I ordered some ale and bread-and-butter, and whilst our repast was being got ready John Jones and I went to the bridge.
"This bridge, sir," said John, "is called Pont y Velin Castell, the bridge of the Castle Mill; the inn was formerly the mill of the castle, and is still called Melin y Castell.

As soon as you are over this bridge you are in shire Amwythig, which the Saxons call Shropshire.

A little way up on yon hill is Clawdd Offa or Offa's dyke, built of old by the Brenin Offa in order to keep us poor Welsh within our bounds." As we stood on the bridge I inquired of Jones the name of the brook which was running merrily beneath it.
"The Ceiriog, sir," said John, "the same river that we saw at Pont y Meibion." "The river," said I, "which Huw Morris loved so well, whose praises he has sung, and which he has introduced along with Cefn Uchaf in a stanza in which he describes the hospitality of Chirk Castle in his day, and which runs thus: "Pe byddai 'r Cefn Ucha, Yn gig ac yn fara, A Cheiriog fawr yma'n fir aml bob tro, Rhy ryfedd fae iddyn' Barhau hanner blwyddyn, I wyr bob yn gan-nyn ar ginio." "A good penill that, sir," said John Jones.

"Pity that the halls of great people no longer flow with rivers of beer, nor have mountains of bread and beef for all comers." "No pity at all," said I; "things are better as they are.

Those mountains of bread and beef, and those rivers of ale merely encouraged vassalage, fawning and idleness; better to pay for one's dinner proudly and independently at one's inn, than to go and cringe for it at a great man's table." We crossed the bridge, walked a little way up the hill which was beautifully wooded, and then retraced our steps to the little inn, where I found my wife and daughter waiting for us, and very hungry.