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"What is the name of this house?" said I, pointing to the building. "The name of it," said the old man, "is Ty Mawr." "Do you live in it?" said I. "Yes, I live in it." "What waterfall is that?" said I, pointing to the torrent tumbling down the crag at the farther end of the gloomy vale. "The fountain of the Royal Dyfi." "Why do you call the Dyfy royal?" said I.
I proceeded onwards up an ascent; after some time I came to a bridge across a stream, which a man told me was called Avon Gerres. It runs into the Dyfi, coming down with a rushing sound from a wild vale to the north-east between the huge barn-like hill and Moel Vrith. The barn-like hill I was informed was called Pen Dyn.
From a man whom I met I learned that the bridge was called Pont Coomb Linau, and that the name of the village I had passed was Linau. The river carries an important tribute to the Dyfi, at least it did when I saw it, though perhaps in summer it is little more than a dry water-course.
I took off my hat and stood close against the hedge on the right-hand side till the dead had passed me some way to its final home. Crossed a river, which like that on the other side of Cemmaes streamed down from a gulley between two hills into the valley of the Dyfi. Beyond the bridge on the right-hand side of the road was a pretty cottage, just as there was in the other locality.
It turned out to be a volume of Welsh poems entitled "Blodau Glyn Dyfi"; or, Flowers of Glyn Dyfi, by one Lewis Meredith, whose poetical name is Lewis Glyn Dyfi. The author indites his preface from Cemmaes, June, 1852. The best piece is called Dyffryn Dyfi, and is descriptive of the scenery of the vale through which the Dyfi runs.
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