It would seem, judging from an expression used by Daniel O’Connell, that the hotel now called the “Royal,” but originally named the “King’s Head,” was established by some action on the part of the Ladies of Llangollen. The “Hand” was in those days notoriously ill-equipped, and O’Connell wrote in the visitors’ book of the “King’s Head”:—
I remember this village with very bad cheer, Ere the Ladies, God bless them, set this inn here; But the traveller now is sure of good fare, Let him stay at this inn, or go to that ’ere; But all who can read will sure understand How vastly superior’s the Head to the Hand.
The sign of the “King’s Head” was changed to the “Royal” after the visit of the Duchess of Kent with the Princess Victoria in 1832.
[Illustration: VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY. _After J. M. W. Turner, R. A._]
When the traveller sets forth from Llangollen, he does so primed with stories of the excellence of the scenery and the road. The folded mountains, some clothed with pine and larch to their very summits, others stern and jagged with rocks, far exceed any word-picture, as do also the valleys and the glittering course of the Dee, dashing impetuously over boulders and pebbly beaches, or more rarely sliding quietly where the trout lurk in deep and darkling pools, where the Welshman still navigates that early British canoe or boat—whichever you like to call it—the “coracle,” a craft that no Saxon can master. The scenery is exquisite, the air cooler and more refreshing as you leave Llangollen, and the road broad and hard.
But as you come past Berwyn station, that picturesque little place on the railway line running so neighbourly and yet inoffensively parallel with the road and the Dee, you are conscious, whether awheel or afoot, that the road is not by any means flat. The old coachmen, indeed, knew this, although imperceptible to the casual eye, to be one of the most trying rises on the way to Holyhead; and the modern cyclist, who pedals bravely up its two miles, thinks sadly upon the debilitating air of Llangollen until its crest is reached and he perceives the true state of affairs. Telford was confronted by a dilemma here. He could do either of two things: carry the road thus steeply over the ridge of Rhysgog, or take it in more level fashion, but in three parts of a circle, following the great bend the Dee makes at this point—a bend so great that it almost coils back upon itself. He chose the first course, and so, although he saved more than a mile, has punished all travellers that have used the road since then.