He was postponing as long as possible the test of meeting his father, the father of the young n'eer-do-weel who had been lying for months in a South African field hospital the year before.

He halted for a cup of tea at Llandeilotalybont ...

Wales has many place names like this ...

and being there not many miles from Pontystrad was able to glean more recent and more circumstantial information about the man he proposed to greet as "father." At half-past six that evening, having perspired and dried, perspired and dried, strained a tendon and acquired a headache, he halted before the gate of the Vicarage garden at Pontystrad, having been followed thither to his secret annoyance by quite a troop of village boys of whom he had imprudently asked the way.

As they talked Welsh he could not tell what they were saying, but conjectured that his telegram had arrived and that he was expected.
Standing under the porch of the house was an old man with a long white beard like a Druid in spectacles shading his eyes and expectant...
A bicycle might prove an incumbrance in the ensuing interview, so David hastily propped his against a fuchsia hedge and hurried forward to meet the old man, who extended hands to envelop him, not trusting to his eyes.