At the corner of the churchyard stands an old deserted cottage which, after many vicissitudes, has fallen upon degenerate days. Originally the rectory, and then the poor-house of the parish, it is now a neglected ruin half hidden amidst a tangle of shrubs and climbing plants.
Most visitors to Gumfreston will notice the fine old farmhouse that rises cheek-by-jowl with the carriage-road from Tenby. If we are to believe the tradition of the countryside, this is the most ancient abode in the county. Be that as it may, the place bears traces of no mean antiquity; and is an excellent specimen of a Pembrokeshire homestead of the olden times.
Out from the main structure projects a mighty porch, running up the full height of the house, and pierced with round holes by way of windows above the main doorway. Penetrating into the interior, we enter a low-browed kitchen with open raftered ceiling and roomy settle beside the cavernous fireplace; its solid old timbers worn to a fine polish by generations of rustic shoulders. A bright wood-fire burns on the open hearth, and over it a big black kettle swings in the hollow of the chimney.
The chimney stacks cropping boldly out, haphazard as it were, lean independently this way or that in the quaintest way imaginable; and the broad gable ends are pierced with many pigeon-holes. The place is built as though intended to last for all time, and is enveloped in the customary coating of weather-stained whitewash.
We now push merrily on beneath a cloudless sky; meeting an exhilarating sea-breeze as the road mounts upwards. Luxuriant hedgerows (a rare sight hereabouts) presently give place to open downland, affording widespreading views across rich, rolling woodlands cropped close by the strong salt breezes. Upon the broad slopes of the Ridgeway groups of white farm-buildings sparkle amidst ruddy ploughfields; while far beyond them are Caldey Island and the pale blue line of the sea.
Once more a pleasant field-path beguiles our errant footsteps. Leading across an open common, it presently drops into a narrow by-lane, which winds among hazel copses and undergrowth beside the marshy course of the Ritec, where cattle are browsing leisurely, half hidden amidst lusty water-plants.
Anon our lane degenerates into a hollow watercourse fringed with the greenest of mosses and wineglass ferns; insomuch that, like Agag, we are compelled to walk delicately across the rough stepping-stones that here do duty as a footpath; while the hedgerows fairly meet overhead in a tangle of wild roses, hawthorn and fragrant honeysuckle.
Emerging all too soon upon the dusty highway, we approach the pretty village of St. Florence. Being by this time not a little 'sharp set,' we enter a modest wayside inn, and proceed to whet our appetites upon the rations that the gute verständige Hausfrau soon sets before us. Let us unfold our simple bill of fare: New-laid eggs galore; a mighty loaf of likely-looking bread, sweet from the clean wood oven; and a draught of the 'cup that'—in moderation—'cheers, but not inebriates.'
In one corner of the low-ceiled room, the glass panels of an old-fashioned cupboard reveal a heterogeneous collection of rustic crockery-ware. The narrow mantel-board is adorned with a curious centrepiece, representing Wesley preaching to a sham china clock. This chef d'œuvre is supported on either hand by china figures, rather the worse for wear, riding to market upon a pillion; of which the rickety mirror behind renders a dull and distorted replica.
From the opposite wall the bucolic face of a former proprietor stares stonily out upon us, as he grasps his doll-like daughter's arm after the manner of a pump-handle; this interesting group being flanked by the inevitable memorial cards to lost ones long since 'buried.'