However, the night set in suddenly and a rain began to fall heavily
before we had gone half the distance we proposed. We had experienced
trouble enough in finding the roads in Wales during the daytime, and the
prospect of doing this by night and in a heavy rain was not at all
encouraging, and we perforce had to put up at the first place that
offered itself. A proposition to stop at one of the so-called inns along
the road was received with alarm by the good woman who attended the
bar. She could not possibly care for us and she was loud in her praises
of the Saracen's Head at Cerrig-y-Druidion, only a little farther on,
which she represented as a particular haven for motorists.

The appearance of our car with its rapidly vibrating engine and glaring
headlights before the Saracen's Head created considerable commotion
among the large family of the host and the numerous guests, who, like
Tam-O'-Shanter, were snug and cozy by their inglenook while the storm
was raging outside. However, the proprietor was equal to the occasion
and told me that he had just come from Liverpool to take charge of the
inn and that he hoped to have the patronage of motorists. With
commendable enterprise he had fitted up a portion of his barn and had
labeled it "Motor Garage" in huge letters. The stable man was also
excited over the occasion, and I am sure that our car was the first to
occupy the newly created garage, which had no doubt been cut off from
the cow-stable at a very recent date.

The shelter of the Saracen's Head was timely and grateful none the less,
and no one could have been kindlier or more attentive than our hostess.
We had a nicely served lunch in the hotel parlor, which was just across
the hallway from the lounging room, where the villagers assembled to
indulge in such moderate drinking as Welshmen are addicted to. The
public room was a fine old apartment with open-beamed ceiling--not the