Welsh Journals

Cadwgan; here it was that Owen Glyndwr un- furled the banner of Welsh independence; and hence in the summer of 1401, he harassed the adjacent country, sacked Montgomery, burned Welshpool and destroyed the Abbey of Cwmhir. After all, Plynlimon derives its greatest interest from the fact that, within its recesses, five rivers have their origin, namely the Rheidol, the Llyf- nant, the Clywedog, the Wye and the Severn. Away to the south-east of the Plynlimon range are the mountain hollows of Radnorshire, amid which now wind the dozen or so miles of deep, narrow lakes, with which the Corporation of Birmingham have submerged the beautiful vales of the Elan and the Claerwen, and with them the scene of the poet Shelley's earliest ventures on matrimony and verse writing. Beyond the Wye are the bare ridges of Radnor Forest near which comes the English border. Further south is the lovely valley of the Irfon, where lie the passes of Llanwrtyd and Llangammarch, then there is the solitary tableland of the Epynt moors to which the great range of the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains lift high their pale grey, shapely peaks against the horizon. Westward the moors roll towards unpeopled glens and woody gorges amidst the peaty waters of the Towy and the Teify-a district famed for the exploits of Twm Shon Catti, a native of Tregaron, and a notorious thief who some three hundreds years ago carried out many daring exploits but is said to have reformed in his old age and died a rich man, justice of the peace, and had even filled the office of mayor of Brecon. In this land of deep ravines, dark lakes, and bare uplands there are few friendly stone heaps to mark the wanderer's path to the summits of unnamed heights. There is scarcely a sign of human life anywhere, and the sheep on the wild table-lands look and flee in eloquent abandon, hill ponies gaze in astonishment through wildly tangled forelocks, while perhaps a sudden streak of rust and yellow will show the grace and speed of a fox. The polecat still roams these hills, and many old and unsavoury rural proverbs revolve around this fierce little animal, which possesses a terrible scent gland for the discom- fiture of dogs and other enemies. The pine marten is also not yet quite extinct in this district. Grey and quiet and windswept The hills stand bold before me. Hills that are strong with silence, Hills that are dim with mystery, They tower high to awe me. Old and tugged and lonely I see them very near me, But I am filled with longing For others yet more lovely,- The warm Welsh hills to cheer me. An interesting feature of these solitudes is the fact that they are the last haunts of the rarer birds of prey. Heather is rather scarce, so grouse are nowhere numerous enough to provide serious shooting, and there is consequently no keepering to speak of. The raven is fairly common and finds a home among the wild, rocky fastnesses of the mountains. In a few districts he has suffered rather cruelly at the hands of the egg- collector and the gamekeeper, but even if a few weak and dying lambs are given the coup de grace one can be merciful. The rocky frowning headlands, without our sombre friends, will lose half their mystery and grace. Buzzards are undoubtedly increasing of late years, and the traveller may often see a duel between one of these great hawks and a valiant heron. The character of the buzzard is not so bad as is often supposed, for it has been proved that the bird's diet consists chiefly of rats, cockchafers, reptiles, mice, beetles, and frogs, and, this being the case, many farmers are learning to regard them as friends instead of foes. This, too, is one of the very few localities where the kite still bree- though in very small numbers. To see the bird soar, seemingly effortless, to a thousand or more feet overhead, is an arrestingly beautiful spec- tacle. At present the kite's most dangerous enemy is the professional egg-collector, as a very high price can be obtained for good specimens of the eggs which can be absolutely authenticated as British. The kite was never very destructive to other life, and the zeal of the gamekeeper, which is largely responsible for its disappearance, scarcely ever had less to justify trap and gun. Now, however, it is satisfactory to state that even gamekeepers are taking an interest in pre- serving these fine birds from the complete dis- appearance with which they were once threatened. In the spring the curlew makes its home on these lonely moorlands, and here it may be seen gliding gracefully over its nest, or flying in the air, its neck outstretched and its long wings flapping regularly and rapidly. In this little known country, too, the botanist will find a happy hunt- ing ground, for here he may come across scarce Alpine plants and ferns in profusion, with hare- bells and asphodel to add to the delights of this wildest tract of wild Wales. HILLS. The world has many mountains, And every hill-top calls me To bare hills, cold and mournful, To all hills would I journey, For every hill enthralls me. And when I'm old and weary And there's an end to roving, Then I shall turn for solace, Then I shall turn for comfort, To Welsh hills, worth the loving. Barbara E. THOMPSON (aged 16).