"Have you any children?"

"I had three, but they are dead too, and buried with my husband at the
monastery."

"Where is the monastery?"

"A good way farther on, at the strath beyond Rhyd Fendigaid."

"What is the name of the little river by the house?"

"Avon Marchnad (Market River)."

"Why is it called Avon Marchnad?"

"Truly, gentleman, I cannot tell you."

I went on sipping my ale and finding fault with its bitterness till I had
finished it, when getting up I gav