254 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



what Snowdon must have been like to the Norman 

 knights in their iron armour, getting up there to see 

 if perchance there might be a catchable Welshman at 

 the top. If Taffy was not at home it would be 

 merely tremendous exercise, while if he was at home 

 he would be perched on every available crag loosing 

 big stones upon his visitors. Perhaps, in a thoroughly 

 convenient place there would be a charge, with fierce 

 shouts and the winding of yard-long cowhorns. An 

 avalanche of spears, knives, and hatchets would clatter 

 on the spent Normans and sweep through them as 

 the river sweeps through an eel-grating, perchance 

 breaking a bar or two. No wonder that the Normans 

 learnt, as the Brut says, to " skulk about the open 

 plains " instead of coming to fight the owners of the 

 soil on their own ground. 



We lift peak by peak as we gain the Vantage of 

 them foot by foot. Our weary limbs feel as though 

 we really were lifting them on Atlas shoulders. But 

 when, long after the half-way hut has been passed, our 

 path springs across the arete, it flings open a view 

 that takes the breath away. Brown mountains, blue 

 mountains, teeth in the clouds, gorges full of purple 

 gauze, smiling plains, farm-houses flung into the very 

 jaws of geological anarchy, some of it matched on the 

 side we have left, but every detail newly presented in 

 one moment. There is a lake slung amid precipices 

 for coolness to the eye, and a refreshing breeze 

 blows up that side. If Snowdon ended here it 

 would be magnificent, while there is another visible 

 Snowdon yet above us, and a third out of sight 

 behind it. 



We can stand on the arite and view upon the right 



