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Arriving at Chirk Station, I, like the Honourable Dick Dowlas, with my wardrobe on my back, and a light heart, proceeded on the road to the village. Bees hummed, birds sang, and blossoms sent forth their fragrance, to delight the traveller as he gaily trudged “the footpath way.” Cheerfulness was above, beneath, and around me, and in my heart. I had not taken many paces when I was accosted by an elderly person, in a straw hat, fustian shooting coat, knee breeches, gaiters, and shoes, he had a stout cudgel in his hand, and knapsack more capacious than mine strapped over his shoulders. He appeared to be about fifty-five years of age, and being furnished like myself, it struck me that a passing traveller might naturally take us for father and son.

Fortunately, we were pursuing the same route, and a desultory dialogue commenced with the never-failing observation—

“A fine morning, Sir.”

“Very.”

“A great admirer of the charms of nature, I presume?”

“An enthusiastic one.”

“You’re for the Welsh vales, I suppose?”