Ireland to Aber Menai, Gryffith the son of a fugitive king, born in Ireland in the Commot of Columbcille, Gryffith the frequently baffled, the often victorious; once a manacled prisoner sweating in the sun, in the market-place of Chester, eventually king of North Wales; Gryffith, who “though he loved well the trumpet’s clang loved the sound of the harp better;” who led on his warriors to twenty-four battles, and presided over the composition of the twenty-four measures of the Cambrian song. Then I thought— But I should tire the reader were I to detail all the intensely Welsh thoughts, which crowded into my head as I stood on the Cairn of the Grey Giant. Satiated with looking about and thinking, I sprang from the cairn and rejoined my guide. We now descended the eastern side of the hill till we came to a singular-looking stone, which had much the appearance of a Druid’s stone. I inquired of my guide whether there was any tale connected with this stone. “None,” he replied; “but I have heard people say that it was a strange stone and on that account I brought you to look at it.” A little farther down he showed me part of a ruined wall. “What name does this bear?” said I. “Clawdd yr Afalon,” he replied. “The dyke of the orchard.” “A strange place for an orchard,” I replied. “If there was ever an orchard on this bleak hill, the apples must have been very sour.” Over rocks and stones we descended till we found ourselves on a road, not very far from the shore, on the south-east side of the hill. “I am very thirsty,” said I, as I wiped the perspiration from my face; “how I should like now to drink my fill of cool spring water.” “If your honour is inclined for water,” said my guide, “I can take you to the finest spring in all Wales.” “Pray do so,” said I, “for I really am dying of thirst.” “It is on our way to the town,” said the lad, “and is scarcely a hundred yards off.” He then led me to the fountain. It was a little well under a stone wall, on the left side of the way. It might be about two feet deep, was fenced with rude stones, and had a bottom of sand. “There,” said the lad, “is the fountain. It is called the Fairies’ well, and contains the best water in Wales.”