The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year. Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.
Men of Harlech! In the Hollow, Do ye hear like rushing billow Wave on wave that surging follow Battle's distant sound? Tis the tramp of Saxon foemen, Saxon spearmen, Saxon bowmen, Be they knights or hinds or yeomen, They shall bite the ground!
Author's note: My first visit to Blaenau Ffestiniog was in the 1980s. Unfortunately, I happened to visit in the bleakness of late November. Grey is the predominant colour of Welsh slate country - particularly when viewed at dusk through sleet. My journey there in deteriorating weather was marred by a navigational error, which led my rental car through the gates of a deserted quarry. Great slagheaps of slate, dripping with rain, pressed in from all sides - the greyest landscape I have ever seen. After nearly backing into a slate crater and disappearing forever into grey oblivion, I drove past eerie towers of slate to Llechwedd in time for the day's final sightseeing tour. The only other person on the tour, an elderly, deaf German, asked persistent slate-related questions in a bellowing voice as we descended by cable railway into the caverns to view Victorian mine workings. "But vot did zey DO with ze slate?" he kept asking. When I emerged, it was night and snow was falling. To my dismay I discovered the "recreated 19th-century pub" on site had closed (it observed 19th-century hours), but I soon reached the little agricultural town of Tref-y-Clawdd, where two hot faggots renewed my energies. (Faggots, I'll have you know, are Welsh meatballs compounded of minced pig liver, chopped hearts, lungs and other things offal. Served hot, they are just what you need after an afternoon in a slate cavern.)