Nooks And Corners Of Pembrokeshire Part 17

Returning to Crymmych-Arms, we settle up accounts with mine hostess--a simple process in these parts, often arranged without the formality of a 'bill,'--and set forth anew upon our wanderings. The old trackway again forms our route, leading us past the site of a rude monument called Croes Mihangel, and thence across the heather-clad shoulders of Foel Trigarn, the easternmost spur of Precelly, which, as its name implies, is crowned with three cairns, surrounded by the stony ramparts of an ancient British stronghold.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SKIRTS OF PRECELLY.]

The mountain vale opening out upon our left holds the springs of the eastern Cleddau, a stream that, after forming for some miles the county-boundary, pa.s.ses below picturesque Llawhaden, and flows onwards amidst the rich woodlands of Slebech and Picton Castle, to merge in the broad, tidal waters of Milford Haven.

For the next few miles we enjoy a breezy tramp athwart the wild, uncultivated shoulders of Precelly--'Parcilly the Proud,' to use old Drayton's phrase. In his own quaint fashion, George Owen thus describes these famous hills: 'The chiefest and princ.i.p.all mountaine of this shire is Percellye, which is a long ridge or rancke of mountaines runninge East and West; beginninge above Penkellyvore, where the first mounte of highe land thereof is called Moel Eryr, and so pa.s.singe Eastward to Comkerwyn (being the highest parte of yt), runneth East to Moel Trygarn and to Llanvirnach.'

So far George Owen. Meanwhile we trudge onward across the springy turf, avoiding here a stretch of dusky bogland feathered with white tufts of cotton-gra.s.s, yonder a huge pile of weather-stained boulders, riven and tossed asunder by the tempests of ten thousand winters. One of these rugged cairns is known as King Arthur's Grave; another bears a Welsh name signifying the 'rocks of the hors.e.m.e.n': indeed, every feature of the landscape has its story or legend for the imaginative Cymro.

Rounding the head of a lonely glen, a rough but sufficiently easy ascent lands us beside the cairn that marks the summit of Foel Cwm Cerwyn, the loftiest peak of Precelly, and the highest ground in all broad Pembrokeshire. 'This mountaine,' says George Owen, 'is so highe and farre mountid into the ayre that, when the countrey about is faire and cleere, the toppe thereof wilbe hidden in a cloude, which of the inhabitantes is taken a sure signe of raigne to follow shortelie, whereof grewe this proverbe:

'"When Percellye weareth a hatte, All Penbrokeshire shall weete of that."'

Standing well apart, and removed from the ma.s.s of loftier South Welsh hills, the view from Precelly top is both extensive and interesting.

Near hand, one's gaze wanders across a vast expanse of rather monotonous, treeless landscape, until the attention is arrested by the lake-like reaches of Milford Haven, spreading like crooked fingers far into the heart of the land.

South and west the sea encompa.s.ses all, with Gower lying far away upon the Bristol Channel, and perhaps a faint outline of the cliffs of Devon verging the remote horizon. The isolated hills overlooking St. Davids are easily identified, flanked by a broad stretch of St. Bride's Bay, and its group of guardian islets. Strumble Head thrusts its tempest-torn crags seawards into Cardigan Bay, whose coast-line trends away league upon league with infinite gradation to where, softened by the humid, brine-laden atmosphere,

'The gray, cloud-cradled mountains spread afar.'

Newport Bay, lying under the lee of Dinas Head, looks as though one might cast a stone into its calm waters; and upon turning our gaze inland, the eye loses itself amidst the many-folding hills, as they rise in soft undulations to the dusky highlands of Glamorganshire.

We now push on along the crest of the moorland, striking once more into the course of the so-called Flemings' Way. After the manner of most early roads, this ancient trackway runs athwart the open highlands, avoiding the hollow places; and although much of it has been obliterated by the ploughshare, and the gradual advance of cultivation, its course may still be traced in the less-frequented localities, as it wends its way up country from the site of old Menapia towards the county-town of Carmarthen.

An ancient warrant of Sir Nicholas Martin, referring to the use of this old mountain road by the Flemish colony, observes: 'And well they might make this unusual waie for their pa.s.sage, for that, pa.s.singe alonge the toppe of the highest hill, they might the better descrie the pryvie ambushes of the Countrye people, which might in streightes and woodds annoy them.'

At a place appropriately called the Pa.s.s of the Winds, we fall in with the main road as it crosses the hills from Haverfordwest to Cardigan.

This we descend for a matter of half a mile, pa.s.sing across a heathery upland ycleped the Hill of the Unstrung-Bows, until we come to Tafarn Bwlch, a humble wayside alehouse some thousand feet or so above sea-level.

Looking out across a broad brown reach of moorland, the eye detects a sort of rude stone causeway, curving amidst rush-gra.s.s and scattered peat-hags. This is known as Bedd-yr-Avangc, or the Beaver's Grave; _a propos_ of which it is worthy of note that Giraldus Cambrensis mentions the beaver as abounding in his day on Teivyside, while more than one venerable legend locates this amphibious quadruped in the _llyns_ and streams throughout wild Wales.

Arrived at Tafarn Bwlch, we call for such cheer as the lowly inn can supply; but the bill of fare proves somewhat scanty, for, in the words of the great lexicographer, 'of provisions its negative catalogue is very copious.' The goodwife, however, rises to the occasion, and regales us with a repast such as appet.i.tes sharpened by l.u.s.ty mountain air make short enough work of. Then we burn incense to the drowsy G.o.d in a nook of the chimney-place, where a peat-fire glows untended upon the ample hearth.

Starting forth again like giants refreshed, we breast the stony ascent that leads to the pa.s.s amidst a sharp squall of wind and rain, which drags in a darkening veil athwart the lonesome landscape, blotting now this, now that familiar landmark from the view.

From the head of the pa.s.s we descend into the vale of the infant Syvynvy, rounding the broad green slopes of the Eagles' Hill, the westernmost b.u.t.tress of the Precelly range. At the crossways we bear to the left, with the disused windmill of the slate quarries showing conspicuously upon a neighbouring hill.

Pushing on towards Maenclochog, we pa.s.s near the defunct Rosebush Station, on the line of the Maenclochog railway, which at present is undergoing in leisurely fashion a process of reconstruction. Indeed, in the matter of slowness, the builders of this line may fairly claim to have 'broken the record,' for 'tis whispered that seventeen years' work has added little more than four miles to the length of the railway!

Be that as it may, we now make our entry into the village of Maenclochog, a bleak-looking place enough, where the storm-rent trees beside the roadway attest the violence of the winter gales that sweep across these bare, lofty uplands.

Towards the farther end of the village, at a widening of the ways, stands the parish church, a structure of no great antiquity, dedicated to St. Mary. The clergyman, who has ministered here for upwards of thirty years, now courteously introduces us to the well-tended interior, the most noteworthy feature of which is a plain old font, with a singular cup-shaped recess upon its eastern face, the purpose of which we are quite at a loss to conjecture.

St. Mary's Church has no tower, but at the western end rises a low turret containing a musical peal of bells. It is a remarkable fact, indeed, that throughout this mountain district church towers are conspicuous by their absence; whereas, in the English country farther south, the tall slender bell-tower usually forms one of the most noticeable features of the parish church.

A marble cross used, we are informed, to adorn the chancel gable; but this has long since been removed to the limbo of things forgotten.

In olden times, it was customary at Maenclochog to draw the water for baptism from St. Mary's Well, a natural spring that rises just without the village. Near to this well are some tumbled stones, that once supported a large horizontal slab. Tradition tells that this stone, when struck, gave forth a loud ringing sound, which did not cease until the water from the holy well had been brought into the church. Hence the name of Maenclochog, which, being interpreted, signifies the village of the 'ringing rock.' It is much to be regretted that this curious object was destroyed many years ago, because, forsooth, the sound thereof was supposed to frighten pa.s.sing horses!

At the foot of the village stands a large, rambling inn, backed by the singularly artificial-looking rocks known as 'the Castle,' whence the house takes its t.i.tle. In a country where lodgings of any sort are so few and far between, the wayfarer may do worse than pitch his camp for a night in these una.s.suming quarters.

The way to Llandilo leads us through a hollow dingle, where a brawling trout-stream rushes along beneath cool, shadowy beech woods: while every here and there a glimpse of the purple hills adds variety to the scene.

Pa.s.sing by Temple-Druid, the site of a now destroyed cromlech, we arrive at Llandilo, where we search in vain for the church: for this spa.r.s.ely-peopled parish has been merged into that of Maenclochog, in consequence of which the sacred edifice has been allowed to fall into disrepair, and is now represented by a few crumbling walls smothered in rank, untended ivy.

Crossing the stone stile that gives access to the churchyard, we espy upon its southern side a slab of greenstone bearing, in rudely-chased letters, the inscription: COIMAGNI FILI CAVETI. A similar stone near the east end of the ruined chancel has also its superscription, which reads: ANDAGELLI IACIT; with a fainter line, possibly FILI CNOI, below; and over all a cross with tridented terminations.

But the pride of the place is 'St. Teilo's skull,' which is treasured at the adjacent farmhouse. This curious relic was formerly held in high esteem as a cure for all manner of sickness, water being drawn from the saint's well, and drunk out of the skull. The virtue of the draught was supposed to consist in its being administered by the eldest son of the house of Melchior, then, as now, the hereditary custodian of St. Teilo's skull. Onwards to Llangolman, the country is crumpled up into a succession of hills and narrow, rocky dingles, whereby the numerous streamlets that enliven this locality find an outlet from the foot-hills of Precelly. In one of these dingles is St. Teilo's Well, a wayside spring frequented by that saint in days of yore.

Llangolman Church, perched on its isolated monticle, presents a sorry spectacle of desecration and decay; its windows battered and broken, its roof open to the vault of heaven, while the rusty bell hangs cracked and useless in the dilapidated turret.

As we approach Monachlogddu, the landscape a.s.sumes a thoroughly Welsh appearance. A clear trout-stream, that comes rippling and dancing down the glen from the dark brown ridge of the moorlands, is here put to turn the wheel of a little flannel-mill. In response to our request, the goodman describes in broken English the simple processes of manufacture, and explains the movements of his archaic machinery. Then, after a glance at the lowly parish church, dedicated to St. Dogmael, we bid adieu to the village of the Black Monastery, and take to the road again.

The neighbouring village of Llanvirnach is said to derive its name from the following circ.u.mstance. When the good St. Byrnach was making his pilgrimage through this portion of the country, he could at first obtain no better quarters than a cowshed; thus, as the story goes, arose the name of Llanbeudy, the Church of the Cowhouse. The next day the saint fared even worse, for, coming to Cilmaenllwyd, he was obliged, for lack of better accommodation, to repose beneath the gray cromlech that gives the place its name. The third night, however, St. Byrnach came to a place where he was accorded a kindly welcome, and provided with a comfortable night's lodging. Overcome with grat.i.tude for this hospitable reception, St. Byrnach declared the place should ever after bear his own name; and hence it is called to this day Llanvirnach, or the Church of St. Byrnach.

But to return to Maenclochog. Retracing our steps through the village, we bear away to the left, and presently come to a roadside spring called St. Byrnach's Well, a resort of that ubiquitous saint.

Our route now leads past Poll-tax Inn, and follows the course of the Via Julia, that ancient highway by which the Roman legions traversed this wild, uncivilized territory, from Maridunum, the present town of Carmarthen, to their remotest settlement at Menapia, on the sh.o.r.es of Whitesand Bay.

Diverging from the mountain road that marks the route of the Roman highway, we turn aside into a cross-country lane, pa.s.s several cairns and cromlechs, and presently come to Little Newcastle, a mean, unkempt village, presenting few attractions for the wayfarer.

At Little Newcastle was born a certain Bartholomew Roberts, who, about a century ago, made some noise in the world as a successful filibuster. In company with his fellow-countryman Howel Davies, (as big a rascal as himself), this notorious freebooter sailed the high seas arrayed in priceless silks and jewels galore--as pretty a pair of desperadoes as ever hoisted the skull-and-crossbones flag, or graced the yardarm of a man-o'-war.

From Little Newcastle we make the best of our way to St. Dogwells, a mite of a place tucked into an elbow of the stream, and overlooked upon the north by a rock-strewn eminence called Castell Conyn. Through the woods of Sealyham we pa.s.s on to Letterston; noting a curious piscina in the church, and an effigy which long pa.s.sed muster as that of St.

Leotard, its founder.

Beyond the old chapel at Ford, where the Roman highway crossed the river, the road winds through the heart of the gorge amidst a wealth of bracken and purple heather; the huge form of Trefgarn Rock towering high aloft on our right. With the brawling Cleddau, half hidden by copsewoods, tumbling along through the hollow of the glen, the whole forms as romantic a bit of scenery as any to be found in the county.

At the adjacent village of Trefgarn, that great Welsh patriot and freelance, the famous Owen Glyndwr, is said to have first seen the light; an event that took place about the middle of the fourteenth century. Certain strange phenomena that were observed at the time of his birth, were turned to full account by this enterprising adventurer; hence Shakespeare, in his play of Henry IV.,' puts into the mouth of Glyndwr the proud words:

'At my birth The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes: The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous in the frighted fields: These signs have marked me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men.'

Alighting at Rudbaxton village, we step aside in order to visit the parish church. Upon the south side of the chancel, a pair of flat limestone arches open into what is known as the Howard Chapel, the eastern wall of which supports a large, seventeenth-century monument, commemorating various members of that honourable family.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HOWARD MONUMENT AT RUDBAXTON.]

The male and female figures beneath the arched recesses are represented as nearly the full size of life, habited in the costume of the period, and painted in a somewhat crude and barbaric manner. As may be seen in our sketch, every figure save one bears a human skull in its hand, thus recording in a suggestive way the decease of that individual. One effigy alone is _minus_ this grim feature, as it represents the lady in whose lifetime the monument was erected.

The panel beneath the central group bears the inscription, 'To the memory of James Howard of this Parish, Esq. who lyeth before this monument, and departed this life the 29th day of November Ano 1668, Aged 35 years. Also the memory of Joanna, the Wife of James Howard, who erected this monument for her Deare friends and children, with the intent to Joyne partner to this Monument, and left this life....'

The figure to the left represents George Howard, who died in 1665; those upon the right being Thomas and Mary, son and daughter of the central figures, who died, respectively, in 1682 and 1685. A sundial upon the outer south wall of the Howard Chapel bears the initials J. H. and the date 1665.

Descending a hollow lane, we cross a stream and pa.s.s near the scanty ruins of Flether Hill, the ancient abode of the Haywards, whose tombstones we have seen in the church. Then, leaving the pleasant grounds of Withybush away upon our left, we presently strike the main road again at a place called Crowsnest, and thus approach the town of Haverfordwest by its long, transpontine suburb of Prendergast.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT HAVERFORDWEST.]