After a little time my wife and daughter, complaining of being rather faint, I asked John Jones whether there was an inn in the neighbourhood where some refreshment could be procured. He said there was, and that he would conduct us to it. We directed our course towards the east, rousing successively, and setting a-scampering, three large herds of deer—the common ones were yellow and of no particular size—but at the head of each herd we observed a big old black fellow with immense antlers; one of these was particularly large, indeed as huge as a bull. We soon came to the verge of a steep descent, down which we went, not without some risk of falling. At last we came to a gate; it was locked; however, on John Jones shouting, an elderly man, with his right hand bandaged, came and opened it. I asked him what was the matter with his hand, and he told me that he had lately lost three fingers, whilst working at a saw-mill up at the castle. On my inquiring about the inn, he said he was the master of it, and led the way to a long, neat, low house nearly opposite to a little bridge over a brook, which ran down the valley towards the north. I ordered some ale and bread-and-butter, and whilst our repast was being got ready, John Jones and I went to the bridge. “This bridge, sir,” said John, “is called Pont y Velin Castell, the bridge of the Castle Mill; the inn was formerly the mill of the castle, and is still called Melin y Castell. As soon as you are over the bridge you are in shire Amwythig, which the Saxons call Shropshire. A little way up on yon hill is Clawdd Offa, or Offa’s dyke, built of old by the Brenin Offa in order to keep us poor Welsh within our bounds.” As we stood on the bridge, I inquired of Jones the name of the brook which was running merrily beneath it. “The Ceiriog, sir,” said John; “the same river that we saw at Pont y Meibion.” “The river,” said I, “which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and which runs thus: ‘Pe byddai ’r Cefn Ucha, Yn gig ac yn fara, A Cheiriog fawr yma’n fir aml bob tro, Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn’ Barhâu hanner blwyddyn, I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio.’” “A good penill that, sir,” said John Jones. “Pity that the halls of great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of bread and beef for all comers.” “No pity at all,” said I; “things are better as they are. Those mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one’s dinner proudly and independently at one’s inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great man’s table.”