I fell upon the ground--felt a kind of crashing about my
neck--and forthwith became senseless.
* * * * *
As I was gazing on the prospect an old man driving a peat cart came from
the direction in which I was going. I asked him the name of the ravine
and he told me it was Ceunant Coomb or hollow-dingle coomb. I asked the
name of the brook, and he told me that it was called the brook of the
hollow-dingle coomb, adding that it ran under Pont Newydd, though where
that was I knew not. Whilst he was talking with me he stood uncovered.
Yes, the old peat driver stood with his hat in his hand whilst answering
the questions of the poor, dusty foot-traveller. What a fine thing to be
an Englishman in Wales!
In about an hour I came to a wild moor; the moor extended for miles and
miles. It was bounded on the east and south by immense hills and moels.
On I walked at a round pace, the sun scorching me sore, along a dusty,
hilly road, now up, now down. Nothing could be conceived more cheerless
than the scenery around. The ground on each side of the road was mossy
and rushy--no houses--instead of them were peat stacks, here and there,
standing in their blackness. Nothing living to be seen except a few
miserable sheep picking the wretched herbage, or lying panting on the
shady side of the peat clumps. At length I saw something which appeared
to be a sheet of water at the bottom of a low ground on my right. It
looked far off--'Shall I go and see what it is?' thought I to myself.
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