THE WATERS OF CADER IDRIS 



west when the sun went down,' but old cronies who 

 for a lifetime resorted every year to that once famous 

 old hostelry, The Three Cocks, near Glasbury. And 

 how first one died in harness, then the other ; and 

 how the survivor, when too feeble and rheumatic to 

 wield a salmon-rod, used to come down to the old 

 quarters and wander in mournful guise along the river 

 bank. It is no legend, but a true tale. I know the 

 inn well, and have seen some of the tackle they left 

 behind them there, carefully treasured. 



Now displayed upon the wall of the parlour at the 

 Tyn-y-cornel there is, or was when I frequented it, 

 a life-size illustration of a trout, executed by one of its 

 former fishing colonels, who was also no mean artist. 

 This picture was a great asset to the inn, for its sub- 

 ject presented a perennial and practically insoluble 

 problem. It provoked the curiosity of the newcomer 

 as soon as ever he had found his tongue ; and then the 

 oldest habitue in residence, probably the colonel, or if 

 he was resting, the next guest in seniority of associa- 

 tion, as a matter of right and etiquette told the story, 

 which is in truth a sufficiently marvellous and withal 

 a perfectly true one. 



Near by the roadside on the wild pass leading up 

 from the head of Tal-y-llyn over the mountain and by 

 the old Cross-fords inn to Dolgelly is an insignificant 

 tarn, historically entitled to the designation of Llyn-y- 

 tri-graien, or * the lake of the three grains,' but vul- 

 garly known, doubtless for its very insignificance, as 

 Pebble pool. The three grains, I might remark, are 

 represented by three rocks which Idris, whose passion 

 for stone-throwing has been alluded to, flung down 



III 



