Free From Across the Ancient Waters by Michael Phillips Page A

never paid much attention to the scenery.
    At present grass grew under his mount’s four iron shoes. Upward ahead in the distance, however, stone seemed the chief characteristic of the landscape, here black, there containing reddish hues, but mostly gray. He continued to make his way through low-growing shrubbery and a few small woods. The highest ridges ahead, however, were so rocky as to appear mostly bare.
    Several peaks loomed rather than towered in the distance. They were not of particularly great height, though remnants of snow could yet be seen on one or two. The topography rose steadily eastward from the sea into the northern reaches of the Cambrian Mountains, of which Percy could now see the summits of Rhinog Fawr, Yllethr, and Diffwys stretched out as in a line some four or five miles inland. The lower slope of Moelfre was nearer at hand and partially obscured the latter. Blue billows of clouds drifted lazily in the blue expanse overhead.
    It was altogether a lovely summer’s day for a ride. Had Percy Drummond been more a friend of nature, he would have derived immense pleasure from it. If the truth were known, he was actually enjoying himself more than he was likely to admit. He was more than a little proud of himself for holding his seat for so long as well as he had. The spectacular grandeur about him could not help but prick certain hidden regions of soul to which it was designed to speak.
    Northward out of sight from here, the range of inland peaks rose amid craggy precipices and high-notched passes through the range to its highest point, Wyddfa, “nesting place of the eagles,” known in English as Mount Snowdon. The treeless granite gray peak from which the region took its name overlooked the whole of North Wales. It was the highest summit in Britain south of the Scottish highlands, second only to Ben Nevis, with which it shared an uncanny likeness.
    Percy found himself riding for some time along a trail that gradually and circuitously ascended upward and northeastward. Whether it was actually a trail or not, the horse followed it on her own. Cresting a small rise, he heard the tinkling of bells.
    A moment later, a rambunctious flock of sheep suddenly appeared nearly upon him, scrambling and bleeting their way along the ridge. Seconds later Percy found himself in the middle of a tumultuous sea of white. Neither horse nor sheep paid the other heed, though the mare paused while the little white balls of wool passed, scurrying and baaing around her feet.
    A stocky lad followed behind the flock, a black and white sheepdog at his side.
“Prynhawn da,”
he said as he came near.
“Sut mae?”
    “I’m sorry,” replied Percy with a confused expression. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
    “Then ‘tis I who should be apologizing,” said the boy with a smile. “I said good afternoon to you. Fine day for a ride, it is.”
    “Yes—thank you. I had no idea anyone else was nearby,” said Percy. “I must admit you startled me. I’m not too good on a horse.”
    “Looks to me you are doing right fine. I shall get my sheep out of your path as quickly as I can.”
    He cried out in the strangest voice Percy had ever heard, uttering some unintelligible mixture of command and singing chant. Whatever its meaning, the animals all understood the ancient Welsh tongue. The sheep burst into a frenzy of motion, scooting along at suddenly doubled speed. The dog leaped eagerly into action and scampered about at their heels with sudden frenetic urgency.
    Percy took the young shepherd for several years older than himself, though he was in truth seventeen. His stout frame was not as tall as Percy’s, yet broad and muscular. The brown, leathery skin of face and arms, from constant exposure to the harsh coastal elements, gave an appearance of age beyond his years.
    “The name’s Stevie Muir,” the boy said. “I live over the hill there.” He pointed behind him.
    “I am Percy Drummond,” said Percy.
    “New to