The part of the Pentraeth where I now was consisted of a few houses and a church, or something which I judged to be a church, for there was no steeple; the houses and church stood about a little open spot or square, the church on the east, and on the west a neat little inn or public-house over the door of which was written "The White Horse.
Hugh Pritchard." By this time I had verified in part the prediction of the old Welsh poet of the post-office.

Though I was not yet arrived at Llanfair, I was, if not tired, very thirsty, owing to the burning heat of the weather, so I determined to go in and have some ale.

On entering the house I was greeted in English by Mr Hugh Pritchard himself, a tall bulky man with a weather-beaten countenance, dressed in a brown jerkin and corduroy trowsers, with a broad low-crowned buff-coloured hat on his head, and what might he called half shoes and half high-lows on his feet.
He had a short pipe in his mouth, which when he greeted me he took out, but replaced as soon as the greeting was over, which consisted of "Good-day, sir," delivered in a frank, hearty tone.

I looked Mr Hugh Pritchard in the face and thought I had never seen a more honest countenance.

On my telling Mr Pritchard that I wanted a pint of ale, a buxom damsel came forward and led me into a nice cool parlour on the right-hand side of the door, and then went to fetch the ale.
Mr Pritchard meanwhile went into a kind of tap-room, fronting the parlour, where I heard him talking in Welsh about pigs and cattle to some of his customers.