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If such things were going on in the old Monachlog it was high time to pull it down. MYSELF. What kind of a rent do you pay for your land? FARMER. Oh, rather a stiffish one. MYSELF. Two pounds an acre? FARMER. Two pound an acre! I wish I paid no more! MYSELF. Well, I think that would be quite enough. In the time of the old monastery you might have had the land at two shillings an acre.
I crossed over into the churchyard, ascended a green mound, and looked about me. I was now in the very midst of the Monachlog Ystrad Flur, the celebrated monastery of Strata Florida, to which in old times Popish pilgrims from all parts of the world repaired.
"Well, I must say the land is good; indeed I do not think there is any so good in Shire Aberteifi." "I suppose you are surprised to see me here; I came to see the old Monachlog." "Yes, gentleman; I saw you looking about it." "Am I welcome to see it?" "Croesaw! gwr boneddig, croesaw! many, many welcomes to you, gentleman!" "Do many people come to see the monastery?"
Women in Welsh hats stood in the mire, along with men without any hats at all, but with short pipes in their mouths; they were talking together; as I passed, however, they held their tongues, the women leering contemptuously at me, the men glaring sullenly at me, and causing tobacco smoke curl in my face; on my taking off my hat, however and inquiring the way to the Monachlog, everybody was civil enough, and twenty voices told me the way the Monastery.
The inscription was as follows: Er cof am JANE OWEN Gwraig Edward Owen, Monachlog Llanfair Mathafam eithaf, A fu farw Chwefror 28 1842 Yn 51 Oed. I.E. "To the memory of JANE OWEN Wife of Edward Owen, of the monastery of St Mary of farther Mathafarn, who died February 28, 1842, aged fifty-one."
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