ELAN LAKES— WILD SOUTH WALES 



It was 191 1, the year of the great drought, and these 

 were the last three hours of it in that part of the 

 country. Before dark the heavens were descending 

 in soHd sheets, and continued to plump like a water- 

 spout upon an earth as nearly parched as these be- 

 dewed Welsh hiUs can ever be. In the morning the 

 Claerwen roared in angry flood among its half-sub- 

 merged boulders, and swept rising volumes of porter- 

 coloured water to further churn the soft bottom of 

 Dol-y-mynach, and transform its tired summer-long 

 clarity into an excellent imitation of pea-soup. The 

 quite obvious thing to do on a week's fishing holiday, 

 when the water must be stuck to as a matter of prin- 

 ciple, would be to repair thither with a worm, in this 

 case to some quiet backwater of the Claerwen. I wasn't 

 out, however, for a yi^eek's holiday, but rambUng at 

 large, and I do not care for worming in thick water — 

 it really is a degrading business — nor did I want any 

 fish, the only possible excuse for it, as I am not very 

 partial to trout, and it was an almost impossible place 

 to dispatch them from to friends who are. Indeed 

 there was only a post twice a week from the farm. 

 The latter, though small and simple of exterior, had 

 many points both interesting and picturesque. The 

 long, low kitchen, for instance, had the living rock for 

 a large portion of its floor. The small outbuildings 

 of native stone were so massive and weather-stained, 

 and so prolific in moss, ferns, and even ash saplings 

 upon the walls and roofs, though neat enough within, 

 that they almost appeared to be the work of nature 

 rather than of bygone Welshmen. A mountain rill 

 brought down on a trough spouted into the yard. 



187 



