ST. GOVAN'S CHAPEL.
This diminutive structure stands in a narrow chine between wild, tumbled crags. It is rudely constructed of weather-stained blocks of limestone, arched over with a primitive kind of vault, and is lighted by two or three narrow windows. A low doorway in the eastern wall gives access to a cell-like recess, just big enough for a man to turn round in. Here, according to a curious old legend, St. Govan sought shelter from his pagan enemies; whereupon the massy rock closed over him and hid him from his pursuers, opening again to release the pious anchorite so soon as the chase was overpassed.
Anent this queer nook, the popular superstition runs that all who can keep to the selfsame wish, while they turn around therein, will obtain their desire before the year is out—a belief that, to judge from the well-worn appearance of the rock face, must be widely entertained.
Upon the western gable rises a small bell-cot, long since bereft of its solitary bell. For it happened, 'once upon a time,' that a wicked pirate who chanced to be sailing by became enamoured of its silvery tones, and, landing with his rascally crew, plundered the sanctuary of its treasure. His success, however, was short-lived, for a mighty storm arose and overwhelmed the vessel, so that every soul aboard perished in the raging waves. Meanwhile the bereaved hermit was compensated for his loss with a miraculous stone, which, when struck, gave forth the identical tone of the cherished bell; and credulous folk to this day affirm that the neighbouring rocks ring, upon being struck, with surprising alacrity.
From the chapel we next scramble down to the 'holy well,' a neglected spot of no interest save such as tradition can lend. Yet in olden times folk were wont to gather here from far and wide, in anticipation of an instant cure for 'those thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.'
Quaint legends and superstitions such as these linger, to this day, amongst the older peasantry of this remote portion of South Pembrokeshire. Indeed, the whole locality offers a happy hunting-ground to anyone curious in the matter of old-time folk-lore.
For behold, is not this Gwlâd yr Hûd, the Christian Kymro's Land of Phantasy; which, long ere the time that history had dawned, was enveloped in Llengêl, the Veil of Mystery? Each castle-crowned headland of this rock-bound coast, and every grass-grown rath and barrow that furrows the surface of these immemorial hills, has formed the theme of some half-forgotten legend or lingering tradition, long cherished among this imaginative people.