Behind us, close at hand, is Beaumaris Castle; opposite to us, across the water, is “Aber of the white shells,” where Llewelyn the Great held his Court, and where his English wife died; and a little further along the Anglesey shore to our left is Llanfaes, where he buried her “with dire lamentation and no little honour,” and built over her grave a monastery that was altogether destroyed by Henry IV. Poor Joan’s coffin must have been through many changes before the sad day when it occurred to some thrifty farmer that the queer old stone trough would do finely for his cattle to drink out of. It was fortunately discovered early in the last century, and another watering-trough having been found for the cows, it was placed in safety in the garden at Baron Hill.
Beaumaris Castle does not make so brave a show as most of Edward’s fortresses; but its ten low towers and its double line of defence were no doubt formidable enough before their thick drapery of ivy gave them so soft an air. The rusty iron rings that hang on the outer wall give one of those little touches of the commonplace that bring the past so near. Edward I. cut a canal and filled the moat of Beaumaris Castle from the sea, and so the ships that brought supplies to the garrison were moored and unladed at the very walls.
The shores of the Menai have seen a vast amount of fighting of a very desperate kind, from the days when the Druids stood at bay here to the time when Edward I. bridged the strait with boats and was badly beaten by the last Llewelyn. And as we re-cross the bridge and look down at the ancient little church of Llandysilio so far below us, we may remember another scene—peaceful in itself but not unconnected with bloodshed—when on a hill near here, Archbishop Baldwin and that delightful chronicler Giraldus induced many persons, by persuasive discourses, to “take the cross.”
THE MENAI BRIDGE, FROM ANGLESEY.
CARNARVON CASTLE.
From the other side of the Menai, on the Carnarvon road, the view is, of course, comparatively tame; but we have only eight miles to travel before reaching Carnarvon, and on a level road they are soon disposed of.
It is difficult to realise at the first moment that the well-preserved, clean walls upon which one comes so suddenly in the middle of Carnarvon were raised by Edward I.; though that king himself stands above the gateway, with his hand on the sword that worked so hard. This is the greatest of his castles; he chose it for the birthplace of his son, and chose it too, apparently, to be the monument and symbol of himself. Nothing could be a more fitting emblem of the unyielding strength of the king who built castles in Wales almost as profusely as other men build them in Spain. On this, the town side of it, one is more struck with its strength than with its beauty. To see it at its best one must cross the bridge, and from the other side of the river-mouth look at the huge bulk of it; the long line of the curtain-wall reflected in the water; the great octagonal towers, with their clusters of slender turrets; the unutterable repellent air of it. There are no windows in these cold walls; no ivy or very little, to soften their austerity. Even from this side, though the water and the shipping give it picturesque surroundings, I think Carnarvon Castle is not beautiful so much as impressive. When Queen Eleanor entered it through the gate still called the Queen’s she did not see it as it stands now, for it was finished by her son, who was born in the castle soon after her arrival. A little room in the Eagle Tower is shown as his birthplace; but those who have read the local records declare it to be proved beyond doubt that the tower was without a roof till the baby in question, Edward II., put a roof on it himself.