Be that as it may, we now press on to Warren; whose fine old church has a massive tower and spire, of such lofty height as to form a notable landmark to pilots far away at sea. The tunnel-vaulted nave and porch, with a well-preserved cross in the churchyard, complete the tale of Warren's notabilia.
With a final glance around the wide-extended landscape, encircled by a blue stretch of the distant Channel, we shape our course over some rising ground at a place called Cold Comfort—a tantalizing misnomer this torrid afternoon. Our road then winds down the hill to a fresh, clear stream, running through water-meadows where cattle stand knee-deep in the cooling shallows; and so, crossing Stem Bridge, we enter the confines of the ancient Honour of Pembroke.
Breasting the upward slope, we pass through numerous gates athwart the little-frequented highway, which hereabouts calls for no particular notice, being chiefly remarkable for the amazing and dazzling whiteness of its coating of limestone dust, which, under the glare of the afternoon sun, recalls the parched routes of distant Italy. This brings into play our dark, smoked glasses and the weather-beaten sketching umbrella, to the huge delectation of the small fry skylarking around the wayside cottage gates.
Orielton.
By-and-by the many-windowed front of Orielton appears amidst the rolling woodlands that cluster around a pretty lakelet lying in the hollow of the vale. There is an old saying that Orielton possesses as many windows as the year has days, and as many doors as days in the month; but finding the fable tally ill with the apparent size of the mansion, we propound the conundrum to an old road-mender who explains that a large part of the building was 'throwed down' years ago, when he was 'a bit of a boy.'
At Hundleton two roads diverge near the village green, and, as 'all roads lead to Rome,' either will do for Pembroke; so we steer as straight a course as we can, the lane winding down beneath overarching trees to a secluded nook where a stream meanders, under deep, ruddy sandstone banks, to lose itself in a salt-water 'pill' that joins the Pennar River.
Traversing the long, tedious street of Monkton, our lengthening shadows point the way as we push on once more into Pembroke town; conjuring up, after the long day's tramp, rare visions of the good cheer awaiting us at the modest quarters where we come to anchor for the night.