After a little time, meeting two women, I asked them the name of the mountain to the south.
"Arenig Vawr," they replied, or something like it.
Presently meeting four men I put the same question to the foremost, a stout, burly, intelligent-looking fellow, of about fifty.

He gave me the same name as the women.

I asked if anybody lived upon it.
"No," said he, "too cold for man." "Fox ?" said I.
"No! too cold for fox." "Crow ?" said I.
"No, too cold for crow; crow would be starved upon it." He then looked me in the face, expecting probably that I should smile.
I, however, looked at him with all the gravity of a judge, whereupon he also observed the gravity of a judge, and we continued looking at each other with all the gravity of judges till we both simultaneously turned away, he followed by his companions going his path, and I going mine.
I subsequently remembered that Arenig is mentioned in a Welsh poem, though in anything but a flattering and advantageous manner.

The writer calls it Arenig ddiffaith or barren Arenig, and says that it intercepts from him the view of his native land.

Arenig is certainly barren enough, for there is neither tree nor shrub upon it, but there is something majestic in its huge bulk.