George Borrow, a great traveller in his day, who wrote about (and sympathised with) the Romani peoples - and was also a great linguist - wrote a book about his rambles through Wales in the 1850s.
"George Borrow, Wild Wales: Its People, Language and Scenery" can be read online (Link to Vision of Britain through Time)
Download e-book at Project Gutenberg (for free).
He received a bit of a rough greeting in our village!
CHAPTER XC
SHORTLY after leaving the grounds of Hafod I came to a bridge over the Ystwyth. I crossed it, and was advancing along the road which led apparently to the south-east, when I came to a company of people who seemed to be loitering about. It consisted entirely of young men and women, the former with crimson favours, the latter in the garb of old Wales, blue tunics and sharp crowned hats. Going up to one of the young women, I said, "Petti yw? what's the matter!"
"Priodas (a marriage)," she replied, after looking at me attentively. I then asked her the name of the bridge, whereupon she gave a broad grin, and after some, little time replied: "Pont y Groes (the bridge of the cross)." I was about to ask her some other question when she turned away with a loud chuckle, and said something to another wench near her, who, grinning yet more uncouthly, said something to a third, who grinned too, and lifting up her hands and spreading her fingers wide, said: "Dyn oddi dir y Gogledd - a man from the north country, hee, hee!" Forthwith there was a general shout, the wenches crying: "A man from the north country, hee, hee!" and the fellows crying: "A man from the north country, hoo, hoo!"
"Is this the way you treat strangers in the south?" said I. But I had scarcely uttered the words when with redoubled shouts the company exclaimed: "There's Cumraeg! there's pretty Cumraeg. Go back, David, to shire Fon! That Cumraeg won't pass here."
Finding they disliked my Welsh I had recourse to my own language. "Really," said I in English, "such conduct is unaccountable. What do you mean?" But this only made matters worse, for the shouts grew louder still, and every one cried: "There's pretty English! Well, if I couldn't speak better English than that I'd never speak English at all. No, David; if you must speak at all, stick to Cumraeg." Then forthwith, all the company set themselves in violent motion, the women rushing up to me with their palms and fingers spread out in my face, without touching me, however, as they wheeled round me at about a yard's distance, crying: "A man from the north country, hee, hee!" and the fellows acting just in the same way, rushing up with their hands spread out, and then wheeling round me with cries of "A man from the north country, hoo, hoo!" I was so enraged that I made for a heap of stones by the road-side, intending to take some up and fling them at the company. Reflecting, however, that I had but one pair of hands and the company at least forty, and that by such an attempt at revenge I should only make myself ridiculous, I gave up my intention, and continued my journey at a rapid pace, pursued for a long way by "hee, hee," and "hoo, hoo," and: "Go back, David, to your goats in Anglesey, you are not wanted here."
CHAPTER LXXXIX describes his visit to the Hafod Estate (when the great house still existed)
At length, after passing through a gate and turning round a sharp corner, I suddenly beheld Hafod on my right hand, to the west at a little distance above me, on a rising ground, with a noble range of mountains behind it. A truly fairy place it looked, beautiful but fantastic, in the building of which three styles of architecture seemed to have been employed. At the southern end was a Gothic tower; at the northern an Indian pagoda; the middle part had much the appearance of a Grecian villa. The walls were of resplendent whiteness, and the windows, which were numerous, shone with beautiful gilding. Such was modern Hafod, a strange contrast, no doubt, to the hunting lodge of old.
After gazing at this house of eccentric taste for about a quarter of an hour, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with a strong disposition to laugh, I followed the road, which led past the house in nearly a southerly direction. Presently the valley became more narrow, and continued narrowing till there was little more room than was required for the road and the river, which ran deep below it on the left-hand side. Presently I came to a gate, the boundary in the direction in which I was going of the Hafod domain. You can in fact go over the bridge, through the Gate House (please respect the fact that people live there, and close the gate, etc) and walk up to the Hafod Estate that way. Visit to the Hafod (Library of Wales link)
Hafod, at the top of the Ystwyth Valley in north Ceredigion was the creation of Thomas Johnes (1748-1816), often called Johnes yr Hafod. The house and gardens were considered amongst the finest picturesque estates in Britain. Many famous artists and writers visited mid Wales with the sole aim of seeing Hafod. Johnes had a holistic vision of his rural paradise; he included sculpture, caves, bridges and wonderful vistas as part of the design. In the house, Johnes had also gathered an impressive collection of visual art. Following the fire of 1807 and the death of his daughter, Mariamne, in 1811 Johnes abandoned any further plans to continue with the development of Hafod. The house was later remodelled by a new owner but eventually became derelict and was finally demolished in 1956. In 1932 a fire in Hafod Church caused irreperable damage to the marble memorial to Thomas Jones and his family which is housed there. |
