The Hirlas Horn.
That famous drinking-cup the 'Hirlas horn' was formerly to be seen at Stackpole, but has since been removed to Golden Grove, in Carmarthenshire. This curious treasure is mounted in silver, and is supported upon an oval plinth by two silver quadrupeds, as shown in our sketch. The latter are probably the only remaining portions of the original horn, presented by Henry of Richmond to his faithful entertainer, Dafydd ap Ievan, while resting at the castle of Llwyn Dafydd, in Cardiganshire, on his way to Bosworth Field.
Upon faring forth again, we are struck with admiration of the splendid groups of evergreen trees that adorn the vicinity of the mansion, and the trim, well-tended grounds that contrast so pleasantly with the wild luxuriance of the surrounding woodlands.
At the neighbouring farm we pick up a track diverging to the left, that leads us over a bridge spanning the lake-like estuary, affording a pretty peep of the mansion upon its bank. Thence our path winds across the breezy slopes of Stackpole Park, until we drop suddenly upon a tiny quay and cluster of cottages, stowed away beside the sea in the oddest corner imaginable, under the sheltering lee of the cliffs. Ensconced in this out-of-the-way nook, we snatch a well-earned siesta; and upon resuming our stroll we follow the coast-line, passing near a cavern that goes by the name of Lort's Cave, and catching a glimpse of the secluded cove of Barrafundle, backed by a stretch of blue sea and the bold crags of Stackpole Head.
Retracing our steps to the farm we pass near a spot where, according to a fading tradition, a certain ghostly party of headless travellers were wont to arrive, about nightfall, in a spectral coach from Tenby; each pale shade, as 'tis said, bearing his head stowed snugly away under his arm!
Another half-hour sees us into Bosheston, the remotest village of this Ultima Thule. The place has a nautical air all its own; with a row of trim coastguards' cottages, whose strip of sandy garden ground is embellished with the figure-head of some 'tall Ammiral' of bygone days. Atop of the hamlet stands the church, a primitive-looking old edifice, with a rude stone cross and broken stoup standing amidst the tombstones. The route is now all plain sailing, for we have merely to 'follow our noses' along the sandy trackway; while the salt wind deals us many a lusty buffet as we trudge seawards across the open, shelterless uplands.
Upon reaching the cliff-head, we discover a flight of rough steps, whereof, as the fable goes, no man can tell the number. Descending the winding way we find ourselves, a few minutes later, before St. Govan's Chapel.