The great morning dawned at last. Mr. Owen set out with us four older children and the tents at the crack of dawn to pitch camp. It was a perfect morning, and we traveled by the narrow back lanes, singing for miles. The dew still lay on the fields when we started, and the spiders’ webs shone like silver.
We left the lanes after a time and joined a winding road and began to climb toward the horizon. Suddenly we reached the top of the hill, and Mr. Owen stopped the car abruptly and said, “Look!”
I gave a little gasp, for I had never seen the great mountains so close. Now they stretched out in front of us as far as the eye could see. Peter jumped up and reeled off the names of the proud rocky summits. We knew that hidden away in the valleys were the lakes.
Peter leapt back into the car and prodded his father in the back. “Go on, Dad,” he shouted. “Let’s get there!”
So we raced down the hill and through the last little town, over an old stone bridge designed by a famous architect called Inigo Jones, and then we left civilization behind us and were speeding toward the steep mountain rising ahead of us. Ten minutes later, we left the last proper road and turned up a steep, stony path that climbed through larch woods, with a stream foaming down over mossy boulders on our right.
“Will the car really go up there?” asked Janet, clutching the back of the seat nervously. “And what will we do if we meet another car?”
“It would be just too bad!” replied Mr. Owen, pulling down into bottom gear and hooting his horn in warning as we twisted around the corners.
We were breathless with excitement, for we knew that in a few minutes we would see the spot that Peter had described to us. We bumped around the corner and there in front of us, clear as green glass, with the shadows of the hills reflected in it, lay the lake.
Mr. Owen stopped the car, and once again we were silent for a moment. I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful. It was so still and so long. Now and then a gull dipped and ruffled the surface with its wings, but otherwise I couldn’t see a ripple. I felt as though I had reached an enchanted country where everything seemed to have fallen asleep.
“Oh, Daddy, let’s swim,” squealed Johnny. “Look, there’s a little beach! Couldn’t we make camp there?”
“No,” replied Mr. Owen. “We’ve got to get to the other end of the farmhouse. Look, there’s a little white road along the edge of the lake. We’ll get the tents up and camp fixed, and then we’ll have a swim before dinner. We won’t bother about cooking today—just corned beef and bread and butter and plums and lemonade; then I can get back early for Mum.”
We drove along the little track by the edge of the water, and very soon we caught sight of Mrs. Davies’s farm.
There was a sheepfold and a cowshed to one side of it, and a wire run for chickens, and a spring of clear water splashing into a stone trough in front of the door. Mrs. Davies heard us coming and ran out to meet us. She was a neat, dark little woman with rosy cheeks and bright black eyes, with a little girl clinging to her apron and a large sheepdog jumping around her.
“A little friend for Francie,” said Mr. Owen, waving at the child. “And a little friend for Cadwaller,” said Johnny, whistling at the sheepdog.
We tumbled out of the car, and Mr. Owen greeted them in Welsh. Mrs. Davies pointed out the driest spot for the campsite and helped us carry our things. We set to work in earnest, laying the groundsheets and hammering in the tent pegs. Then we went to Mrs. Davies, and she took us around to the barn so we could stuff our mattresses with straw. In the corner was a tiny black-and-white calf, very weak and wobbly, peering out from behind its mother.
We carried big stones up from the lake and built the camp fireplace. We stored our firewood in the barn so it would keep dry.
“We’ll build an enormous campfire to welcome Mum tonight,” said Peter. “We’ll all collect wood while Dad goes to get her. Now, come on, let’s have a swim before dinner.”
We changed in two minutes and raced barefoot over the springy grass to the pebbly stretch of mud that Johnny had already christened “the bathing beach.” After our swim we had dinner, then Mr.Owen glanced at his watch and jumped up.
“I must go to get Mum,” he said, “and we won’t be back till about five o’clock. You can collect firewood and explore around, but don’t get lost and, remember, no one is to go near the lake or light a fire until we get back.”
He jumped in the car and went bumping off along the lakeside track. It was rather exciting being left on our own.
“You girls wash up,” said Peter, “and then let’s build an enormous bonfire for tonight. Then let’s go to the other end of the lake and follow the stream and see where it goes. It says on my map that there’s another big lake over on the other side of the mountain with a stream flowing down that joins this one.”
We tidied up and dug a deep hole for our rubbish, and then scattered to collect firewood. I had never been in such wild, rolling scenery with not a living creature to be seen anywhere.
“Come on,” shouted Peter’s voice from the camp far below me. “You’ve got hardly any wood, and we want to start soon.”
We collected a big pile between us, then started along the edge of the lake, feeling like a party of explorers setting out to discover unknown territory. Peter carried the map and the compass in a leather bag over his shoulder. It was cool and very silent everywhere.
We reached the end of the lake where it narrowed into a rushing white stream. We had our shoes off in a minute and scrambled down the steep banks, then we slipped on the wet stones and went splashing up to our knees in a foaming pool.
“The trees end just ahead,” called Peter. “We’re coming out onto a rocky, stony sort of place. Let’s come out into the open and have a look around, and then we’ll go back.”
We waded on and found ourselves in a very desolate place indeed. It must have been an old stone quarry once, for piles of broken stones rose up around us, and just in front were the blackened walls of an old, roofless stone building.
“Looks as though it has been burned,” said Peter thoughtfully. “Give me a leg up, someone, and let’s see inside.”
“I think we ought to go home. We mustn’t be late for Mum,” said Janet firmly. “I don’t like that house, Pete. In fact, I don’t like this place at all. It’s sort of spooky.”
I looked around and shivered a little. The piles of stones hid the countryside, and the air was full of the sound of angry, rushing water.
Peter was wading through the mass of weeds that surrounded the ruin and had pulled himself up on the sill. “I say,” he called back excitedly, “it’s got all sorts of rooms in it, and someone has made a campfire—there are black stones and ashes and an old saucepan. One room is still roofed over, and the window’s stuffed with rags. I think someone lives here. I’m going to try the door!”
He jumped down into the nettles, scratching his legs badly, and picked his way down to the door. It was jammed and stuck, but Peter ran at it with his shoulder, and it burst open so suddenly that he fell forward. He got up quickly and backed out, rather frightened, and stood hesitating.
“Shall I go in?” he asked. “Supposing there’s someone there?”
“I would think he’d have come out by now,” said Johnny rather sensibly. Then he hopped over the nettles and stood in the doorway. “I’ll go in,” he said brightly. “I’m not frightened.”
He skipped into the ruin, poking his inquisitive little nose into one derelict room after another. Then he came tiptoeing back, his eyes round with excitement. “Someone does live here,” he whispered. “There’s a mattress with nice blankets, and some plates and cups, and a box and an old rug on the floor.”
“Oh, Peter,” I whispered, “let’s go home! Supposing they come. They’ll be really cross if they find us in their house, and we will never hear them till they are right on top of us, the stream’s making such a noise.”
“Well, I’d just like to have a quick look,” said Peter uncertainly. “Johnny, you climb on that stone heap and keep a lookout.”
Nimble little Johnny was up in a moment and down again as quickly. “There’s a man coming up beside the stream,” he squeaked, “and he’s got a sack over his back and a dead rabbit in his hand! Come on, everybody, run!” And he was away into the tunnel of trees, leaping from boulder to boulder with Peter and Janet just behind him, and me slipping and stumbling and splashing along last of all. On we went, breathless and wet, with bruised, cold feet and aching legs. We didn’t feel safe till we reached the quiet hills and the gray levels of the lake.
“There’s the car!” shouted Janet, waving her shoes wildly above her head, and the next moment we were all racing along barefoot beside it, with the joyful faces of Frances, Robin, Lucy, and Cadwaller filling the windows and Mrs. Owen calling out greetings. And although none of us would have confessed it, never before in our lives had we been so pleased to see them.