The road to Bangor from Capel Curig is almost due west. An hour's
walking brought me to a bleak moor, extending for a long way amidst
wild sterile hills.

The first of a chain on the left, was a huge lumpy hill with a
precipice towards the road probably three hundred feet high. When
I had come nearly parallel with the commencement of this precipice,
I saw on the left-hand side of the road two children looking over a
low wall behind which at a little distance stood a wretched hovel.
On coming up I stopped and looked at them; they were a boy and
girl; the first about twelve, the latter a year or two younger;
both wretchedly dressed and looking very sickly.

"Have you any English?" said I, addressing the boy in Welsh.

"Dim gair," said the boy; "not a word; there is no Saesneg near
here."

"What is the name of this place?"

"The name of our house is Helyg."

"And what is the name of that hill?" said I, pointing to the hill
of the precipice.

"Allt y Gog - the high place of the cuckoo."

"Have you a father and mother?"

"We have."