The country around Llangollen was beautiful, but the memory of the hotel leaves a blight over all.  We were happy indeed when our motor started off again with the steady, powerful hum that so delights the soul of the driver, and it seemed fairly to tremble with impatience to make up for its enforced inaction.  Though it was eight o’clock in the evening, it was anything to get away from Llangollen, and we left with a view of stopping for the night at Bettws-y-Coed, about thirty miles away.

With our motor car racing like mad over the fine highway—­there was no danger of police traps at that hour—­we did not stop to inquire about the dog that went under the wheels in the first village we passed.  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 sham with which we decorate our modern houses, but real open beams that supported the floor—­and one end of the room was occupied by a great open fireplace with old-time spits and swinging cranes.  Overhead was hung a supply of hams and bacon and on iron hooks above the door were suspended several dressed fowls, on the theory that these improve with age.  We