On the further side of the valley to the east was a steep hill on which were a few houses--at the foot of the hill was a brook crossed by an antique bridge of a single arch.

I directed my course to the bridge, and after looking over the parapet for a minute or two upon the water below, which was shallow and noisy, ascended a road which led up the hill: a few scattered houses were on each side.

I soon reached the top of the hill, where were some more houses, those which I had seen from the valley below.

I was in a Welsh mountain village, which put me much in mind of the villages which I had strolled through of old in Castile and La Mancha; there were the same silence and desolation here as yonder away--the houses were built of the same material, namely stone.

I should perhaps have fancied myself for a moment in a Castilian or Manchegan mountain pueblicito, but for the abundance of trees which met my eye on every side.
In walking up this mountain village I saw no one, and heard no sound but the echo of my steps amongst the houses.