Nooks And Corners Of Pembrokeshire Part 14

Across the straits rises the broad bulk of Ramsey Island: smooth and tame enough on this side, but presenting to the western ocean a grim array of tall inaccessible cliffs and gloomy caverns, the haunt of seals and sea-fowl innumerable. Farther out to sea lies the group of rocky islets known as the Bishop and his Clerks, 'who,' as George Owen has it, 'are not withoute some small Quiristers who shewe not themselves but at Spring Tydes and calme seas. The Bishop and these his Clerkes preache deadlie doctrine to their winter audience, such poore seafaring men as are forcyd thether by Tempest; onelie in one thinge are they to be commended; they keep residence better than the canons of that see are wont to doo.'

Setting our course for the sea-girt promontory of St. Davids Head, we direct our steps towards the curious-looking hill called Carn Llidi. The bold peak of this monticle rises straight before us as we trudge across the sandy burrows, which, in the course of ages, have invaded the site of Roman Menapia, the elder sister of St. Davids.

Thenceforward ensues an exhilarating stretch across the open boulder-strewn headland. Overhead the sun shines bright and warm, light fleecy clouds drift landward under a bracing sea-breeze, casting their purple shadows athwart the azure plain of ocean, which breaks in white foam upon the 'grisly, fiendy Rockys blake' that fringe the broad sweep of Whitesand Bay.

We now push on to the outermost crags of the headland. Stretching seawards like a long, crooked finger, this remote peninsula forms the most westerly landfall of Pembrokeshire, and the southernmost horn of that great Welsh gulf known as Cardigan Bay. Making our way over rough, rocky ground, we pa.s.s a huge half-fallen cromlech; and, as the headland narrows, a crumbling rampart flanked by a half-obliterated fosse appears to bar all further progress. This ancient structure, called Clawdd y Millwyr, or the Warriors' d.y.k.e, is constructed of smallish granite stones, compacted with soil and turf; it runs in a slightly-curved line, which is convex upon the landward face, from sea to sea across the narrow peninsula.

Just within the shelter of the bank, upon a stretch of comparatively level greensward, lies one of those _cityau_, or groups of hut-circles, occasionally to be met with throughout Wales. Six at least of these primitive dwellings are here discernible, all within a few feet of one another, and each of considerable size; many of the stones have sharp, square edges, and some appear to have been rudely shaped to the requisite curve of the circle.

Tradition itself is dumb regarding the origin of these mysterious structures; but there can be little doubt they were erected at a very remote period.

Once again under way, we shape our course for the rocky peak of Carn Llidi. Although barely 600 feet in height, this isolated monticle is in its upper parts abrupt and precipitous. At first our path leads away up the ferny slope to a sort of saddle-backed ridge, over whose bare jagged ledges we clamber onwards until a short, sharp pull up a kind of stony _couloir_ lands us upon the topmost crag.

Here we seem to have mounted (like Jack on his Beanstalk) into a new and undiscovered world, for this isolated perch affords a bird's-eye view over land and sea that rolls away to the distant horizon. Far beyond the broad expanse of Cardigan Bay the highlands of Snowdonia loom faint but clear; a wrinkled, treeless country, chequered by countless fields and dotted with white farmhouses, trends away league upon league to the foot-hills of Precelly, and the smoke-begirt heights of Glamorgan. Roch Castle, upon its lonely hillock, looks out across a silver stretch of St. Bride's Bay to the islands of Ramsey and Skomer. The village-city is hidden by an intervening rise, but its situation is marked by the conspicuous windmill; and westwards St. Davids Head thrusts out like a crooked finger into the open sunlit ocean.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OLD COTTAGE NEAR ST DAVIDS.]

Descending the hill, we work our way along winding sandy lanes, and return to St. Davids by the coast road coming from Fishguard. At an out-of-the-way place called Gwryd-Bach we stumble across a curious old farmstead, and being invited to enter, we proceed to make ourselves at home in a large low chamber, half living-room, half kitchen. At one end of this picturesque apartment is a low-browed, vaulted recess, pierced with a deep-set window, while upon the rough flagged floor beneath stands a mighty oak table of extremely primitive build. The ample dresser beside the wall displays such an array of curious old painted plates, and mugs of antiquated pattern, as might make a connoisseur's fingers itch. One retired corner is part.i.tioned off as a kind of homely parlour; on another side a rough open stairway gives access to the garret, while old guns, lanthorns, baskets and such-like articles of a rustic _menage_, garnish every available corner of walls and open-rafted ceiling.

We return to St. Davids by way of Dowrog Common, the 'Pilgrims' land' of earlier days, with its huge upright _maenhir_, called St. David's Stone.

Before turning in for the night we overhaul Ordnance maps and guide-book, in view of an early start upon the morrow in search of 'fresh woods and pastures new.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PRIEST & THE LAYMAN.]

CHAPTER IX.

TO FISHGUARD, NEWPORT, GOODWIC AND PENCAER.

Full five tedious leagues of monotonous cross-country road lie before us to-day, as we leave St. Davids city northward bound for Fishguard. A st.u.r.dy pedestrian may strike out a more interesting route by following the coast road--the ancient Fordd Fleming--and diverging at convenient points to explore the grand cliff scenery below Pen-beri, and the microscopic havens of Trevine and Abercastell. At Longhouse, close to the latter place, stands a remarkably fine cromlech, inferior only to its more famous rival at Pentre Evan, near Newport.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

About half-way along the main road we cross a country lane that follows the course of the old Fleming's Way; and half a mile farther on our attention is called to an object not unlike a milestone, upon which is rudely traced a cross within a circle: the irregular disc being about a foot in diameter. This is known as Mesur-y-Dorth--the Measure of the Loaf--from a tradition that St. David caused these figures to be made in order to regulate the size of the loaf of bread in times of scarcity.

Presently we approach the village of Jordanston; and here it behoves the belated traveller to 'keep his weather eye open,' for if tales be true, the ghost of a headless horseman that haunts this locality may be expected to put in an appearance.

A couple of miles or so to the northward rises the parish church of Mathry, conspicuous upon its high hill-top. This church of the Holy Martyrs once had a lofty steeple, that served as a useful guide to mariners until blown down one stormy night, many a year ago. Mathry was a place of some local importance in olden times, receiving a patent for a market and fair from Edward III., while the greater t.i.thes of this extensive parish sufficed to endow the 'golden prebend' of St. Davids Cathedral.

As we near our destination, the rugged hills of Pencaer rise picturesquely beyond the sands of Goodwic, while Dinas head rears its bold front above Cardigan Bay, with the delicate outline of the Carnarvonshire mountains serrating the distant horizon.

The town of Fishguard hangs, as it were, upon the slope of a precipitous hill overlooking the vale of the Gwaen, which here, as George Owen puts it, 'falleth into the sea, making a faire Haven and goode Harborow for shipps and Barks.' Its waterside suburb of Abergwaen, approached by one of the steepest bits of coach road in the Princ.i.p.ality, is mainly frequented by fisher-folk and seafaring men engaged in the coasting trade.

Encompa.s.sed by sheltering uplands, the narrow vale of the Gwaen has a singularly mild and equable climate, which fosters a wealth of luxuriant vegetation. In the course of a stroll through the beautiful grounds of Glyn-y-Mel, we notice the eucalyptus and bamboo evidently making themselves quite at home in this sunny nook, while heliotrope and dracaena, camellia and laurestinus flourish out-of-doors the winter through.

Usually the most easy-going of Sleepy Hollows, Fishguard town awoke one fine morning towards the close of the last century to find itself become suddenly famous. On February 21, 1797, three French frigates were sighted off the Pembrokeshire coast bearing up towards Fishguard Bay, where they presently came to anchor near Carreg Gwastad Point.

During the ensuing night the enemy came ash.o.r.e to the number of about 1,500 men, regular troops and gaol-birds, under the leadership of one Tate, a renegade Irish-American. Tate, with the chief of his satellites, established himself at the neighbouring farmhouse of Trehowel, while the main body of the 'invaders' encamped atop of an isolated hill overlooking the village of Llanwnda. Thence the Frenchmen dispersed about the countryside, scaring the inhabitants out of their wits, and rummaging the farmhouses in search of potheen and plunder.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLOCK AT BRESTGARN.]

In one of these exploits a drunken fellow entered a cottage at Brestgarn, where a 'grandfather' clock happened to be standing in a corner. Dismayed by the sounds issuing from the mysterious object, the simpleton fired his gun at a venture, concluding the devil must be lurking within. This clock is still to be seen at Brestgarn, with the bullet-hole through the panel as may be noticed in our sketch.

Meanwhile the authorities bestirred themselves. Under the command of Lord Cawdor, the Fishguard Fencibles and Castle Martin Yeomanry marched out to Goodwic Sands, where the enemy, finding the game was up, laid down their arms and surrendered _a discretion_. Thus these doughty regiments achieved the unique distinction of facing a foreign foe on the soil of Britain itself. It is said that the goodwives of Pembrokeshire, arrayed in their red woollen 'whittles,' countermarched and deployed around a neighbouring hill, thus leading the invaders to suppose that a regiment of gallant redcoats was preparing to oppose their advance.

The French prisoners were subsequently lodged in durance vile at a place near Pembroke, whence some of them effected their escape in Lord Cawdor's yacht, with the connivance of two Pembroke la.s.ses--the old story of _cherchez la femme_ once more. One of the French vessels having been afterwards captured was re-christened the _Fisguard_, a name that has only recently disappeared from the files of the Navy List.

Incredible as it may seem in these days, the news of this famous event took a whole week to travel to the Metropolis, and it is said that the anniversary of the French landing is still held in remembrance amongst the old folk in the locality.

It is a pleasant stroll from Fishguard to the scene of these historic events. Our way lies past the church, where, in a corner of the graveyard, we notice a curiously-incised stone cross. The lane now winds downhill, and we soon find ourselves pacing the smooth firm expanse of Goodwic Sands, with the hamlet of that ilk clinging to a wooded hillside before us.

Goodwic is picturesquely situated, overlooking a tiny haven and pier in an elbow of the rock close under the hill. Its genial climate and safe bathing sh.o.r.e make the place deservedly popular, and cause the handful of lodging-houses to fill up rapidly during 'the season.'

Pushing on again, we now enter the district of Pencaer, and, guided by the trusty Ordnance sheet, thread our way through narrow crooked lanes, rounding the base of Carn Wnda, where the Frenchmen pitched their camp, and pa.s.sing on to the little out-of-the-way village of Llanwnda.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Llanwnda Church.]

The church stands in an isolated position overlooking a piece of rough ground that does duty as village 'green,' a place scattered over with gray tumbled stones that seem to group themselves into the lines of rude hut-circles. Two or three low thatched cottages, that might pa.s.s for Irish cabins, appear to have been 'dumped' down haphazard, and look old enough to have seen Giraldus Cambrensis when he held the benefice here.

Built in a strong, simple manner well-suited to its exposed situation, Llanwnda Church has some characteristic features. Above the western gable rises a low double bell-cot, while a similar but smaller erection for the sanctus bell divides nave from chancel roof. As we enter the low-browed porch, we espy a cross of archaic type carved upon a stone slab in the outer wall; and two similar crosses are to be seen upon the exterior of the chancel gable.

The nave retains its dark, oaken timbered roof, having a rudely carved head upon the eastern side of one of its ancient beams. The openings to the rood-loft are now blocked up, but at the time of the French incursion these apertures afforded a hiding-place to a servant-maid and child, who peeped out in trepidation whilst a gang of ruffians played havoc in the sacred edifice, setting fire to everything inflammable they could lay hands upon.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CHALICE AT LLANWNDA.]

After some little persuasion Mary Reece, the sprightly nonagenarian caretaker, is prevailed upon to produce the communion chalice for our inspection. This little vessel has a history of its own, having been stolen by a Frenchman, who endeavoured to dispose of it at Carmarthen, trying to pa.s.s off the word Llanwnda engraved upon the cup as La Vendee, a name of France. The chalice, which is much cracked and dented from the rough handling it has undergone, bears upon the exterior the inscription: POCULUM ECLESIE DE LLANWNDA.

Pushing on across country, we win our way after half an hour's rough scrambling to Carreg Gwastad Point, a low, rocky, furze-clad headland sloping down to a secluded creek, where the would-be French invaders effected a landing.

A more out-of-the-way spot, or one more suited to embark on such an enterprise, they could not well have chosen. The wild and little-frequented coast-line of Pencaer stretches away on either hand with scarce a vestige of a landing-place; while the scattered peasant-folk, dwelling in isolated cottages and lone farmhouses, could offer but an ineffectual resistance to the enemy.

We now extend our route to Trehowel, a large, rambling old farmstead shaded by trees, where the French commander took up his unwelcome billet. Thence we strike up the slope of Garn-vawr to the huge British camp that crowns the summit, a wide prospect over land and sea rewarding our exertions. Following the crest of the ridge, we enjoy a breezy tramp across country, sundry fallen cromlechs and such-like relics lending an old-world interest to the locality.

Anent the country of Pencaer there is a venerable tradition which runs somewhat to the following effect: 'Once upon a time' there was a town in Pencaer called Tref Cwlhwc, or Cwlhwc's Town. This Cwlhwc appears to have been a sort of Celtic Hercules, who roamed about his native country in search of adventures. When grown to man's estate, Cwlhwc began to entertain ideas of marrying and settling down; whereupon he was informed by an oracle that no maid save the fair Olwen might become his wife.

Nothing daunted, the giant set forth in quest of his future bride, and after searching for a year and a day found the beautiful Olwen seated alone in her bower.

'She was arrayed,' says the old Welsh Mabinogion, 'in a vesture of flame-coloured silk, a wreath of ruddy gold was about the damsel's neck, set with pearl and coral. More yellow was her head than the blossoms of the broom; her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave; her fingers fairer than the opening buds of the water-lily, amid the small ripplings of the fountain of the waters. No brighter eyes than hers were seen; whiter was her bosom than the breast of the swan, more red her cheeks than the rose of the mountain. Whoever saw her was filled with love, and in her every footstep four white trefoils sprang wherever she trod, and therefore she was named Olwen.'

The Royal Oak inn at Fishguard (see head of present chapter) formed the British headquarters in the affair of '97. Trundling out of the town by the Newport coach, we skirt the slopes of Carn Enoch, across whose western flank extend the lines of prehistoric _maenhirs_ known as Parc y Marw, the Field of the Dead. Away to our left rises the big bluff headland that shelters the village of Dinas, whose pretty cottages peep out from amidst bowery orchards upon a little secluded cove. A new church has supplanted the old one, of which the western wall alone remains, all else having been swept away by inroads of the sea.

Our route now leads around the rocky sh.o.r.es of Newport Bay, the rough country lane affording some refreshing glimpses of narrow inlets, with woodlands feathering down to the water's edge. As we advance, the dark brow of Carn Englyn swings into view, with the houses of Newport cl.u.s.tering about its lower slopes. Arrived at that pleasant country town we beat up quarters for the night, intending to make it our head centre while exploring that portion of the shire stretching from the foot-hills of Precelly to the sh.o.r.es of Cardigan Bay.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A DERELICT.]