A rustic-looking man sat smoking at a table with a jug of ale before him.

I sat down near him, and the good woman brought me a similar jug of ale, which on tasting I found excellent.

My spirits which had been for some time very flagging presently revived, and I entered into conversation with my companion at the table.

From him I learned that he was a farmer of the neighbourhood, that the horse tied before the door belonged to him, that the present times were very bad for the producers of grain, with very slight likelihood of improvement; that the place at which we were was called Rhyd y fen, or the ford across the fen; that it was just half way between Festiniog and Bala, that the clergyman of the parish was called Mr Pughe, a good kind of man, but very purblind in a spiritual sense; and finally that there was no safe religion in the world, save that of the Calvinistic-Methodists, to which my companion belonged.
Having finished my ale I paid for it, and leaving the Calvinistic farmer still smoking, I departed from Rhyd y fen.

On I went along the valley, the enormous hill on my right, a moel of about half its height on my left, and a tall hill bounding the prospect in the east, the direction in which I was going.