“Now, if I add there was much gabbling of Welsh round about, and here and there some slight sawing of English--that in the street leading from the north there were some stalls of gingerbread, and a table at which a queer-looking being, with a red Greek cap on his head, sold rhubarb, herbs, and phials containing I know not what--I think I have said all that is necessary about Llangollen Fair.” [Illustration: VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY. _Page 15._] Perhaps, however, we should visit Corwen or any other Welsh market-town on a Sunday to see the most striking characteristics of the people. The streets are nearly deserted, and a strange stillness broods over the place. At the open door of some of the cottages an aged woman sits with a Welsh Bible on her knees, and keeps an eye upon the toddling baby at her feet. Everyone else has vanished, and not until a burst of melody sounds from the plainly-built chapels which occur so frequently on the highways and within the township, is their whereabouts revealed. Such singing it is, too! It has been said that the Welsh people sing naturally in parts, and certainly it seems as though nothing but years of training would produce such a result with English choirs, not to speak of a whole congregation, as is the case in Wales. In perfect time and tune the beautiful old Welsh melodies ring forth, and we begin to realize what a large part this hymn-singing and fiery enthusiastic preaching plays in the daily life of this emotional and deeply religious people. CHAPTER V A VISIT TO ANGLESEY AND HOLYHEAD We took such a brief backward glimpse at Anglesey and Holy Island when we were visiting Llewelyn’s country that we may as well now make a longer visit. Crossing the Menai Straits by the suspension bridge, we pass through a treeless moorland and over a causeway into Holy Island, from whence rises up the great headland known as Holyhead. “A divine promontory,” Ruskin calls it, “looking westward--the Holy Headland--still not without awe when its red light glares first through the gloom.” The first thing we shall want to visit here is South Stack, a precipitous mass of cliff climbed by three hundred and eighty steps. From thence we look down on the lighthouse, which, though one hundred and fifty feet high, looks from this point like a child’s toy. The cliff scenery is magnificent here, and a grand sea rolls in to the foot of the rocks.