which I have halted in the
course of my wanderings. I intended to sleep at Gutter Vawr, a place
some twenty miles distant, just within Glamorganshire, to reach which it
would be necessary to pass over part of a range of wild hills, generally
called the Black Mountains. I started at about ten o'clock; the morning
was lowering, and there were occasional showers of rain and hail. I
passed by Rees Pritchard's church, holding my hat in my hand as I did so,
not out of respect for the building, but from reverence for the memory of
the sainted man who of old from its pulpit called sinners to repentance,
and whose remains slumber in the churchyard unless washed away by some
frantic burst of the neighbouring Towey. Crossing a bridge over the Bran
just before it enters the greater stream, I proceeded along a road
running nearly south and having a range of fine hills on the east.
Presently violent gusts of wind came on, which tore the sear leaves by
thousands from the trees, of which there were plenty by the roadsides.
After a little time, however, this elemental hurly-burly passed away, a
rainbow made its appearance, and the day became comparatively fine.
Turning to the south-east under a hill covered with oaks, I left the vale
of the Towey behind me, and soon caught a glimpse of some very lofty
hills which I supposed to be the Black Mountains. It was a mere glimpse,
for scarcely had I descried them when mist settled down and totally
obscured them from my view.

In about an hour I reached Llangadog, a large village. The name
signifies the church of Gadog. Gadog was a British saint of the fifth
century, who after labouring amongst his own countrymen for their
spiritual good for many years, crossed the sea to Brittany, where he
died. Scarcely had I entered Llangadog when a great shower of rain came
down. Seeing an ancient-looking hostelry I at once made for it. In a
large and comfortable kitchen I found a middle-aged woman seated by a
huge deal table near a blazing fire, with a couple of large books open
before her. Sitting down on a chair I told her in English to bring me a
pint of ale. She did so, and again sat down to her books, which on
inquiry I found to be a Welsh Bible and Concordance. We soon got into
discourse about religion, but did not exactly agree, for she was a bitter
Methodist, as bitter as her beer, only half of which I could get down.

Leaving Llangadog I pushed forward. The day was now tolerably fine