In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain friends in the town; amongst others of old Mr. Jones. On my telling him that I was about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable regret, but said that it was natural for me to wish to return to my native country. I told him that before returning to England I intended to make a pedestrian tour in South Wales. He said that he should die without seeing the south; that he had had several opportunities of visiting it when he was young, which he had neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far from home. He then asked me which road I intended to take. I told him that I intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit Sycharth, once the seat of Owen Glendower, lying to the east of Llan Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the celebrated cataract, cross the mountains to Bala—whence I should proceed due south. I then asked him whether he had ever seen Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he told me that he had never visited Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more than once. He then smiled, and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote connected with the Rhyadr, which he would relate to me. “A traveller once went to see the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf, which had fallen into the stream above whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling down the cataract. ‘Wonderful!’ said the traveller, and going away, reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and was very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another occasion, to see no calf come tumbling down.” I took leave of the kind old gentleman with regret, never expecting to see him again, as he was in his eighty-fourth year—he was a truly excellent character, and might be ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of his native place.