As a memento of this incident, the marble effigy of a toad was built into a chimney-piece at Trellyfan, where it was treasured for many generations. The toad was afterwards cut away and removed from its place in the farmhouse, but eventually came into the possession of its present owner, a resident at Haverfordwest, by whose courtesy we are enabled to give a sketch of this venerable relic. The toad in question is carved in a dark-green veined marble, about as large as the palm of a woman's hand, and is reputed to be the work of an Italian artist.
Retracing our steps to Nevern, we call a halt at the Trewern Arms, a modest hostelry so near the stream that its waters play a pleasant accompaniment during the course of our homely meal. Then, with energies recruited, we plunge into a shadowy woodland path that leads to Pont-y-Baldwyn, a bridge that spans the rippling stream at a point where, according to tradition, Archbishop Baldwyn preached the crusade in company with Giraldus Cambrensis. From Pont-y-Baldwyn we follow a farm road that leads us to Hênllys, a place memorable in Pembrokeshire annals as the birthplace of that industrious chronicler and local antiquary, George Owen of Hênllys. Of his curious and fascinating work entitled 'The Description of Penbrokshire,' we have largely availed ourselves throughout these present pages. George Owen appears to have come of a stout old country stock. His father is said to have died a centenarian, after begetting a family of some twenty children. Both George Owen and his father before him held the ancient and honourable office of Lord of Kemaes.
Taking leave of this historical spot, we now drop into a hollow bowery lane that hugs the course of the Dûad Stream, and passes through the rough intricate country known as Pencelly Forest, where in olden times the lord of the manor claimed right of pannage for hogs, with the wild honey and sparhawks found in the forest. Our route now leads near Court, where Martin de Turribus, the conqueror of Kemaes, had a lordly dwelling, which, according to George Owen, 'seemeth to have been a house both of account and strengthe.'
A short half-hour later we find ourselves pacing the single 'street' of Eglwys-Erw, a picturesque village said to derive its name from the church having been built upon a plot of land measuring an acre. Fenton, on the other hand, attributes the origin of the name to a certain St. Erw, whose chapel, containing the tomb of the patron saint, used to stand in a corner of the churchyard. In olden times the peasant folk were averse to being buried in this chapel, owing to the prevalent superstition that their bodies were liable to be mysteriously ejected at dead of night, because, forsooth, St. Erw would brook no bedfellow!
Passing on between the neat, whitewashed cottages, we come to Sergeants' Inn, whose bow-windowed front stands near the upper end of the village. The somewhat unusual title of this hostelry is derived from the fact that, in earlier days, it was customary for the gentlemen of the Bar when 'on circuit' to foregather here; and the building next the inn is still called the Sessions House. At Sergeants' Inn is to be seen a small chest-lid, incised with the rather enigmatical legend: i.h.s, prestat ezze promethevs quam epimetheum, 1603.
Eglwys-Erw Church is soon disposed of; for it has been completely modernized, and bereft of any noteworthy features it may formerly have contained.
We now approach the confines of the parish of Eglwys-wen, or Whitechurch; a parish where adders are commonly reputed to be, like snakes in Iceland, absolutely unknown.
There is a curious tradition anent the yokels of Whitechurch parish. Says our trusty friend George Owen, 'In ancient times in this parish the Meanest and simplest Sort of people, yea the plain ploughmen, were Skillful at chess play; they never being dwelling out of their Parish, but unlitterate, and brought up at the plough and Harrow altogether.' One would be curious to learn how it came to pass that these simple folk, dwelling in this remote Welsh parish, acquired such an unlooked-for reputation.
But the day is waxing old, and it is still a far cry to our night's bivouac at Newport. So, putting the best foot foremost, we speed along the highroad for a couple of miles or so, until, near a huge old earthwork ycleped Castell Mawr, we diverge to the left, cross a pretty streamlet, and get a direction from a passer-by to the famous cromlech at Pentre-Evan.