I inquired the way to Festiniog, and finding that I had passed by it on my way to the town, I went back, and, as directed, turned to the east up a wide pass, down which flowed a river. I soon found myself in another and very noble valley intersected by the river, which was fed by numerous streams rolling down the sides of the hills. The road which I followed in the direction of the east, lay on the southern side of the valley, and led upward by a steep ascent. On I went, a mighty hill close on my right. My mind was full of enthusiastic fancies; I was approaching Festiniog, the birthplace of Rhys Goch, who styled himself Rhys Goch of Eryri, or Red Rhys of Snowdon, a celebrated bard, and a partisan of Owen Glendower, who lived to an immense age, and who, as I had read, was in the habit of composing his pieces seated on a stone which formed part of a Druidical circle, for which reason the stone was called the chair of Rhys Goch; yes, my mind was full of enthusiastic fancies, all connected with this Rhys Goch, and as I went along slowly I repeated stanzas of furious war songs of his, exciting his countrymen to exterminate the English, and likewise snatches of an abusive ode composed by him against a fox who had run away with his favourite peacock, a piece so abounding with hard words, that it was termed the Drunkard’s chokepear, as no drunkard was ever able to recite it, and ever and anon I wished I could come in contact with some native of the region, with whom I could talk about Rhys Goch, and who could tell me whereabouts stood his chair.