THERE is a little wayside inn which stands high among

the hills of Carnarvonshire, and bears the name of

Pen-y-Gwryd.

Between Land's End and John o' Groats you may find many such hostelries which have a more imposing appearance, many whose internal arrangements are on a more elaborate scale, but it is doubtful if you can find one which for its size is more widely known or whose name revives more pleasant memories.

Perhaps it is not an exaggeration to say that wherever mountaineering Englishmen are found the name of Pen-y-Gwryd will be known. The lessons learnt in its neighbourhood have been gratefully remembered amid the snows of Ruwenzori and on many a long day's tramp across the Himalayas, whilst the little Welsh inn has been affectionately recalled round mountain camp-fires in every quarter of the globe.

And the reason for this is not far to seek. There were certain elements of fascination about the place which attracted men to it again and again. The charm of Pen-y-Grwyd was a power which compelled obedience.

It is highly probable there has been an inn at the junction of the three valleys for generations, the situation is too suitable for such a purpose to have been neglected, but it is only within the last fifty years that it has become in any sense popular.

A

Charles Kingsley did much to make the inn known, and it was not without reason that his photograph, together with those of Tom Taylor and Tom Hughes, hung in the coffee-room of the enlarged building.

Standing within touch of the grandest mountains in Wales, it was, naturally, for many years the headquarters of rock climbers in that district, and a past President of the Alpine Club has written a delightful article on Pen-y-Gwryd in the early climbing days (under the rule of Harry Owen and his wife), and has given us many interesting particulars of that worthy couple.

This account can be read in the journal of the Climbers' Club, and to anyone desirous of acquainting himself with the history of the little inn during the period of which he writes, Matthews' paper will be found invaluable.

The purpose of this paper is not in any way to supplement Matthews' "Reminiscences," much less is it an attempt to pose as an amateur Baddeley. It speaks of the inn at a later period in its history-looks at it from another standpoint, and endeavours to show why it was so well and widely known, and why so many men were for so long a time constantly attracted to it.

Although our first visit to Pen-y-Gwryd (the day is marked with a red letter in our calendar) was made in Harry Owen's time, it was not until both he and his good wife had passed away that we habitually used it. It was in the transition period which followed upon the death of Mrs. Owen that we knew it best. At that time its visitors were almost entirely confined to two classesrock climbers and fell walkers-both finding ample scope for their utmost energies within easy reach of the inn door.

What the rock climber can find there has been told by Haskett Smith and Abraham of Keswick, who have both expatiated at great length on the opportunities which the district affords; but apparently no one has thought it worth while to speak of the delights of Pen-y-Gwryd to the fell walker. The man who is content to find his pleasure in

merely rambling over the fells and mountains is not as a rule a heroic personality. He cannot tell

Of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hairbreadth 'scapes.

Neither does fell walking lend itself to that personal photography in altogether impossible places which so embellishes your true climbing book.

And yet, perchance, such a man may derive the keenest pleasure from the surroundings which Pen-y-Gwryd offers. In spite of his modest get-up and the absence of rope and ice-axe, he may be an enthusiast, and he certainly sees 'many a secret spot" which the climber hurries past and of whose existence the motorist never even dreams. If he is anything of what Kingsley called "a minute philosopher" he can afford to spend hours, if need be, in some fairy-like nook which is decked with untouched flowers and fern, and whose rocks are adorned with exquisitely-coloured lichens. Such spots do not yield up their choicest gems to those who hurry through them. You must not expect to run up Cwm Idwal and stumble over the Filmy Fern.

One great advantage Pen-y-Gwryd offered in those days. You were free to go wherever you wished, and gamekeepers were altogether unknown. There was not a single direction which did not afford excellent entertainment.

Turn where we may we cannot err
In this delicious region.

And Snowdonia has another advantage to the fell walker -he can reach any summit to which a rock climber can attain a feat which is, of course, altogether impossible where the mountains are higher-as in Switzerland. There he must content himself with the more modest heights and circumscribed views. Here all the best views are open to him.

Our holidays never really commenced until we had cleared the trees which surround the hotel at Capel Curig. We began to breathe freely when we entered Nant-yGwryd. The road up to this point from Bettws-y-Coed is more or less shut in, but as soon as you can look over the twin lakes with their familiar rustic bridge and sniff the moorland air a sense of emancipation comes over you and business cares are left behind.

As each turn of the road brought you nearer to your destination you enquired more particularly after the visitors at present staying at the inn, and as one wellknown name after another was mentioned a thrill of pleasure stirred you in anticipation of enjoyment to come. Then when you caught the first glimpse of Pen-y-Gwryd and had rattled over the bridge, you pulled up at the well-known door and received a welcome which Shenstone himself might have envied.

It has been said that the miles between Pen-y-Gwryd and Capel are dull and monotonous. We never found them So. Moorland roads as a rule are full of interest, but when such roads are flanked by the Glyder and faced by Snowdon surely such opprobrious terms are misapplied. For a considerable portion of the year the wild flowers alone would redeem it. Fancy calling a road dull where grows the ivy-leaved campanula! Our sympathies go out rather to the naval captain who was quite content to travel from Portsmouth to North Wales in order to gaze once more upon that most delicate and fairly-like of English flowers, which grows here in wild profusion.

Who is there among Pen-y-Gwrydians that does not remember with pleasure the first dinner of each annual visit? It was then you met friends you had not seen probably for twelve months, and the more popular the visitor the noisier was the meal-the more enquiries made and the more answers given.

In many ways these dinners approached more nearly to large family gatherings than to table d'hôte meals, and