# Letters from England/North Wales

NORTH WALES
HOLY Writ declares quite plainly: “Ac efe a ddywededd hefyd wrth y bobleedd. Pan welech gwmmwl yn cedi e’r gerllewin, yn y fan y dywedwch. Y mae cawed yn dyfodd; ac felly y mae” (Luke xiii. 54). Now, although the Welsh Bible says this about the west wind, it was in a west wind that I proceeded to Mount Snowdon or, more correctly, Eryri Y Wyddfa, in order that I might see the whole of the land of Wales. Ac felly y mae: it not only rained, but I found myself amid clouds and in such cold that on the summit of Snowdon I turned aside to a stove; for a fire is very beautiful to look upon, and by the glowing coals it is possible to think of a whole lot of the nicest things. The guide-book praises the beauty and diversity of the view from ​Mount Snowdon: I saw white and grey clouds, I even felt them beneath my shirt. It is not exactly ugly to look at, because it is white, but it is not exceedingly varied. Nevertheless, it was vouchsafed to me to behold Lliwedd and Moel Offrwn and Cwm y-Llan and Llyn Ffynnon Gwas and Crib-y-ddysgyl; and tell me, are these beautiful names not worth a little fogginess, tempest, cold and cloud?
As regards the language of the Welsh, it is rather unintelligible, and, as my learned friend explained to me, also complicated; for example, the word for father is sometimes “dad,” sometimes “tad” and sometimes ​“mhad,” according to circumstances. That it is a complicated language is evident from the fact that one village near Anglesea is known as Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliegegegech. I may tell you that the Celtic tongue of Wales is pleasant to listen to, especially from the lips of the dark-haired girls of an almost French type. The old Welsh women, however, unfortunately wear men’s caps; this is evidently a remnant o f the native costume which included, for the women, a man’s top-hat of enormous height.
In other respects Wales is by no means so strange and terrible as its place-names. One place is called Penmaenmawr, and the ​only things there are quarries and the seaside. I do not know why some names produce a magical effect on me; I had to have a look at Llandudno and I was profoundly depressed; firstly, it is pronounced otherwise, and then it is only a pile of hotels, rocks and sand, just like any other seaside resort of this island. So I crept down to Carnarvon, the chief town of the Welsh; it is so far away that the people in the post office there know nothing about our country, and at seven o’clock no evening meal is to be had there. I do not know why I spent two whole days in such a place. There is a very old castle of the princes of Wales there; I should have drawn it, but I could not get it on to the paper; so I drew at least one tower of it, where an autonomous parliament of jackdaws was just sitting. Never have I seen and heard so many jackdaws; I tell you, you really must go to Carnarvon.
Wales is the land of mountains, Lloyd George, trout, excursionists, jackdaws, slate, castles, rain, bards and a Celtic language. ​The mountains are bald and violet-coloured, strange and full of stones; in the hotels there are moist photographs of organizers of singing contests, which are a sort of national speciality; Welsh sheep have long tails, and ​if you were to cut me in pieces, that is all I know about North Wales. If anybody thinks this is not much, well, he had better go to Carnarvon. Change at Bangor.