Presently we approach the secluded haven of Lydstep, and obtain a glimpse of the noble headland called Proud Giltar, whose red-brown cliffs rise sheer from the blue waves, with Caldey Island lying in the middle distance.
Traversing the pebbly beach, we pass near to Lydstep Point, a picturesque headland curiously scarped by disused limestone quarries. We now strike inland beneath a grove of trees growing in a sheltered corner, and ascend a narrow lane to a lonely cottage at the head of the glen. Hence we plunge down a deep, rocky ravine, whose seaward face is honeycombed with the caverns for which the place is famous.
Before us, league upon league, an ocean of purest blue spreads to the remote horizon; its sunny plain shimmering beneath white summer cloudlets, and empurpled by a thousand transient shadows. Huge rocks crop out on every hand from amidst the tangle of luxuriant undergrowth that conceals the entrance to the Smugglers' Cave, a name we leave to tell its own wild tale of bygone times. Onward we scramble, down to the 'beached margent' of the shallow bay; whence a scene of rare beauty is beheld.
From the unsullied strand vast buttresses and pinnacles of lichen-clad limestone rise sheer and inaccessible; their solid ribs pierced with shadowy caverns wide as a cathedral vault and dark as Erebus, which tempt the wanderer to explore their deep, unknown recesses. Crystal-clear pools, fringed with dainty seaweeds and gemmed with starfish and sea-anemones, nestle in every hollow of the rocky shore; while shells of various tints encrust the untrodden sands.
Countless sea-birds wheel to and fro in the shadow of the cliffs, which echo their discordant cries as they clamour above the heads of the unwelcome intruders. Dusky cormorants scud with necks outstretched athwart the sparkling waves, while kittiwakes and guillemots crowd shoulder to shoulder upon the inaccessible ledges.
An hour is pleasantly spent groping amidst the hollows of a resounding cavern, or peering into the jewelled depths of some rocky sea-pool; or, anon, watching the plash of the translucent waves. At length, hungry as hawks, we beat a retreat to a sheltered nook amongst the rocks, to discuss con gusto our al-fresco lunch.
Fascinated by these entrancing prospects, we linger in this wonderland until the advancing tide hints at a speedy departure, when, scrambling once again to the upper world, we strike away for the solitary hamlet of Lydstep.
Hard by the road stand two scattered groups of dilapidated buildings, sometimes called by the imposing titles of the Palace, and the Place of Arms. In the good old times—so runs the legend—Aircol Llawhir, King of Dyfed, held his royal Court at this place.
Be that as it may, the existing structures are probably not older than the fourteenth century, and may be ascribed to those yeomen proprietors, a 'peg' above the common farmer folk, who erected these stout walls to safeguard their goods and chattels.
The return journey lies along a pleasant, open road between the Ridgeway and the cliffs; affording lovely glimpses of the rugged coast-line and the land-locked sea. At Penally a return train puts in a timely appearance, and conveys us in a few minutes back to quarters, while the declining sun sets the world aflame in the glow of its lingering rays.