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A VAGRANT BY THE DEE VI. THE ROAD TO PLAS YN BONWM. IN the valley of the Dee, as it runs East from Corwen, there are two roads. One lies through the calm little village of Carrog which, comfortably placed at the foot of the Northern ridge, faces South-and gets the sun. According to legend, Corwen is built where it is for the simple reason that it refused to go up anywhere else. Its choice was unfortunate. Save when the sun and the moon are making their lengthy excursions in the sky, they are obscured from the town by the great bulk of the Southern hills, and, while Carrog is basking in the light, Corwen must often be shivering in the shadow. Along this Southern slope runs another road-the main highway to Holyhead, sweeping boldly through North Wales to Bangor, and thence, across the Strait to the place of farewell and departure. Between Corwen and Bonwm lies a stretch of this road measuring roughly a mile and a half. It deserves this special chapter in my little work of praise. Other portions of the Holyhead road may have art equal claim upon the pen of admiration. If so, I hope that men will sit down and extol them. In these days of too much controversy, it is well that some should turn aside-content to magnify the glory of the earth. For my own part, I sing the magic Road to Plas yn Bonwm, whose twelve furlongs run away into the night under the madness of an August moon. I must at once point out that the Road to Plas yn Bonwm is not to be confused with the road from Plas yn Bonwm. The latter is an ordinary country highway, touched with sophistication. We walked it each morning as we went from the farm into the town. A stream of motor cars rolled by with suggestions that were not even rural. A railway line flanked the road. On the left was a staring advertisement of the Owen Glyndwr Hotel. On the right stood two tall poplars with an air of rigid formality- as if they were a pair of Sergeant-Majors in the great company of trees. On the road from Plas yn Bonwm, our conversation had a worldly trend. We spoke of bills paid and unpaid (" the little done, the undone vast "), of business soon to be undertaken, of Westminster and Fleet Street. In half an hour, we should be deep in the Liverpool Daily Post." Every step took us nearer to Corwen, and, con- sidered as architecture in the full light of the morning, Corwen must be-even to the most valiant apprecia- tion-a grey little place scarcely distinguished amongst the grey little places. That was the road from Plas yn Bonwm, made remarkable amongst roadways only by the knowledge that it ran into another blissful day. How different was it all at the day's end About eleven o'clock, after hours of hillside and discovery, with faces tingling from a whole day's sun, and in that exhilara- tion of the open air which rises through all weariness, we stepped into the Square-and took the Road to Plas yn By f. 0. Francis. Bonwm. After the splendour of the day, we came upon the splendour of the night. There is an exquisite thrill in any sudden view of beauty. It is as if, to eyes refreshed and cleared of doubt, there is given a glimpse into the first purpose in creation, and a man, following his instinct, may well wave his hat and cry, Three cheers for God The pageant of summer had moved on to a new scene. It was hard to believe that all this was done without some dissolution of the world and a re-making it anew. Once more the ancient miracle of light transformed the earth. Away in the East-as it appeared, from just behind Llan- gollen-the moon was rising, grown almost to fulness. For a time, its light came evenly through the valley. Then it broke, as the moon stole away around Moel Ferna, where, for a while, it was blurred by foliage, until it rose above the crest as it passed on. Corwen was no longer one of the great multitude of places. It was changed by the touch of that caressing moon. Sunshine reveals all-sometimes too much, for the sun is the first of all the realists. Moonlight, softening and subduing, has no harsh emphasis, and, under it, the world is only the raw material of romance. In that silent, empty town, a man's step in the distance sounded clear. As he came on, a long shadow moved before him. Where people were not abed, the window-blinds were patches of colour against that gentle, tenuous light. They are to be pitied who miss the glory of familiar things. I shake my head for him who does not see the beauty of a newly painted pillar-box standing flamboyant in the sun. I weep for him who, walking through a moon-lit town, does not rejoice at those rectangles of amber and cannot find a challenge in crimson banners hanging in the night. Rising sheer out of the street, the London, City and Midland Bank was like some fortress of old time, keeping the way to Holyhead. The Owen Glyndwr was no longer the hotel whose advertisement we read that morning. It was translated by those sharp-edged shadows and that air of sleep. They had said it was an inn at Corwen. It might just as well be some hostelry in old Castile. The chemist's shop was not the place where, in the glare of day, I had bought shaving soap amidst the smell of modern medicines. No From that dark doorway might at any moment appear a withered alchemist still dreaming on the Philosopher's stone. In the morning light, that building further on was the solid, indisputable workhouse. On the road to Plas yn Bonwm, there is neither work- house nor the shadow of work. The Road to Plas yn Bonwm is a tricksy way. Should you be a little tired, it will quietly stretch itself a furlong or two, merely to tease you, and it will seem that the signal lights of Primevera will never, never come. At other times when, concluding that there are still three more bends to pass, you light your pipe afresh-suddenly, almost with a snap, the road contracts. The next step brings you to the tuff-tuff of the little petrol engine, and the dogs of Plas yn Bonwm bark their purely formal protest as you go in to the jug of llaeth enwin and the joy of sleep.