For close behind the abbey the hills begin to rise, and through them the river Neath cleaves its way to the sea in a valley that will lead us, if we follow it, to extremely desirable things. Ultimately the road will lead us to Brecon, by no means to be despised in itself, but it is rather for the sake of the miles of moorland that lie between that we must here strike up into the hills in a way that may seem eccentric till we know what they are like.
The Vale of Neath itself is famous for its lovely scenery, its woods and mountains and river. The road is practically level as far as Glyn-Neath, where, if the day is young, and the mood enterprising, we may, instead of keeping to our rightful road, diverge for a mile or so to Pont Neath Fechan. Thence the active-minded and able-bodied may visit a series of very pretty waterfalls on the river Mellte. This entails a considerable walk of a rough kind, but it also gives one an excuse for exploring a little more of this lovely moorland country: for the best way to approach the falls is to drive up for two miles into the hills and so reach the river from above.
But probably the most usual course is, at Glyn-Neath, to turn towards Hirwain. It is after this point that the really distinctive features of this run become apparent, the features that make the road essentially one for motorists; for no railway crosses these hills, and if there be strong-limbed bicyclists who do, they cannot often be women, I think. For the road that seems to the engine of a car to be merely gently undulating, is really climbing steadily upwards for miles. Gradually the scene becomes wilder and wilder, more and more desolate, till at last we are spinning over a moor as wide as the eye can see, on a road that winds visibly before us far away into the distance. Range beyond range, the hills completely encircle us: stern, bare hills with rugged outlines, and never a tree to soften them; and in the foreground great sweeping curves covered with short grass and here and there a glowing patch of heather. Then, when the summit is reached, and Cardiff waterworks are passed, begins the descent of nine miles on a perfect surface, close under the shoulder of the Brecon Beacons. I think this gentle descent is one of the most perfect runs, from a motoring point of view, that I have ever enjoyed; and if, as is likely, there is a touch of evening softness over the great hills, few people will regret having forsaken their direct westward road for the sake of this drive. Close under the Beacons lies Brecon.
A prodigious amount of fighting has raged round this peaceful-looking little town. It was not without bloodshed that Brychan the Irishman, in the fifth century, made this country his own with complete thoroughness, supplying it not only with a new name but with a new population (for he is said to have had forty-nine children); and Brecon was one of the many places that were attacked and overcome by the army of Alfred’s warlike daughter Ethelfleda; and truly there was no lack of fighting in the days of the Normans, the Neuf-Marché, and the de Braose. It was Bernard de Neuf-Marché, or Newmarch, who built the castle, once “very large, strong, and wele mainteynid,” but now only a remnant, a bit of battlemented wall and a tower, which passed through many stormy experiences before it came to the strangest end to which, surely, a castle was ever brought. For it was the inhabitants of Brecon themselves who, feeling that they had figured sufficiently in the annals of their country, demolished their own castle. It was during the Civil War, and a siege seemed imminent. The simplest way of avoiding this was to remove the castle.
Brecon might well be tired of fighting. Newmarch had fortified it well, with walls and gates and the “keepe of the castel very large and faire,” but it required all its defences and more, for a border castle was never safe. From the family of Newmarch it passed to that of de Braose, and they lost it again, not by the sword but by the seditious spirit and shrewd tongue of a woman. Matilda de St. Valerie, the wife of William de Braose, “uttered reproachful language against King John,” which though perfectly just, was rash. She lost not only her castle, but her husband and finally her life, for Brecon became Crown property; de Braose, after slaughtering the King’s garrison, fled to Ireland; and Matilda was starved to death in prison.
BRECON.
GATEWAY KIDWELLY CASTLE.
If we spend a night in Brecon we may sit in the pretty garden of the hotel under the shadow of the last remaining wall of Newmarch’s castle. Opposite us, filling almost the whole landscape, are the solemn Beacons; just below us is the Usk and its picturesque bridge.