lian lake.

Just before Harlech, the wild yet nymph-like beauty of the world changed
to an almost startling grandeur, for the coast moved back from the sea
with a noble sweep, magnificent mountains towered along the shore, and
line after line of beryl waves shattered into pearl upon a beach of
darkened gold.

Harlech Castle was an event in my life. I thought I had begun to take
ruined castles for granted in Wales, as you do sea-shells on the shore;
but Harlech is a castle that you couldn't take for granted. It was a
shock at first to find that a hotel had been built in the very face of
it, as if bearding it in its den; yet it is a nice hotel; and when we
had lunched there agreeably, I not only forgave it for existing, but
began to like and thank it for having thoughtfully placed itself on that
admirable height.

From here our eyes ought to have been smitten with the sight of Snowdon;
but the Grand Old Mountain was asleep, his head buried in white
cloud-pillows which alone betrayed his whereabouts; so we had to be
content with the castle. And I was content. To see the splendid ruin
reared on its great rock, dark against sea and sky, was thrilling as a
vision of an old wounded knight girding his strength for a last stand.

[Illustration: "_The splendid ruin, reared on its great rock_"]

History says that Harlech Castle is no older than Edward I.; but story
says (which is more important, because more romantic) that in the dim
dawn while History still dozed, here rose the Tower of Twr Brauwen,
white-bosomed sister of Bran the Blessed. Also, it came into the
possession of Hawis Gadern, a great beauty and heiress, whose uncles
tried to wrest it from her, but were defeated and imprisoned in the
castle. Anyway, however that may be, Owen Glendower came and conquered,
in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when he was forging a chain
of wonderful deeds which made him the hero of Wales. Never mind if he
was driven away a few years after by Prince Henry. That's another story.

The way from Harlech by Portmadoc to exquisite Pont Aberglaslyn and
Beddgelert is very Arthurian; that is, it suggests pre-mediaeval
backgrounds, and at every turn I caught myself expecting to come upon
Camelot, unspoiled, unchanged. The high mountains still wore their
invisibility masks, but the lower mountains, not too proud to show
themselves to motoring mortals, grouped as graciously together as if
they were lovely ladies and gay knights, turned