XXX
Now rides he and roams through the realm of Logrès, Sir Gawain, at God’s best, no game though he thought it. Oft friendless, alone, he had lodging by nights Where he found not before him the fare that he liked. He had no fellow but his foal by frith and forest, And no gossip but God to talk with by gate, Till he drew full nigh into the North Wales. All the isles of Anglesey held he to left-ward And fared o’er the fords by the jutting forelands, Over at the Holy Head, till eft he made shore In the wilderness of Wirral; won’d there but few That either God or man with a good heart lovèd. And ever as he fared, of folks that befell He ask’d if they had heard of any Green Knight, In any ground thereabout, at the Green Chapel; And all nick’d him with nay, said that never in their life Had they seen any soul that such a hue had as green. He wander’d ways full strange By dreary hill and dene, His cheer full oft might change Or e’er that chapel was seen.