Newport Bay, lying under the lee of Dinas Head, looks as though one might cast a stone into its calm waters; and upon turning our gaze inland, the eye loses itself amidst the many-folding hills, as they rise in soft undulations to the dusky highlands of Glamorganshire. We now push on along the crest of the moorland, striking once more into the course of the so-called Flemings' Way. After the manner of most early roads, this ancient trackway runs athwart the open highlands, avoiding the hollow places; and although much of it has been obliterated by the ploughshare, and the gradual advance of cultivation, its course may still be traced in the less-frequented localities, as it wends its way up country from the site of old Menapia towards the county-town of Carmarthen. An ancient warrant of Sir Nicholas Martin, referring to the use of this old mountain road by the Flemish colony, observes: 'And well they might make this unusual waie for their passage, for that, passinge alonge the toppe of the highest hill, they might the better descrie the pryvie ambushes of the Countrye people, which might in streightes and woodds annoy them.' At a place appropriately called the Pass of the Winds, we fall in with the main road as it crosses the hills from Haverfordwest to Cardigan. This we descend for a matter of half a mile, passing across a heathery upland ycleped the Hill of the Unstrung-Bows, until we come to Tafarn Bwlch, a humble wayside alehouse some thousand feet or so above sea-level. Looking out across a broad brown reach of moorland, the eye detects a sort of rude stone causeway, curving amidst rush-grass and scattered peat-hags. This is known as Bedd-yr-Avangc, or the Beaver's Grave; _à propos_ of which it is worthy of note that Giraldus Cambrensis mentions the beaver as abounding in his day on Teivyside, while more than one venerable legend locates this amphibious quadruped in the _llyns_ and streams throughout wild Wales. Arrived at Tafarn Bwlch, we call for such cheer as the lowly inn can supply; but the bill of fare proves somewhat scanty, for, in the words of the great lexicographer, 'of provisions its negative catalogue is very copious.' The goodwife, however, rises to the occasion, and regales us with a repast such as appetites sharpened by lusty mountain air make short enough work of. Then we burn incense to the drowsy god in a nook of the chimney-place, where a peat-fire glows untended upon the ample hearth. Starting forth again like giants refreshed, we breast the stony ascent that leads to the pass amidst a sharp squall of wind and rain, which drags in a darkening veil athwart the lonesome landscape, blotting now this, now that familiar landmark from the view.