HARLECH CASTLE.
The present castle was built by Edward the First in 1283, upon the ruins of one erected by Maelgwn Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, in 530. It was seized by the Welsh hero, Owen Glyndwr, during his struggle for freedom against Henry the Fourth, and was retaken, about four years afterwards, by an army sent by that monarch into Wales. After the defeat of Henry the Sixth at Northampton, this castle afforded a retreat for his queen; but being hotly pursued by the Lord Stanley, she was compelled to fly from hence with great precipitation, leaving her jewels and other valuables behind her.
In 1468, this place was in possession of Davydd ab Ivan ab Einion, a man of singular strength and beauty, and of unconquerable bravery. Being a firm friend to the Lancastrian line, the Earl William of Pembroke was despatched to reduce the fortress; and after encountering incredible difficulties, marching through the very heart of the British Alps, he at length invested the castle, and committed the management of the siege to his brother Sir Richard Herbert, a man equal in size and prowess to the British commandant. The reply of the Welshman, when called upon to surrender, deserves to be handed down as a specimen of bravery and loyalty. He had never acknowledged the sovereignty of Edward; and for nine years had defied his threats. His answer was in keeping with the line of conduct he had adopted: “Tell your leader,” said he to the messenger, “that some years ago I held a castle in France against its besiegers so long, that all the old women in Wales talked of me: tell your commander, that I intend to defend this Welsh castle now, until all the old women in France shall hear of it.”
Famine, however, at last subdued him; but he yielded only upon honourable terms, Sir Richard pledging himself for his safety. The king at first refused to subscribe to the conditions; but Sir Richard, with a spirit that cannot be sufficiently applauded, instantly informed his majesty that he must take his own life first; for if he lived he would certainly replace the Welsh chieftain in his strong hold again. The king was too well acquainted with the value of Sir Richard’s services and scrupulous honour, to persist in his unjust intentions. He, therefore, ratified the conditions, and pardoned the chief. But the brave Englishman was soon after recalled from his military command.
In the civil wars of Charles I. Harlech Castle was the last that held out for the king, under the command of William Owain, who surrendered on the 9th of March, 1647.
Upon the side which faces the sea, the castle must have been impregnable; the walls are scarcely distinguishable from the rocky base, the whole being a continued surface of dark grey masonry; and the north and south sides appear nearly as inaccessible. The gateway upon the eastward side is situated between two immense rounders, resembling those of Conway and Carnarvon. The form of the castle is a square, each side measuring seventy yards, and at each corner is a round tower; but the turrets that were once attached to them the unsparing hand of Time has destroyed. Before the entrance is a deep fosse, cut in the solid rock; across which a drawbridge was constructed for security and convenience.
The principal apartments are on the eastward, or entrance, side of the inner court. The banqueting hall is opposite; the windows of which look out upon the green surface of the sea; and, on the right of the court, there formerly stood a small chapel; the ruins of which are still visible, the pointed windows remaining entire. It is impossible to conceive a finer view than is obtained from the towers of Harlech Castle. With a clear atmosphere, the monarch of the Welsh mountains may be distinctly seen, towering above his subject hills. The promontories of Lleyn, and Cricaeth Castle, are likewise objects of considerable interest; the latter forming a head to a long neck of land that juts into the sea from the Carnarvonshire coast, backed by a chain of noble mountains. This castle likewise owes its foundation to Edward I.
Harlech is one of those places the traveller leaves with regret, and a feeling that he can never see any so beautiful again; and from this place to the village of Maentwrog, the road increases in beauty every mile.
The Bay of Cardigan, expanding to the ocean, lies beneath, on the left; upon the right, wild rocks and woody hills alternately diversify the prospect, and, approaching the northern extremity of the bay, the Traeth Mawr and Traeth Bâch, two arms of the sea (the former running up to Port Madoc, and the latter into the Vale of Maentwrog), are noble objects.
The Traeth Bâch, bounded by mountains upon either side, prepares the tourist for the heavenly quietude which reigns eternally in the bosom of this earthly paradise; and about two miles from the village, near a farm house called Cemlyn, one of the most beautiful views of the valley lies stretched before him. A woody dingle opens on the right, down which the Velin Rhyd rushes impetuously, mingling its bright waters with the smoothly meandering Dwyryd, which commingling, flow gracefully into Cardigan Bay.
In front, and upon the right of the vale, lies the little picturesque village of Maentwrog, reposing at the foot of a lofty mountain. Fine green meadow lands enrich the centre of the valley, through which the river, like a silver serpent, “drags its slow length along.” Upon the opposite side is seen the mansion of Tan y Bwlch, backed by a mountain forest, and ornamented by a noble terrace in front, with pleasure grounds and walks, which the eye loves to rest upon.
The road to Festiniog, at the extreme point of the landscape, winds up the enclosing hills that fill up the back ground. To be appreciated, the view must be seen: the most glowing description would fall incalculably short of the reality.
At this spot I was accosted by a very inquisitive personage.
“Fine evening, sir.”
“Yes.”
“Walking far to-day, sir?”
“A great many gentlemen come from London to see this valley, sir.”
“I suppose so,” (trying to shake him off, but it would not do.)
“You come from London, I think, sir.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Only because a great many London people come this way, sir.”
“But do not many other travellers come this road, who are not Londoners?”
“Oh, yes, sir! but I took you for a Londoner by the cut of your coat. You’ve come a long way to-day, sir?”
“I have, but how should you know that?”
“By the condition of your boots, sir.”
This was a hit I did not anticipate; for, truth to say I was nearly bootless, at least the soles had nearly left their bodies, upper leathers I mean, and stood mortally in need of regeneration; and, as I had not provided myself with a second pair, thinking they would prove cumbersome in my knapsack, his remark was felt from toe to heel.
“You’ll want these repaired, I dare say, sir, while you remain at the Oakeley Arms—comfortable inn—capital beds, sir.”
“Why I think I shall, my friend; perhaps you can recommend me to a cobbler, in the village yonder,” (pointing to Maentwrog.)
“I am a boot maker, sir, in the village, and have cobbled, as you are pleased to call it, the soles of all strangers in need, for the last twenty years. My father performed that office before me; and I may say my all (awl) of life depends upon the gentlemen who visit our beautiful valley.”
“You are not employed then by the inhabitants of your native village?”
“I was, sir; but a new comer, who wrote over his door ‘leather cutter,’ cut me out; for I never found business enough to set up a shop, and so, sir, I am obliged to watch for customers, to keep up my trade. Those boots of yours, sir, will give me dinners for half the week, if you will only let me give them welts, soles, and heel-taps. You’ve got a fine foot, sir.”
This piece of gross flattery did not prevent my telling him to follow me to the inn, and receive the reward of his perseverance and industry.