I had come from England to visit the
little Welsh village of Pont Oddaith. I wanted
to write a story about Wales.
One day Tomkins, the village innkeeper,
suggested I walk up the mountain. The view
was magnificent, he said.
I took Tonikins's suggestion. As I stood
looking down from the mountaintop, I
caught sight of a house at the head of the
valley,. It was the loneliest dwelling I have
ever seen. Not far from it stood a young girl.I walked through the heather toward
her. She was just the girl I had pictured to
myself as the heroine of my story. I had
pencil sketches of her in my desk at home the
same face, the same stormy eyes. Coming
up, I asked her the na·me of the place.
"Biaen-y-cwm," she said at last.
"Do you live here?" I asked.
She nodded.
"What's your name?"
She drew a wild breath, then turned and
ran. I went after her.
As I approached the house, a man came
out to meet me. "Good morning," I said.
"Are you the father of the young lady I just
spoke to?The man stared at me. "Did Mair speak
to you?"
"She did. Why? Is that strange?"
"It's unbelievable. She never goes near
strangers. Come in," said the man.
We talked for a while. As I left, I met the
girl again. "I know why you've come," she
said . "But you'll never get me. Don't try to
take me away again." She darted off.
I followed . What did she mean? She
must have misunderstood. Perhaps she had
taken me for someone else. I called. But she
kept on running. Suddenly I lost sigllt of her
in a hollow. Dazed, I walked back down to
the village.
"Blaen-y-cwm?" said Tomkins that
night. "There's no place of that name in this
area." The other men in the inn agreed with
him.
"Just a minute," said one old man at
last. ''Seems to me there used to be a Blaeny-
cwm. But it's been a ruin for years.