DOI issue:
September 17, 1864
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16874#0126
September 17, 1864.]
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
119
QUIET WATERING-PLACES.
Where have I not been since quitting Winklebeach! I’ve been
roaming, I ’ve been roaming, and I shall go roaming still; but I’m
coming, but I’m coming, to the conclusion that a really Quiet Watering-
lace is nowhere to be found. This is the statement that I have put
efore the Company (Limited) in whose interests, coinciding, as they
do, with those ot my own mental and physical requirements, I have
1 been lately travelling. From Sussex to Wales.
No. II.— GWRYSTHLOGWDD.
First day.—Arrived at Bangor, very early in the morning. Went to
bed in the Bishop’s Arms. At breakfast asked Boots where was the
Quietest Watering-place in the neighbourhood. In his opinion I
couldn’t do better than go to Gwrysthlogwdd. What name did he
| say ? “ Gwrysthlogwdd.” Oh, thank you! Would he be good enough
to write it down ? The Landlord would. Oh! thank you again? It
was a place only just started, he informed me. Capital fishing. Beau-
tiful falls. “ The Menai Straits, as it might be here,” he illustrated
this with his napkin, and I said, “Yes,”—“and the sea round as it
might be here,” napkin again. Was there bathing? “ Yes, he should
say there was bathing: he knew there was shooting, because Sir John
Llanrooster, who was as it might be the Squire, lived in the Castle
which you’d see as you went by the road, which lay here as it might
be” in the direction of the ham on the sideboard. Very well; then I
would go in the afternoon.
Would I have a car or a boat ? I might go to Beaumaris by steamer,
and cross to Gwrysthlogwdd in a small boat. I’d better to do this, as
there wasn’t a car in.
4 p.m.—Landed at Beaumaris. Where did I want to go to ? I
showed paper with unpronounceable name written on it. Boatman
couldn’t read it. Intelligent person on pier deciphered it. Oh, thank
you, very much! No boat to be obtained just now, but if I’d wait
an hour or so, something would happen to the wind or the tide, or both,
and I could be taken across. Owen Owen would take me. Where
was he? Oh, somewhere. Very good, then I would leave my port-
manteau in charge of the intelligent man at the pier, and visit the town.
4'30.—At Beaumaris Castle, viewing the ruins.* In the chapel. Ah!
here the peaceful old monks used to pass their hours in silent medita-
j tion. How soothing! How calmly could I here rest, and fancy the
organ pealing forth—Toodle turn turn—tiddle tiddle turn. An organ !
by all that’s inharmonious! Playing “ The Dark Girl Dressed in
Blue ” if I mistake not. I will seek the remains of the grand old
refectory. Here at all events—“ Just a little more lobster salad, old
fellow.”—“ Don’t give him all the champagne.” Pop, pop, pop! “ Oh
dear! there’s a nasty grasshopper in my tart! ”—“ I say, we ’ll make
that old organ chap play a dance,” ha, ha, ha! “ Of course.” A dance!
in these hallowed precincts. It only wanted that to complete it. Away
to the wilds of the watering-place with an unpronounceable name.
5'30.—On the pier. Intelligent man with my portmanteau not to be
seen. Has gone to his tea. Oh, thank you! Owen Owen had sailed
about a quarter-of-an-hour ago with the gentleman’s portmanteau. He
thought I wanted it taken across. He often does jobs of that sort.
Does he ? “ His mate’d take me.” His mate is sitting on the pier
railing, engaged, I take it, from the movement of his cheeks, in the
exhilarating occupation of chewing tobacco. He expectorates obliquely,
and nods. Evidently a man of few words. After a pause, during
which I am looking at Owen Owen’s mate, expecting him to make
an observation, he descends leisurely from his perch, and goes down a
ladder at the pier side. Two more mates leaning over the rail com-
mence a conversation in some guttural unknown tongue. Of course
they are speaking Welsh. I should like to know what they are saying.
They occasionally look at me and laugh, from which I gather that
I am the subject of their remarks. Pleasant honest dogs, these sons
of the ocean.
6.—Down the ladder and into a little cockle-shell of a boat. Very
damp. After a good deal of bumping against the pier, and shipping a
considerable quantity of water, we are taken by a sudden gust which
almost capsises us, several yards (do they measure at sea by yards ? no,
it’s fathoms or knots, I think—say knots) many knots down stream—
or up stream, for I can’t make out which way the water is going; it
appears to me not to know its own mind. “ Rather dangerous sailing
here ? ” I inquire of Owen Owen’s mate. “ Very,” says he. Evi-
dently, as I remarked before, a man of few words. “ A mate o’ mine
was drown’d here,” he says, in a husky voice. “ I never can pass this
here point,” he adds, “ without drinking summut.”
While engaged in this touching tribute to his friend’s memory, he
gave me the sail line (is that the name?) to hold. I do this cheerfully,
but nervously, withal.
Ten Minutes afterwards. He is still drinking the pious memory,
occasionally stopping to meditate. I gently suggest, that if he would
not mind steering a little, we might get on in a more even manner. At
this moment, there comes, what Owen’s mate calls a lurch.-1 finish
this note on landing. Oh, ye gentlemen, who live at home at ease, how
little do ye think upon the dangers of crossing from Beaumaris to
Gwrysthlogwdd. In a second the large sail was anywhere, nowhere,
flapping about in the breeze. He told me to hold the line loosely, and
I did. I, mysqlf, was jerked on to the floor (is it floor ?) of the boat,
where I lay, with the ballast. Owen’s mate used language unbecoming
a Christian and a Welshman. Being in his power, I pretended, rather
to enjoy his observations than otherwise. We couldn’t get up to the
shore, on account, he said, of the tide. The land was half a mile distant,
and not a soul to be seen anywhere. I was strongly impressed with
the quietude of Gwrysthlogwdd.
“Halloo!” cried Owen’s mate. No answer. Owen’s mate used
language, and said, that I must help to get the blank boat in, unless I
wanted to sit there, till turn of blank; tide. When might that be ? Oh,
three blank hours hence. Evidently a man of few words, and those of
an emphatic character which he uses as often as possible. We prepared
to jump into the briny deep, and tug the boat to shore. When I say
we prepared, I mean, I did. Owen’s mate going in, boots and all.
Owen’s mate did give way to his temper, tearfully. I explained, as
politely as possible, that I had not been brought up to this kind of
work. It never struck me, until now, that Owen’s mate had been
drinking. Gwrysthlogwdd is, at present, too quiet a place, at least,
just in this quarter. There’s not a creature to be seen, and the
inebriated son of the ocean, insists upon leaving his boat, and carrying
me on his back to land. I submit, without my shoes and stockings.
Through a lot of sandy, slushy mud, we gain the beach. Owen’s
mate had kept himself on his legs, and me on his back, in a wonderful
manner. What is his fare ? Five shillings ? He shakes his head. Six ?
He won’t hear of it. Seven ? He’s impracticable. H’m ! I see a
fisherman on the beach. Here, my good man, how much shall I give
Owen’s mate ? Fisherman, a good-humoured looking person, shakes
his head, and says, down in his throat, some words which sound as it
consisting chiefly of “g’s” and “r’s.” Is it possible, he doesn’1
understand English ? Another fisherman comes. “ How much shall
I,”—Good gracious! he is shaking his head. They are all shaking their
heads. Owen’s mate sleepily.
Two more inhabitants, female, come down on to the shingle. Two
little boys make for the boat, returning at a run, with my shoes and
stockings. Upon these I seized, and after putting them on, presented
Owen’s mate with half a sovereign. Seeing this, the male and female ;
natives, and the two little boys, set upon Owen’s mate.
7.—From this distance, i.e., the door of the Inn of Gwrysthlogwdd,
I can still see them fighting for the prize. The mate’s boat has dis-
appeared, and this is how you get to this new Welsh Watering-place,
by water. I have since ascertained that the way here by land, is only
safe to those thoroughly acquainted with the Mountain Geography.
First Note. Made in my diary, on the door-step of the Old Village Dm.
This is, indeed, a Lovely Quiet Place. I will knock and inquire con-
cerning accommodation, and by the way, my portmanteau.
A FRIENDLY LITTLE ARTICLE.
We are told by Alphonse Karr that “Friendship between two
women is always a plot against a third.” We deny it, as we always
make a point of denying all the spiteful 'things that are said against the
beautiful sex. And what is the friendship between two men, we should
like to know ? If we had the inclination to be cynical, under the de-
ceitful notion that we were being extremely clever, we might answer :
“ Friendship between two men is a continual struggle as to which of
the two shall do the other.” We are afraid we are not the only persons
in this world who labour under the melancholy conceit that, to be clever,
we have only to be cynical.
What we Learn in Foreign Parts.
When last we were in Paris, we strolled into the Valais de Justice,
and soon found ourselves wandering in the famous Salle des Pas Per dm.
On inquiring, we discovered that the Salle des Pas was not intended
as a companion refuge to the Champ de Mars; and we also learnt that
the Pas Perdus were in no way paternally related to the Enfants TrouvSs.
These facts were no less new than pleasing to us, and so accordingly wp
have made a note of them.
A RETORT THAT IS A LITTLE TOO SPIRITED.
Retaliation in commerce, as in other things, sometimes takes a
most savage form. Now look at India, how we treat her in our com-
mercial relations! Because India sends us her cotton badly ginned, is
that any reason, we ask, why we should send her our sherries so fear-
fully brandied ? __
A QUESTION POR NOTES AND QUERIES.
Supposing you found a greenback, would you, when found, be able
I by any means “ to make a note of it ? ”
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
119
QUIET WATERING-PLACES.
Where have I not been since quitting Winklebeach! I’ve been
roaming, I ’ve been roaming, and I shall go roaming still; but I’m
coming, but I’m coming, to the conclusion that a really Quiet Watering-
lace is nowhere to be found. This is the statement that I have put
efore the Company (Limited) in whose interests, coinciding, as they
do, with those ot my own mental and physical requirements, I have
1 been lately travelling. From Sussex to Wales.
No. II.— GWRYSTHLOGWDD.
First day.—Arrived at Bangor, very early in the morning. Went to
bed in the Bishop’s Arms. At breakfast asked Boots where was the
Quietest Watering-place in the neighbourhood. In his opinion I
couldn’t do better than go to Gwrysthlogwdd. What name did he
| say ? “ Gwrysthlogwdd.” Oh, thank you! Would he be good enough
to write it down ? The Landlord would. Oh! thank you again? It
was a place only just started, he informed me. Capital fishing. Beau-
tiful falls. “ The Menai Straits, as it might be here,” he illustrated
this with his napkin, and I said, “Yes,”—“and the sea round as it
might be here,” napkin again. Was there bathing? “ Yes, he should
say there was bathing: he knew there was shooting, because Sir John
Llanrooster, who was as it might be the Squire, lived in the Castle
which you’d see as you went by the road, which lay here as it might
be” in the direction of the ham on the sideboard. Very well; then I
would go in the afternoon.
Would I have a car or a boat ? I might go to Beaumaris by steamer,
and cross to Gwrysthlogwdd in a small boat. I’d better to do this, as
there wasn’t a car in.
4 p.m.—Landed at Beaumaris. Where did I want to go to ? I
showed paper with unpronounceable name written on it. Boatman
couldn’t read it. Intelligent person on pier deciphered it. Oh, thank
you, very much! No boat to be obtained just now, but if I’d wait
an hour or so, something would happen to the wind or the tide, or both,
and I could be taken across. Owen Owen would take me. Where
was he? Oh, somewhere. Very good, then I would leave my port-
manteau in charge of the intelligent man at the pier, and visit the town.
4'30.—At Beaumaris Castle, viewing the ruins.* In the chapel. Ah!
here the peaceful old monks used to pass their hours in silent medita-
j tion. How soothing! How calmly could I here rest, and fancy the
organ pealing forth—Toodle turn turn—tiddle tiddle turn. An organ !
by all that’s inharmonious! Playing “ The Dark Girl Dressed in
Blue ” if I mistake not. I will seek the remains of the grand old
refectory. Here at all events—“ Just a little more lobster salad, old
fellow.”—“ Don’t give him all the champagne.” Pop, pop, pop! “ Oh
dear! there’s a nasty grasshopper in my tart! ”—“ I say, we ’ll make
that old organ chap play a dance,” ha, ha, ha! “ Of course.” A dance!
in these hallowed precincts. It only wanted that to complete it. Away
to the wilds of the watering-place with an unpronounceable name.
5'30.—On the pier. Intelligent man with my portmanteau not to be
seen. Has gone to his tea. Oh, thank you! Owen Owen had sailed
about a quarter-of-an-hour ago with the gentleman’s portmanteau. He
thought I wanted it taken across. He often does jobs of that sort.
Does he ? “ His mate’d take me.” His mate is sitting on the pier
railing, engaged, I take it, from the movement of his cheeks, in the
exhilarating occupation of chewing tobacco. He expectorates obliquely,
and nods. Evidently a man of few words. After a pause, during
which I am looking at Owen Owen’s mate, expecting him to make
an observation, he descends leisurely from his perch, and goes down a
ladder at the pier side. Two more mates leaning over the rail com-
mence a conversation in some guttural unknown tongue. Of course
they are speaking Welsh. I should like to know what they are saying.
They occasionally look at me and laugh, from which I gather that
I am the subject of their remarks. Pleasant honest dogs, these sons
of the ocean.
6.—Down the ladder and into a little cockle-shell of a boat. Very
damp. After a good deal of bumping against the pier, and shipping a
considerable quantity of water, we are taken by a sudden gust which
almost capsises us, several yards (do they measure at sea by yards ? no,
it’s fathoms or knots, I think—say knots) many knots down stream—
or up stream, for I can’t make out which way the water is going; it
appears to me not to know its own mind. “ Rather dangerous sailing
here ? ” I inquire of Owen Owen’s mate. “ Very,” says he. Evi-
dently, as I remarked before, a man of few words. “ A mate o’ mine
was drown’d here,” he says, in a husky voice. “ I never can pass this
here point,” he adds, “ without drinking summut.”
While engaged in this touching tribute to his friend’s memory, he
gave me the sail line (is that the name?) to hold. I do this cheerfully,
but nervously, withal.
Ten Minutes afterwards. He is still drinking the pious memory,
occasionally stopping to meditate. I gently suggest, that if he would
not mind steering a little, we might get on in a more even manner. At
this moment, there comes, what Owen’s mate calls a lurch.-1 finish
this note on landing. Oh, ye gentlemen, who live at home at ease, how
little do ye think upon the dangers of crossing from Beaumaris to
Gwrysthlogwdd. In a second the large sail was anywhere, nowhere,
flapping about in the breeze. He told me to hold the line loosely, and
I did. I, mysqlf, was jerked on to the floor (is it floor ?) of the boat,
where I lay, with the ballast. Owen’s mate used language unbecoming
a Christian and a Welshman. Being in his power, I pretended, rather
to enjoy his observations than otherwise. We couldn’t get up to the
shore, on account, he said, of the tide. The land was half a mile distant,
and not a soul to be seen anywhere. I was strongly impressed with
the quietude of Gwrysthlogwdd.
“Halloo!” cried Owen’s mate. No answer. Owen’s mate used
language, and said, that I must help to get the blank boat in, unless I
wanted to sit there, till turn of blank; tide. When might that be ? Oh,
three blank hours hence. Evidently a man of few words, and those of
an emphatic character which he uses as often as possible. We prepared
to jump into the briny deep, and tug the boat to shore. When I say
we prepared, I mean, I did. Owen’s mate going in, boots and all.
Owen’s mate did give way to his temper, tearfully. I explained, as
politely as possible, that I had not been brought up to this kind of
work. It never struck me, until now, that Owen’s mate had been
drinking. Gwrysthlogwdd is, at present, too quiet a place, at least,
just in this quarter. There’s not a creature to be seen, and the
inebriated son of the ocean, insists upon leaving his boat, and carrying
me on his back to land. I submit, without my shoes and stockings.
Through a lot of sandy, slushy mud, we gain the beach. Owen’s
mate had kept himself on his legs, and me on his back, in a wonderful
manner. What is his fare ? Five shillings ? He shakes his head. Six ?
He won’t hear of it. Seven ? He’s impracticable. H’m ! I see a
fisherman on the beach. Here, my good man, how much shall I give
Owen’s mate ? Fisherman, a good-humoured looking person, shakes
his head, and says, down in his throat, some words which sound as it
consisting chiefly of “g’s” and “r’s.” Is it possible, he doesn’1
understand English ? Another fisherman comes. “ How much shall
I,”—Good gracious! he is shaking his head. They are all shaking their
heads. Owen’s mate sleepily.
Two more inhabitants, female, come down on to the shingle. Two
little boys make for the boat, returning at a run, with my shoes and
stockings. Upon these I seized, and after putting them on, presented
Owen’s mate with half a sovereign. Seeing this, the male and female ;
natives, and the two little boys, set upon Owen’s mate.
7.—From this distance, i.e., the door of the Inn of Gwrysthlogwdd,
I can still see them fighting for the prize. The mate’s boat has dis-
appeared, and this is how you get to this new Welsh Watering-place,
by water. I have since ascertained that the way here by land, is only
safe to those thoroughly acquainted with the Mountain Geography.
First Note. Made in my diary, on the door-step of the Old Village Dm.
This is, indeed, a Lovely Quiet Place. I will knock and inquire con-
cerning accommodation, and by the way, my portmanteau.
A FRIENDLY LITTLE ARTICLE.
We are told by Alphonse Karr that “Friendship between two
women is always a plot against a third.” We deny it, as we always
make a point of denying all the spiteful 'things that are said against the
beautiful sex. And what is the friendship between two men, we should
like to know ? If we had the inclination to be cynical, under the de-
ceitful notion that we were being extremely clever, we might answer :
“ Friendship between two men is a continual struggle as to which of
the two shall do the other.” We are afraid we are not the only persons
in this world who labour under the melancholy conceit that, to be clever,
we have only to be cynical.
What we Learn in Foreign Parts.
When last we were in Paris, we strolled into the Valais de Justice,
and soon found ourselves wandering in the famous Salle des Pas Per dm.
On inquiring, we discovered that the Salle des Pas was not intended
as a companion refuge to the Champ de Mars; and we also learnt that
the Pas Perdus were in no way paternally related to the Enfants TrouvSs.
These facts were no less new than pleasing to us, and so accordingly wp
have made a note of them.
A RETORT THAT IS A LITTLE TOO SPIRITED.
Retaliation in commerce, as in other things, sometimes takes a
most savage form. Now look at India, how we treat her in our com-
mercial relations! Because India sends us her cotton badly ginned, is
that any reason, we ask, why we should send her our sherries so fear-
fully brandied ? __
A QUESTION POR NOTES AND QUERIES.
Supposing you found a greenback, would you, when found, be able
I by any means “ to make a note of it ? ”