NOOKS AND CORNERS OF PEMBROKESHIRE.

The Rood Screen St. Davids Cathedral

LONDON

ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROC, E.C.

1895

PREFACE.

he kindly reception accorded to my 'Nooks and Corners of Herefordshire,' both by the public and the press, has encouraged me (where, indeed, encouragement was little needed) to set forth anew upon my sketching rambles, and explore the Nooks and Corners of Pembrokeshire.

In chronicling the results of these peregrinations, I feel that I owe some apology to those whose knowledge of the Shire of Pembroke is far more thorough and intimate than my own, and upon whose preserves I may fairly be accused of poaching. I venture to plead, in extenuation, an inveterate love for exploring these unfrequented byways of my native land, and for searching out and sketching those picturesque old buildings that lend such a unique interest to its sequestered nooks and corners.

Pembrokeshire is rich in these relics of a bygone time, but for one reason or another they do not appear to have received the attention they certainly deserve. Few counties can boast anything finer of their kind than the mediæval castles of Pembroke, Manorbere and Carew; while St. Davids Cathedral and the ruined Palace of its bishops, nestling in their secluded western vale, form a scene that alone is worth a visit to behold. No less remarkable in their way are the wonderful old crosses, circles and cromlechs, which remind the traveller of a vanished race as he tramps the broad fern-clad uplands of the Precelly Hills. It is a notable fact that 'he who runs may read,' in the diversified character of its place-names, an important and interesting chapter of Pembrokeshire history. The south-western portion of the county, with the Saxon 'tons' of its Teutonic settlers, is as English as Oxfordshire, and hence has acquired the title of 'Little England beyond Wales.' On the other hand, the northern and eastern districts are as Welsh as the heart of Wales; and there, as the wayfarer soon discovers for himself, the mother-tongue of the Principality is the only one 'understanded of the people.'

Although Pembrokeshire cannot pretend to lay claim to such striking scenery as the North Wallian counties display, yet its wind-swept uplands and deep, secluded dingles have a character all their own; while the loftier regions of the Precelly Hills, and the broken and varied nature of the seaboard, afford many a picturesque prospect as the traveller fares on his way.

In compiling the following notes I have availed myself of Fenton's well-known work on Pembrokeshire, and of the writings of George Owen of Hênllys; I have consulted the records of that prolific chronicler, Gerald de Barri; Bevan's 'History of the Diocese of St. Davids; and Jones and Freeman's exhaustive work on St. Davids Cathedral; besides various minor sources of local information which need not be specified here.

In conclusion, I take this opportunity to tender my sincere thanks to those friends and acquaintances whose ready help and advice so greatly facilitated my task, while at the same time enhancing the pleasure of these sketching rambles amidst the Nooks and Corners of Pembrokeshire.

H. THORNHILL TIMMINS.
Harrow, 1895.

CONTENTS.

INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS.

Map of Pembrokeshire

[CHAPTER I.]

A GENERAL SURVEY. THE KING'S TOWN OF TENBY.

away beyond the many-folding hills of Brecon and Glamorgan, whose hollow 'cwms' are seamed with smoke from many a pit and furnace: far away beyond the broad uplands and fertile straths where Towey and Teivy seek the sea; the ancient shire of Pembroke thrusts forth, against the western main, its bold and rugged coast-line. From Strumble Head to Caldey, the grim primæval rocks that guard these storm-beaten shores bear the full brunt of the Atlantic gales upon their craggy bastions; which, under the ceaseless influence of time and tempest, have assumed endless varieties of wild, fantastic outline and rich harmonious colouring.

A weather-beaten land is this, where every tree and hedgerow tells, in horizontal leeward sweep, of the prevalent 'sou'-wester.' Few hills worthy the name break these wide-expanded landscapes, above whose 'meane hills and dales' one graceful mountain range rises in solitary pre-eminence. Stretching athwart the northern portion of the county, the shapely peaks of the Precelly Mountains dominate every local prospect, attaining in Moel Cwm Cerwyn a height of 1,760 feet, and throwing out westwards the picturesque heights of Carn Englyn; whence the range finally plunges seawards in the bold buttress of Dinas Head, and the wild and rugged hills of Pencaer.

The inferior heights of Treffgarn and Plumstone 'mountain,' whose singular crags recall the tors of Cornwall, form a quaint feature in the prospect during the otherwise tedious drive to St. Davids. Perched upon the westernmost spur of these hills, the lonely peel-tower of Roch Castle looks out across the wind-swept plains of old Dewisland to the fantastic peaks of Carn Llidi and Pen-beri, whose ancient rocks rise abruptly from the ocean.

Down from the broad, fern-clad shoulders of Precelly flow the few Pembrokeshire streams that approach the dignity of rivers. Hence the twin floods of Eastern and Western Cleddau, rising far asunder at opposite ends of the range, meander southwards in widely-deviating courses through the heart of the county, to unite beneath the walls of Picton Castle, and merge at last into the tidal waters of Milford Haven.

Westwards flows the little river Gwaen, circling through a picturesque vale beneath the shadow of Carn Englyn, and emerging from its secluded inland course upon the narrow, land-locked harbour of Fishguard. Towards the north a group of streamlets unite to form the Nevern River, which flows, amidst some of the most charming scenery in the county, through the village of that ilk. After passing beneath the luxuriant groves of Llwyngwair, the Nevern stream enters a sandy bay and bears the modest commerce of Newport to the waterside hamlet of Parrog.

The Newgale Brook sweeps around Roch Castle, and enters St. Bride's Bay through a broad rampart of shingle and sand. This latter stream has from very early times formed the boundary between the ancient provinces of Dewisland and Rhôs; and to this day the Newgale Brook draws a line of demarcation between an English and a Welsh speaking people. Upon its left bank lies Rhôs, a portion of the district known as 'Little England beyond Wales,' with its Saxon speech and Norman fortress of Roch; while all to westward stretches venerable Dewisland, Welsh now as ever in tongue and in title.

The Solva River, emerging from a deep and narrow 'cwm,' forms one of the most picturesque harbours upon the coast—a tempting nook for the artist. Lastly, the little Allan Water, rising amidst those curious hills which overlook St. Davids, meanders past open, gorse-clad commons and marshlands abloom with the golden flag. Thenceforth the Allan winds around the ruins of the Bishop's palace, and finally loses itself in a tiny haven frequented by a few trading craft and small coastwise colliers.

Deep into the bluff outline of this sea-girt land, old Ocean encroaches by two important inlets of widely different character. As the wayfarer bound to St. Davids approaches his destination, the tedium of the long coach-drive is at last relieved by the welcome outlook across a broad expanse of sea. This is St. Bride's Bay, whose waters sweep inland past the ancient city for a distance of ten miles or so, having the large islands of Ramsey and Skomer lying upon either horn of the bay.

Tradition tells that, 'once upon a time,' a fair country studded with villages and farmsteads flourished where now the ocean rolls; and traces of submerged forests about Newgale, and elsewhere within the compass of the bay, suggest a possible grain of truth in the local fable.

A few miles farther down the coast the famous estuary of Milford Haven opens seaward between the sheltering heights of St. Anne's Head, and the long, crooked peninsula of Angle. Wonderful are the ramifications of this magnificent waterway, within whose spacious roadstead the whole British navy might with ease find anchorage; while its land-locked tidal reaches bear a modest local traffic to many a remote inland district, calling up memories of savours nautical beside the grass-grown quays of Pembroke and 'Ha'rfordwest.'

Well might Imogen marvel why Nature should have singled out 'this same blessed Milford' for such a priceless endowment, exclaiming:

'Tell me how Wales was made so happy as
To inherit such a Haven.'

The quaint author of 'Polyolbion' no less enthusiastically remarks:

'So highly Milford is in every mouth renown'd,
Noe Haven hath aught good, that in her is not found;'

while lastly, not to be outdone, George Owen, the old Pembrokeshire chronicler, declares his beloved 'Myllford Havon' to be the 'most famouse Porte of Christendome.'

Ever since those legendary days when St. Patrick sailed for the Emerald Isle upon the traditional millstone, this incomparable haven has continued to be a favourite point of departure for the opposite shores of Ireland; and several historical personages appear at intervals in the annals of local events. Hence, for example, Henry II. sailed away upon his conquest of old Erin; while in the Fourth Henry's reign a large body of French troops disembarked upon these shores, to co-operate in the wars of 'the irregular and wild Glendower.' Yet another famous individual, ycleped Henry ap Edmund ap Owain ap Meredydd ap Tydwr, better known as Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, landed at Milford Haven in the year of grace 1485, to set forth upon the historical campaign which won for him a crown on Bosworth field. Here, again, the ubiquitous Oliver Cromwell embarked with an army of some 15,000 men, to carry his victorious arms against the rebellious Irish; and hence, in these piping times of peace, the mail-boats sail at frequent intervals to the seaports of the Emerald Isle.

Penetrating thus deeply into the country, one crooked arm of the great estuary 'creketh in' beneath the stately ruins of Carew Castle, in such wise as to partially 'peninsulate' a remote but interesting portion of South Pembrokeshire, which is still further isolated by the low range of the Ridgeway, between Pembroke and Tenby. This little district contains within its limited compass a wonderful variety of ruined castles, ancient priories, quaint old parish churches and curious, fortified dwelling-houses of the English settlers.

Nestling in the more sheltered hollows, or clinging limpet-like to the storm-swept uplands, these characteristic structures arouse the wayfarer's interest as he paces the short, crisp turf rendered sweet by the driven sea-spray. Occasionally he will set his course by some prominent church steeple, which at the same time affords a landmark to the passing mariner as he sails around the wild and iron-bound headlands of the southern coast.

Throughout the length and breadth of Pembrokeshire, the constant recurrence of camps, cromlechs, hut-circles and other prehistoric remains, points to the existence of an extremely ancient people, whose origin is involved in the mists of unrecorded antiquity. These primæval monuments, seemingly old as the bleak hills they crown, suggest many an insoluble conundrum to the curious visitor, who, gazing in wonder upon their weather-beaten yet indestructible masses, disposes of the archaic enigma as best he may by exclaiming: 'There were giants in those days!'

Coming down to the comparative terra-firma of historic times, we find, at the period of the Roman invasion, a Celtic race called the Demetæ dwelling in the district of which our county forms a portion. The masters of the world appear to have pushed their way to the western seaboard, where, according to tradition, they established their colony of Menapia beneath the shelter of the headland known to Ptolemy as Octopitarum; connecting it, according to their custom, by the roadway of Via Julia with their base at Muridunum, or Carmarthen; while the probably still older road, called Via Flandrica, or Fordd Fleming, afforded a route across the mountains to the north.

Taking another lengthy stride across the intervening centuries, we may trace the footsteps of the Norman invaders. Under the leadership of Arnulph de Montgomery, they overran these newly-conquered lands, and established themselves in those great strongholds of Pembroke, Manorbere, Carew, Haverfordwest and Roch, whose dismantled walls still dominate the surrounding country.

The wild Welsh proving inconveniently restive, that astute monarch Henry I. imported a colony of sturdy Flemings to assist in keeping order upon these distant march-lands; an event which exerted a marked influence upon the course of local history. These thrifty settlers received further aid from the Second Henry, and settled down to cultivate the land wrested from the Celtic peasantry.

The natives, however, still continued to behave in a very unneighbourly fashion, 'making,' as we are told, 'verie sharpe warres upon the Flemings, sometimes with gaine, sometimes with losse;' so that they were obliged to build for themselves those strong, fortified dwelling-houses whose massive remains are so frequently met with throughout the southern parts of the county.

In course of time the language of the immigrants superseded the ancient tongue of Celtic Dyfed, and thus that portion of the district comprised within the hundreds of Castlemartin and Rhôs acquired the title of 'Little England beyond Wales,' whose Saxon place-names, such as Johnston, Williamston, Hodgeston and the like, contrast so strikingly with the universal Llan-this, that and the other, still common throughout the upper country.

We have already had occasion to refer to Henry of Richmond's famous visit to Milford, and to recall the expeditions of Cromwell and other prominent personages from that noble haven to Ireland. The French 'invasion' of Wales in 1797 will be referred to in dealing with the scenes of that notorious exploit: and in the course of our narrative we shall touch upon various other historical incidents connected with the nooks and corners of this fascinating county.

Owing to the prevalence of westerly breezes from the open Atlantic, tempered by the beneficent influence of the Gulf Stream, Pembrokeshire is blessed with a mild and remarkably equable climate. Hence the air is at the same time both dry and bracing, particularly in the southern portion of the county, where, in sheltered situations, the myrtle, fuchsia and syringa flourish al fresco all the year round.

Nothing can exceed the luxuriance of the vegetation in the spacious demesne of Stackpole Court, where, sheltered from the strong winter gales that sweep across these gorse-clad uplands, the oak, ash, beech, ilex, sycamore and other forest trees, 'crowd into a shade' beside the lily-strewn meres whose placid waters mirror their spreading branches. This favoured region boasts, we believe, an average temperature of about 50° Fahr., and it has been shown by careful analysis that, taking one season with another, there is little to choose between the average climates of Madeira and of Tenby.

These favourable conditions do not, of course, obtain to the same degree in the north; where rough winds occasionally sweep down from the Precelly Mountains, driving keenly across the open country and retarding the vegetation. Nevertheless there are sheltered nooks around Newport and Fishguard where the eucalyptus, mulberry and fig-tree attain a goodly stature.

Sun-warmed spots such as these form, however, mere oases of verdure amidst the rolling, wind-swept uplands of the interior; where the hardier trees alone rear their stunted forms above the rough stone walls which serve in place of hedgerows, or cluster around a group of solid, one-storied cottages, whose low walls, deep roofs and vast, bulging chimneys are overspread with one universal coating of dazzling whitewash; 'to keep out the weather,' as the country-folk will tell you—very clean, no doubt, but the reverse of picturesque in appearance.

The native style of building is well exhibited in the ancient parish churches, more especially in those towards the southern seaboard of the county, which are distinguished by a rugged simplicity entirely in keeping with the stern and sombre character of the surrounding landscape. Of architecture there is but little; such beauty as the edifice can boast having to be sought in the picturesque grouping of its rambling gables beneath the tall, square, fortress-like tower; and the quaint, unlooked-for character of the cavernous interior.

The nave is frequently covered with a rude stone barrel vault, from which low vaulted transepts open out like cells on either hand, whence vast 'squints,' forming narrow passages, branch diagonally into the chancel. Low arches, sometimes pointed, sometimes of a curious flat shape and almost invariably devoid of mouldings, open into the aisles, which are lighted by lancet windows of simple but good design; while sometimes a roomy porch or handsome sedilia adds a touch of distinction to an otherwise homely interior.

We may instance, as typical examples of these sacred edifices, the churches of Gumfreston, St. Florence, Castlemartin and, par excellence, of Manorbere. A handsomer development may be studied in the parish churches of Tenby, Carew and Hodgeston, and the fine old priory church of Monkton. The graceful thirteenth-century pillars and arches of St. Mary's, Haverfordwest, are unusually ornate for this locality, and are only excelled by the varied and beautiful architecture of St. Davids Cathedral itself. There can be little doubt that the hard, intractable nature of the local limestone is in some degree responsible for the primitive characteristics of many of these churches; for, despite their archaic appearance, they are rarely older than early thirteenth-century times.

Beautiful in their decay are the time-honoured ruins of the episcopal palaces of Lamphey and St. Davids; whose mellow-toned walls with their singularly graceful arcades mark the constructive genius of Bishop Gower, the Wykeham of the West.

The numerous mediæval castles, whose ruined walls and ivy-mantled towers so frequently meet the eye, form a striking feature in many a picturesque scene; from the rugged bastions which cluster beneath the mighty keep of Pembroke, and the many-windowed front of lordly Carew, to the lonely peel-tower of Roch and the remote and isolated block-houses which keep ward around the coast.

Having thus obtained a general coup d'œil of our field of action, we will proceed to explore at our leisure the nooks and corners of this pleasant countryside; so, with this purpose in view, we now make our way to that highly-favoured watering-place, the 'King's town of Tenby.'

Becalmed Off Tenby

One clear, calm evening in May of this drouthy year of grace 1893, we emerge dusty and sun-baked from the tropical recesses of the 'tunnel express,' alight at Tenby Station, and wend our way through the streets of that clean little town to seaside quarters overlooking a picturesque bay, where some fishing-craft lie quietly at anchor off the harbour mouth. Towards sundown a miniature fleet of trawlers sweeps gracefully landwards around the Castle Hill, looking for all the world like a flight of brilliant butterflies; their russet sails glowing in the warm light of the sun's declining rays with every hue from gold to ruddy purple, recalling memories of gorgeous scenes on far-away Venetian lagoons. Hailing from many a haven between Milford and strong-savoured Brixham, these handy little vessels ply their calling around our south-western shores; pushing their ventures, when opportunity serves, to the North Sea fishing-grounds, and even to the remoter shores of Scotland. The visitor curious in such matters soon learns to distinguish between the well-found Brixham trawler and the handy sloop from Milford, certain cabalistic letters painted upon the parti-coloured sails denoting the port where, according to custom, each boat is respectively registered.

TENBY.

Tenby town is in many respects happy in what a local historian quaintly terms its 'approximation.' Turning its back upon the quarter whence blow the strongest gales, and sheltered by the high ground of the Ridgeway, that part of the town most frequented by visitors faces south by east across the land-locked waters of Carmarthen Bay.

Hence a pleasant view is obtained of the opposite coast of Gower and the more distant highlands of North Devon; while Caldey Island lies like a breakwater against the waves of the open Channel. As shrewd old Leland observes: 'Tinbigh Town standith on a main Rokke, but not very by; and the Severn Se so gulfith in about hit that, at the ful Se, almost the third part of the Toun is inclosid with water.'

Tenby can boast a fair sprinkling of good hotels and lodging-houses. The town is made further attractive as a place of residence by a well-appointed club, a circulating library, excellent public baths and a small museum of local interest. Last, but by no means least amongst its attractions, Nature has provided a broad expanse of firm, dry sands, much appreciated by children and bathers at holiday times.

With a fair train-service upon the railway, good carriages and boats for hire, and steamboats calling at intervals, Tenby affords a convenient centre whence to explore the remoter recesses of South Pembrokeshire, for few and far between are the resting-places for the wayfarer in that rather inaccessible region.

Dynbych-y-Pysgod—the Little Town of Fish—appears to have been a place of some importance from very early times. By the middle of the twelfth century we find the town in the hands of the Flemish soldiery; and subsequently disasters came thick and threefold upon the devoted inhabitants. During the reign of Henry II., Maelgwyn ap Rhys, a person who is euphemistically described as 'of civil behaviour and honesty in all his actions,' ascertaining that many of the townsfolk were absent at the foreign wars, made a sudden onslaught, set fire to the ill-fated town, and burnt it to the ground. Less than a century later the place was again taken and destroyed by Llewelyn ap Grufydd: and after a further respite of about 200 years, the notorious Owain Glyndwr appeared before the walls, laid siege to, and made himself master of the little Western seaport.

Notwithstanding these misfortunes, 'the King's town of Tenby' henceforth grew and prospered unmolested. In 1402 Tenby was made a corporate town; and by the middle of the fifteenth century it had already become a centre of considerable trade and enterprise, encompassed by strong stone walls and towers built by Earl William de Valentia, Lord of Pembroke. The town walls are said to have been rebuilt by one Thomas White, the scion of a famous burgher family, who was Mayor of this ancient borough in 1457.

When Leland passed this way in the reign of bluff King Hal, he found the 'Toun strongeli waullid and well gatid, everi Gate having hys Port collis ex solide ferro.' 'But,' says Fenton, writing in the early part of the present century, 'it was left for Queen Elizabeth, who was a great benefactress of the town in general, and whose initials are still extant over parts of the town walls, to contribute that strength and perfection to them which the present remains are a striking proof of.' Earl William (who appears to have been a generous patron of the town) granted the first charter of liberties, which was afterwards renewed and confirmed by successive reigning sovereigns. Several of these interesting documents are still in the possession of the Corporation, including an illuminated charter of Richard III.'s reign, and another granted by Edward VI., which is enriched with a quaint, archaic portrait of that youthful monarch.

Tenby also boasts a handsome pair of silver maces, presented to the town by Charles II. They are about 2 feet in length, and are emblazoned with the royal arms, the arms of Tenby, and other appropriate devices, with the inscription 'Rice Borrow Maior, 1660.' The upper portion of the head is formed as a moveable lid, so that the mace could be used upon festive occasions as a loving-cup.

Since those turbulent days of its earlier career, Tenby has played the modest rôle of a town without a history, and has happily combined the avocations of a fishery town with the seductions of a modern watering-place.

The Chancel of St. Mary's Church Tenby

Turning out into the steadfast sunshine, we now thread our way amid the intricacies of the older byways to the 'faire Paroche chirche,' whose steeple, soaring high aloft, appears a landmark to mariners far out at sea. Dedicated to St. Mary, this church is one of the largest and handsomest in the county, and is unrivalled in the beauty and interest of its monuments.

Foremost amongst these are the twin marble monuments in St. Anne's Chapel, which figure in the foreground of our sketch. Here lie buried several distinguished members of that famous family, the Whites of Tenby, which has given many worthy citizens to the town.

Beneath the right-hand tomb rests Thomas White, merchant and sometime Alderman of Tenby; whose recumbent effigy, habited in the distinctive costume of his calling, adorns the monument. He it was who enabled Henry, Earl of Richmond, to escape after the battle of Tewkesbury, by concealing him in his house at Tenby until such time as he could ship him safely off in one of his own vessels to France. In gratitude for this yeoman service the Earl, upon his accession to the throne, presented his trusty friend with the lease of all the Crown lands around the town.

The adjacent monument, which closely resembles its neighbour, records another member of the White family. Both these tombs are enriched with figures, in panels of bold relief, with a running inscription in mediæval character carved upon the margin.

Our attention is next attracted by the gaily-tinted effigy of William Risam, who, clad in aldermanic robes, kneels beneath a canopy built into the chapel wall. The figure is coloured in such a life-like manner that, as the story goes, a Parliamentarian soldier fired at the supposed enemy; in witness whereof a bullet-hole may be discerned above the head of the effigy.

Near at hand lies the last of that ancient family the Vaughans, of Dunraven in South Wales; a man who, having run through his patrimony at breakneck pace, allowed the ancestral mansion to fall into ruin, and betook himself to a lonely turret upon the seaward cliffs. Here he is said to have spent his time in showing false lights along the coast, in order to lure passing vessels ashore and enrich himself by the plunder of their cargoes. One stormy night, during one of these sinister exploits, the body of his only son was washed ashore at his feet; when, overcome by this ominous catastrophe, he quitted the neighbourhood, withdrew from all intercourse with his fellow-creatures, and ended his days in seclusion at Tenby.

Standing upon the chapel floor hard by, we espy a fine old fifteenth-century church bell bearing in black-letter characters the words sancta anna, with the initials R. T. This is the ancient sanctus-bell of this same chapel of St. Anne, which has descended to its present lowly position from the exterior of the tower, having been hung there, as is supposed, long years ago by Thomas ap Rhys, of Scotsborough, a descendant of the famous Rhys ap Thomas who played so important a part in the establishment of Henry VII. upon the throne. The memory of this worthy knight is kept evergreen by the gaudy and rather pretentious-looking monument seen on the farther wall. There he kneels, with folded hands, arrayed in ruffles and trunk-hose; his 'better half,' who is represented as of gigantic proportions, reposing uncomfortably upon her side; while in panels beneath appear the sons and daughters, arranged in symmetrical gradation. A glance at the sketch will show the pretty contrast afforded by the diversified forms of the arches; while the lofty flight of steps ascending to the chancel, and the dark timbers of the roof supported by well-carved angels upon massive brackets, enhance the effect of the handsome interior.

RUINS OF ST. MARY'S PRIORY AT TENBY

Quitting the church by its massive south porch, we pause beneath the spreading elms that adorn the churchyard to admire a singular group of arches, set in a crumbling fragment of ruined wall, whose gray, time-worn stones are abloom with bright tufts of pink valerian. These appear to be the sole remains of a house of Carmelite nuns, established a.d. 1399 by one John de Swynemore; and so graceful are these richly-moulded arches that we can but regret that more of the structure has not been spared to us. It is probable that these ruins are of coëval date with the adjacent western doorway of the church, which has a peculiar ogee arch surmounted with the following inscription in Gothic characters: benedictus deus in donis suis.

Rambling haphazard around the little town, such names as Frog Street, Crackwell Street and the like, tickle our fancy as a quaint relief to modern street nomenclature, which, usually devoid of originality, too often supplants local names racy of the soil.

A BIT OF OLD TENBY

A sudden turn down a narrow lane, hanging, as it were, upon the steep hillside, reveals glimpses of old-world Tenby which beguile our wandering steps from the hard highway.

At a secluded corner of these by-lanes a gray and weather-beaten old house stands, forsaken and neglected, amid the meaner dwellings that encompass it. The well-proportioned windows and pointed doorway which adorn the massive front lend a certain air of faded dignity, as though the old place had once 'seen better days'; while above the high-pitched roof peers one of those curious, rounded erections called hereabouts 'Flemish' chimneys.

In conjunction with the ancient gables at the rear of the adjacent saddler's shop, this interesting old structure forms one of the most picturesque relics yet remaining of the Tenby of 'auld lang syne.'

Following hence the groups of stalwart fisher-folk as, with large air of leisure, they stroll adown the hill, we soon find ourselves upon the 'Peere made for Shyppes' which encloses the little harbour. Here stood in olden times the seamen's chapel of St. Julian, which was subsequently converted into a bath-house: thus 'cleanliness comes next to godliness'; and a pretty modern chapel now stands beside the quay.

Close at hand, in a sheltered cove, the lifeboat lies in wait beside a rudimentary iron 'peere,' which threatens to stretch its spindle shanks athwart the comely crescent of the bay, beneath the fortress-crowned islet of St. Catherine.

The adjacent Castle Hill is crowned by a lofty watch-tower, some ruined outworks of the ancient city walls, and a handsome marble statue of the late Prince Consort, of heroic size: lower down stands a small but well-arranged museum, which contains a representative collection of local natural history, besides valuable cases of shells, coins, etc.

Old Houses at Tenby

Archæologists will notice with interest the small alabaster group of St. George and the Dragon, rescued from a cottage in course of demolition at Tenby; and a fine specimen of a quern, used for grinding corn, found near Popton. The exterior is fashioned into the form of a human face, and as it is known that only the earlier examples were ornamented, this quern is considered to be of very high antiquity.

The seaward face of the hill is laid out in winding walks, with sheltered seats at intervals, where visitors and townsfolk congregate upon the sunny slopes to indulge in a spell of dolce far niente, or to enjoy the wide panorama of land and sea that lies outspread around.

THE WALLS OF TENBY TOWN

The return to the town may be varied by strolling along the broad, firm sands beneath curiously contorted rocky cliffs, aglow just now with masses of the white and red valerian. Clambering up a long flight of steps, we soon find ourselves abreast of the massive walls which in olden times protected the town upon its landward side, and terminated upon the precipitous edge of the cliff in the quaint, ivy-clad tower that rises right here before us.

These ancient walls are still (in spite of hard treatment in bygone times from vandalistic hands) in a fair state of preservation; and form, with their boldly-projecting towers and broken battlements, the most striking and picturesque feature of the town. They are perhaps seen to the best advantage from near the north-west corner, whence a general coup d'œil is gained of their respective sides.

Sauntering under the shady trees on the site of the ancient moat, we pass beside the south-west front, to which, as by far the most complete, we now devote our attention. Here we notice how the sturdy round tower which guards the converging angle spreads boldly out at its base; anon we observe another tower of similar form, through which the easy-going authorities of some past time have actually permitted a huge opening to be hewn to admit the passage of a ropewalk!

St. George's Gate. Tenby.

A stone's-throw farther on rises the broad bulk of the great St. George's Bastion, marking the entrance to one of the principal town gates, and pierced with five archways, in two of which the grooves for the portcullis may still be discerned. Overhead a gangway ran around the inner face of the wall, which is provided with lancet-holes for the use of archers, and is crowned with the usual corbelled battlements. Altogether this fine old structure presents a most picturesque appearance; its ancient archways being frequently enlivened by groups of market folk passing to and fro, while the rough gray stones of its venerable walls are wreathed with masses of flowering plants. A number of shabby dwellings which encumbered the approach have recently been swept away; one dilapidated old building with curious circular chimneys (said to have been used as a lazar-house) alone being spared.

Beyond St. George's Bastion rises another ivy-mantled tower, near which we espy a stone panel let into the wall, bearing the superscription 'A^o 1588, E. R.' Being interpreted, this inscription records that Tenby walls were repaired in the thirtieth year of good Queen Bess's reign.

Farther on the wall is pierced with a wide open archway, and terminates abruptly upon the precipitous edge of the cliff in a square, battlemented turret bearing a strong family likeness to the church towers of this locality. The walls seem to have been pierced with a double row of lancet-holes for the use of archers, the upper tier being commanded by a gangway carried upon pointed arches, while the lower row is accessible from the ground.

The day waxing warm and sunny, we now make for the harbour again, and charter one of the numerous well-found pleasure-boats which lie in wait for visitors. An hour's pleasant sail over a sea blue as the Mediterranean, and we land upon the shores of Caldey Island, like the Old Man of the Sea, pick-a-back fashion astride the boatman's back.

'This island,' says George Owen, 'is verie fertile and yeldeth plentie of corne; all their plowes goe with horses, for oxen the inhabitantes dare not keepe, fearing the purveyors of the pirattes as they themselves told me, whoe often make their provisions there by theire owne comission, and comonlie to the good contentment of the inhabitantes, when conscionable theefes arrive there.'

A grassy track, winding up the sloping bank amidst gorse and bracken, now leads across a stream and beside a few quarrymen's cottages to a dejected-looking chapel. In a neglected corner of the interior we discover the object of our visit—to wit, a recumbent oblong stone inscribed with certain archaic characters, which have been rendered as follows: 'In the Name both of the Cross itself and of Him who was fixed thereon, pray for the soul of Catuoconus.' Certain lines of the character known as Ogham may also be discerned upon the sides or edges of this hoary monolith.

THE PRIORY. CALDEY ISLAND.

Striking across the open fields, with the tall white lighthouse for our guide, we turn aside to visit an old farmstead that contains the scanty ruins of Caldey Priory. This venerable foundation owes its origin to Robert, son of Martin de Turribus, and was annexed as a cell to the abbey of St. Dogmaels, near Cardigan.

A wise old saw which observes 'There is nothing new but what has been forgotten,' may find a verification amidst such neglected nooks as these; whose long-forgotten relics of a bygone age greet the wayfarer with all the charm of novelty.

Above the adjacent farmyard premises rises the quaint little weather-beaten tower of the old priory chapel; its slender spire leaning perilously awry, its stonework fast crumbling to decay. From the summit of the tower hangs the crazy bell, with rusty chain and silent clapper. One daintily-fashioned window is roughly blocked with brickwork, another gives entrance to a pigeon-cot.

Within the adjoining house we are shown a fine old vaulted kitchen, with deep-browed windows, and rude stone settle along the wall. Thence we penetrate to a cool, dark chamber exhibiting traces of a gracefully proportioned window enclosed by a pointed arch, long since blocked up.

Retracing our steps beneath hedges of flowering fuchsia, we return by breezy, fern-clad commons and well-tilled fields to the landing-place; where an amphibious-looking individual is laying out lobster-pots among the weed-strewn rocks.

Caldey has ever been famed for the excellence of its oyster fisheries; not to speak of the crabs and lobsters caught around its rocky shores, which are commended by an Elizabethan writer who appears to have been an authority on such matters. 'The Lapster,' says this enthusiast, 'sett whole on the table, yieldeth Exercise, Sustenance and Contemplation; exercise in cracking his legs and Clawes, sustenance by eating the Meate thereof, and contemplation by beholding the curious Work of his complete Armour, both in hue and workmanship.'

'And the Crabbe,' continues the same writer, 'doth sensiblye feele the Course of the Moone; fillinge and emptyeing yt selfe with the encrease and decrease thereof, and therefore ys saied to be best at the full Moone.'

Once more afloat, we are speedily wafted past the cave-pierced cliffs of St. Margaret's Isle, and across the placid waters of Caldey Sound. Running beneath the fortress-crowned St. Catherine's Rock, we round the Castle Hill and disembark in Tenby's sheltered haven.

Though our rambles about its old streets have by no means exhausted the curious nooks of Tenby, yet we have all broad Pembrokeshire lying as it were at our doors, and waiting only for an 'open sesame' to disclose its most interesting features. By far the larger number of these lie within a measurable distance of Tenby, whence access is easily obtained to them by road, rail, or boat. Moreover, by taking counsel with the local time-table, the visitor may fare forth upon his way at a conscionable hour of the morning and be back again at Tenby ere nightfall supervenes.

The curious old chest figured at the foot of this chapter formed the ancient treasury of Tenby. It is enriched with sixteenth-century German ironwork of very quaint design—witness the ladies pulling the elephants' 'noses,'—and has seven bolts and two padlocks. The keys of these latter were held by the two town bailiffs, while the Mayor was responsible for those of the main lock and of the tiller inside. After having been sold as old iron some five-and-thirty years ago, this interesting relic was rescued by a Tenby resident, through whose courtesy we are enabled to show the accompanying sketch.

The Ancient Treasury of Tenby.

[CHAPTER II.]

ROUND ABOUT THE RIDGEWAY.

'The year's at the spring
And day's at the dawn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in the heaven—
All's right with the world!'
R. B.

fine May morning, after a night of soft, seasonable rain, we are up betimes and away into the green borderland that encompasses Tenby town upon its western side. Low, hazy clouds drift athwart the landscape, with glints of sunlight touching it into life here and there; a gentle breeze rustling the trees and bowing the growing crops before it.

A cottager, smoking a morning pipe on the bench before his door, gives us the sele of the day as we pass, and would fain spin a yarn about the 'craps' and the drought; but, turning a deaf ear to his lucubrations, we go our ways rejoicing, and ere long find ourselves skirting a lush green tract of marshland, whose dark levels are gay with yellow flags, marsh marigolds and feathery 'ragged Robin.'

Diverging to the right and plunging into a grove of aged ash-trees, we soon emerge upon an open glade where stand the crumbling walls of an ancient house called Scotsborough. This was the ancestral home of the family of Ap Rhys, who repose in Tenby Church beneath the monument we have already visited; and a ramble amidst the intricate passages and loopholed chambers of the ruined mansion, with their huge chimneys and cavernous ovens, shews that it was erected at a time when a man's house still continued to do duty, at a pinch, as his castle. Having explored this picturesque old pile, we hark back once more to the road. Trudging along a hollow, shady lane past a pretty mill, we now strike into a secluded pathway which drops steeply down beside a prattling rill, beneath overarching trees whose interlacing branches fret the greensward with a mantle of shadowy verdure.

Overhead the fleecy clouds are swept by the breeze into graceful forms suggestive of sea-birds' wings; while the sunny air is musical with the song of birds and the distant bleating of sheep, and sweet with the scent of chestnut and elder bloom. A newly-fledged Burnet butterfly tries his smart speckled wings; whilst a passing 'Blue' out-rivals the hue of the dainty speedwell in the hedgerow; which peeps from amidst a tangle of pushing young bracken, hooded 'lords and ladies,' bluebells and wild geranium.

Gumfreston Church

Here in this secluded nook, 'the world forgetting, by the world forgot,' nestles the venerable church of Gumfreston; its ivy-mantled tower scarce rivalling the lofty trees which screen it from the outer world. Approached by footpaths only, a rustic wicket gives access to the churchyard; crossing which we enter the lowly edifice by an arched doorway that opens into a roomy old porch of primitive construction, completely overgrown with ivy. This was in all probability the original church, and is entirely built of stone; the roof, after the manner of the older churches of the district, being fashioned into a simple kind of vault. Upon either side is a rude stone bench; and a stoup, or font, of archaic design is built into the wall.

Passing through the inner door, some slight traces of damaged fresco which appear upon the whitewashed wall may, by a vigorous exercise of the imagination, be conjectured to represent the martyrdom of St. Lawrence, the patron saint of Gumfreston Church. Something roughly resembling a tennis-racket may pass for the martyr's gridiron; while a gigantic foot, and certain objects vaguely suggesting a pair of scissors and a comb, are faintly discernible amidst a number of other half-obliterated details.

A curious recess which bulges outwards from the same wall contains an old stone font; and the small adjacent transept is connected with the chancel by one of those singular 'squint' passages peculiar to this locality.

An unusual effect is produced by the low, simple arch—scarce more than 5 feet wide—between the chancel and the nave, which has a shallow, pointed recess on either side of it, doubtless designed to hold figures.

CHURCH PLATE at GUMFRESTON

In one of these latter we observe the primitive-looking pewter flagon and paten which serve the purpose of church plate. Alongside them stands a queer little cracked handbell of bronze-green, rust-eaten metal; this is the Sanctus-bell which, in pre-Reformation days, was rung in the church upon the elevation of the Host, and was carried at the head of funeral processions. Anent its present damaged condition the story goes that, during some solemn rite of exorcism with bell, book and candle, a certain fallen potentate suddenly appeared in a flash of brimstone flame, and broke the bell in impotent revenge.

Passing through the chancel, we now enter a quaint little side-chapel with pretty two-light window and low, groined ceiling whose stony ribs look strong enough to carry a tower. The latter, however, is on the other side of the church, and is probably of later date; it is built in several stages, the one below the bell-chamber having pigeon-holes around inside the walls; while overhead hangs an ancient bell inscribed sancta maria ora pro nobis.

Hard by the church upon its southern side a flight of worn, stone steps leads down to three clear springs, which well up side by side in a mossy dell, and ripple away beneath lush grasses and flowering marsh plants. These wells, although in such close proximity, have been found to differ in their medicinal properties; and were resorted to as a cure for 'all the ills that flesh is heir to' by the simple folk of a bygone generation.

Near at hand is the site of an old cockpit. In days of yore this exhilarating sport was very popular with Pembrokeshire men, who usually chose Easter Monday and such-like 'times of jollitie' to indulge in their favourite pastime.

At the corner of the churchyard stands an old deserted cottage which, after many vicissitudes, has fallen upon degenerate days. Originally the rectory, and then the poor-house of the parish, it is now a neglected ruin half hidden amidst a tangle of shrubs and climbing plants.

Most visitors to Gumfreston will notice the fine old farmhouse that rises cheek-by-jowl with the carriage-road from Tenby. If we are to believe the tradition of the countryside, this is the most ancient abode in the county. Be that as it may, the place bears traces of no mean antiquity; and is an excellent specimen of a Pembrokeshire homestead of the olden times.

Out from the main structure projects a mighty porch, running up the full height of the house, and pierced with round holes by way of windows above the main doorway. Penetrating into the interior, we enter a low-browed kitchen with open raftered ceiling and roomy settle beside the cavernous fireplace; its solid old timbers worn to a fine polish by generations of rustic shoulders. A bright wood-fire burns on the open hearth, and over it a big black kettle swings in the hollow of the chimney.

The chimney stacks cropping boldly out, haphazard as it were, lean independently this way or that in the quaintest way imaginable; and the broad gable ends are pierced with many pigeon-holes. The place is built as though intended to last for all time, and is enveloped in the customary coating of weather-stained whitewash.

We now push merrily on beneath a cloudless sky; meeting an exhilarating sea-breeze as the road mounts upwards. Luxuriant hedgerows (a rare sight hereabouts) presently give place to open downland, affording widespreading views across rich, rolling woodlands cropped close by the strong salt breezes. Upon the broad slopes of the Ridgeway groups of white farm-buildings sparkle amidst ruddy ploughfields; while far beyond them are Caldey Island and the pale blue line of the sea.

Once more a pleasant field-path beguiles our errant footsteps. Leading across an open common, it presently drops into a narrow by-lane, which winds among hazel copses and undergrowth beside the marshy course of the Ritec, where cattle are browsing leisurely, half hidden amidst lusty water-plants.

Anon our lane degenerates into a hollow watercourse fringed with the greenest of mosses and wineglass ferns; insomuch that, like Agag, we are compelled to walk delicately across the rough stepping-stones that here do duty as a footpath; while the hedgerows fairly meet overhead in a tangle of wild roses, hawthorn and fragrant honeysuckle.

Emerging all too soon upon the dusty highway, we approach the pretty village of St. Florence. Being by this time not a little 'sharp set,' we enter a modest wayside inn, and proceed to whet our appetites upon the rations that the gute verständige Hausfrau soon sets before us. Let us unfold our simple bill of fare: New-laid eggs galore; a mighty loaf of likely-looking bread, sweet from the clean wood oven; and a draught of the 'cup that'—in moderation—'cheers, but not inebriates.'

In one corner of the low-ceiled room, the glass panels of an old-fashioned cupboard reveal a heterogeneous collection of rustic crockery-ware. The narrow mantel-board is adorned with a curious centrepiece, representing Wesley preaching to a sham china clock. This chef d'œuvre is supported on either hand by china figures, rather the worse for wear, riding to market upon a pillion; of which the rickety mirror behind renders a dull and distorted replica.

From the opposite wall the bucolic face of a former proprietor stares stonily out upon us, as he grasps his doll-like daughter's arm after the manner of a pump-handle; this interesting group being flanked by the inevitable memorial cards to lost ones long since 'buried.'

Meanwhile, as we ply the peaceful calumet, mine hostess tells of quaint old customs that, until only the other day, survived in this quiet countryside. 'I mind the time,' says she, 'when I was a girl, when there used to be a Vanity Fair in the village every Michaelmas tide. It lasted three whole days, and the men and maids would turn out in their best then, and all the housen must be smartened up and put in order; and Squire, he give every working man in the place a bran-new suit of clothes to his back. Ah, there was fine doings then, and I've a-hard tell that they'd used to run a keg of spirits, or what not, from the big cellars down Tenby way. But that was afore my time.'

A stroll around the village reveals some picturesque corners here and there; a few of the older cottages retaining the vast rounded chimneys, bulging ovens and pointed doorways of an earlier age. The church, too, contains attractive features. A peep into the little edifice reveals a curious vaulted interior, with its queer 'squint' passage set askew, and flat limestone arches of peculiar form on either side of the chancel.

The honours of the place are done by a garrulous old dame, whose russet-apple complexion, set amidst well-starched frills above a homespun 'whittle,' shows how well she has weathered her fourscore hard-working winters.

Upon the gable wall outside, we notice a memorial slab commemorating a venerable couple who attained the mellow ages of 102 and 104, respectively; and a singular epitaph on Archdeacon Rudd: while the broken shaft of an ancient cross rises amidst the well-tended monuments of this flowery God's acre.

On our return to Tenby we pass a ruined water-mill, standing in a wooded dingle beside a reed-grown stream. Lanes and field-paths lead us down the valley of the Ritec, beside a group of tumbled houses whose massive, ivy-wreathed walls, with their narrow loopholed windows, may possibly guard those big cellars of which we have lately 'a-hard tell.'

Thence through a hollow dingle, where golden Fritillary butterflies float to and fro in the dappled sunlight; and where the fast-disappearing badger may still at times be met with. Anon we diverge to Carswall, to examine a group of remarkable stone buildings with vaulted chambers, huge fireplaces and bulging chimneys—puzzling objects to the archæologist. From Carswall we strike across upland pastures, where a farm lad is 'tickling' the ruddy soil with a primitive kind of harrow, composed of a bundle of brushwood drawn behind a horse.

Erelong we turn aside to explore the recesses of Hoyle's Mouth; a vast cavern worn deep in the solid limestone of the Ridgeway, and fringed with fantastic stalactites resembling gigantic icicles. Relics of remote antiquity, discovered here, prove that the cavern has been a place of refuge in times beyond tradition; and a local fable affirms that it is connected with that 'mervellows caverne,' yclept the Wogan, far away beneath the Castle of Pembroke!

Half a mile hence, in a nook of the hill, stands the old farmhouse of Trefloyne; erstwhile the abode of a loyal family who, during Civil War times, paid the penalty of their constancy by being hunted forth by the Parliamentary soldiers; while their home was delivered over to destruction.

Another half-hour's walk takes us back to Tenby by way of Windpipe Lane; where a marble tablet by the roadside marks the site of St. John's Well, for many generations the sole water supply of the inhabitants. 'One thinge,' says Leland, 'is to be merveled at; there is no Welle yn the Towne, yt is said; whereby they be forced to fesh theyre Water from Saint Johns without ye Towne.' Nowadays, however, they have changed all that; and have provided a water supply more suited to modern requirements.

In the early days of the century, considerable ruins of the ancient Hospital of St. John still existed near this spot; of which, however, every trace has since been quite obliterated.

Another pleasant excursion from Tenby takes the visitor past the little secluded creek of Waterwinch; giving him, en route, a charming glimpse of the town, rising above the wooded shores of the north bay. Thence a steep, narrow lane leads to the village of Saundersfoot, a favourite seaside resort with a diminutive harbour, an hotel and groups of lodging-houses.

The whole of this district has been, at some remote geological period, one vast forest, of which traces still exist upon the adjacent coast; where submerged trees, and balks of timber encrusted with shells, are occasionally found. Tall chimney-shafts, rising amidst the woods, attest the presence of anthracite coal beneath our feet; this is raised from several mines in the neighbourhood, and sent down by tramway to Saundersfoot for exportation.

Pursuing a delightfully shady road that winds inland past the grounds of Hean Castle, we soon find ourselves amidst some of the loveliest sylvan scenery in all the countryside. Presently we get a peep at the church of St. Issels, almost lost to view amidst green aisles of embowering foliage.

As at Gumfreston, by footpaths only can the little edifice be approached; while the stepping-stones across the rivulet are supplemented by a rustic foot-bridge, for use in times when the stream is in flood. This church has lately been restored by some appreciative hand; it has the characteristic tall gray tower such as we have grown accustomed to in this locality, and contains a handsome font of respectable antiquity.

Hence the wayfarer may return to Tenby by way of Bonville's Court, a fortified manor-house of the Edwardian period, of which but a single dilapidated tower and stair-turret remain: or by fetching a compass round, and wandering through quiet lanes draped with hartstongue fern, ivy and convolvulus, he may explore the country away towards Jeffreyston or Redberth; returning over high ground beside the finely-timbered estate of Ivy Tower; and so home by the previously mentioned route through Gumfreston village.

Nestling in a sunny nook where the Ridgeway meets the sea, the little village of Penally, peeping coyly out from amidst embowering trees, forms a pretty feature in many a local prospect.

The road, winding inland, leads us by a long causeway across a broad tract of marshland, now golden with iris and kingcups, through which the Ritec stream meanders to the sea. It is said that, in ancient times, the tidal waters extended up this hollow vale as far as the village of St. Florence; and there is an old map at Tenby in which a vessel in full sail floats upon the very spot where we now stand.

Penally House

Thence up we climb again across the foot-hills of the Ridgeway, until ere long the first cottages of Penally 'heave in sight,' bowered in roses, clematis and honeysuckle, and set amidst gardens aglow with gladiolus, peonies, tulips, geraniums, fuchsias and Japan lilies. Was it not Washington Irving who remarked that we English had, in our country gardens, 'caught the coy and furtive graces of Nature, and spread them, like witchery, around these rural abodes'?

Before us lies a stretch of open greensward, shaded by groups of oak and hawthorn, whence rises the gray tower of the parish church; a building which has been restored to a semblance of newness that belies its venerable traditions.

The interior has a pair of the now familiar 'squint' passages, a few old tombs and a good stone font: and, mirabile dictu, is provided with the electric light. For this valuable innovation the village is indebted to Clement Williams, Esq., Mayor of Tenby, whose pretty country residence stands just above the church. Beneath the overshadowing trees in the churchyard stands a finely carved early Celtic cross, similar to those found in Ireland; of which we shall see an even handsomer specimen when visiting Carew.

In former days Penally was held in high veneration, from a tradition that the miracle-working bones of St. Teilo, Bishop of Llandaff, rested here during their progress through the district.

A curious incident occurred here many years ago. During a fox-hunt in the vicinity, Reynard, being hard pressed by the hounds, sought refuge upon the roofs of some old farm buildings near the church. Here he led his pursuers a lively chase, but was eventually brought to earth and captured after an unusually exciting run.

We now push on for the wild scenery of the rocky coast overlooking Caldey Sound; pursuing a rough, sandy track amidst stretches of golden gorse.

The springy turf underfoot is literally tapestried with wild thyme, herb-Robert and thrift; over which butterflies, brown and azure-blue, float to and fro in the warm, still air; while from the radiant sky the lark's bright song falls pleasantly upon our ears. Hereabouts one must needs keep one's 'weather eye' open, to elude a tumble among the countless rabbit-holes that form pitfalls on every hand, whence the startled denizens scamper briskly to cover from beneath our very noses.

Presently we approach the secluded haven of Lydstep, and obtain a glimpse of the noble headland called Proud Giltar, whose red-brown cliffs rise sheer from the blue waves, with Caldey Island lying in the middle distance.

Traversing the pebbly beach, we pass near to Lydstep Point, a picturesque headland curiously scarped by disused limestone quarries. We now strike inland beneath a grove of trees growing in a sheltered corner, and ascend a narrow lane to a lonely cottage at the head of the glen. Hence we plunge down a deep, rocky ravine, whose seaward face is honeycombed with the caverns for which the place is famous.

Before us, league upon league, an ocean of purest blue spreads to the remote horizon; its sunny plain shimmering beneath white summer cloudlets, and empurpled by a thousand transient shadows. Huge rocks crop out on every hand from amidst the tangle of luxuriant undergrowth that conceals the entrance to the Smugglers' Cave, a name we leave to tell its own wild tale of bygone times. Onward we scramble, down to the 'beached margent' of the shallow bay; whence a scene of rare beauty is beheld.

From the unsullied strand vast buttresses and pinnacles of lichen-clad limestone rise sheer and inaccessible; their solid ribs pierced with shadowy caverns wide as a cathedral vault and dark as Erebus, which tempt the wanderer to explore their deep, unknown recesses. Crystal-clear pools, fringed with dainty seaweeds and gemmed with starfish and sea-anemones, nestle in every hollow of the rocky shore; while shells of various tints encrust the untrodden sands.

Countless sea-birds wheel to and fro in the shadow of the cliffs, which echo their discordant cries as they clamour above the heads of the unwelcome intruders. Dusky cormorants scud with necks outstretched athwart the sparkling waves, while kittiwakes and guillemots crowd shoulder to shoulder upon the inaccessible ledges.

An hour is pleasantly spent groping amidst the hollows of a resounding cavern, or peering into the jewelled depths of some rocky sea-pool; or, anon, watching the plash of the translucent waves. At length, hungry as hawks, we beat a retreat to a sheltered nook amongst the rocks, to discuss con gusto our al-fresco lunch.

Fascinated by these entrancing prospects, we linger in this wonderland until the advancing tide hints at a speedy departure, when, scrambling once again to the upper world, we strike away for the solitary hamlet of Lydstep.

Hard by the road stand two scattered groups of dilapidated buildings, sometimes called by the imposing titles of the Palace, and the Place of Arms. In the good old times—so runs the legend—Aircol Llawhir, King of Dyfed, held his royal Court at this place.

Be that as it may, the existing structures are probably not older than the fourteenth century, and may be ascribed to those yeomen proprietors, a 'peg' above the common farmer folk, who erected these stout walls to safeguard their goods and chattels.

The return journey lies along a pleasant, open road between the Ridgeway and the cliffs; affording lovely glimpses of the rugged coast-line and the land-locked sea. At Penally a return train puts in a timely appearance, and conveys us in a few minutes back to quarters, while the declining sun sets the world aflame in the glow of its lingering rays.

There is a spring-like feeling in the crisp morning air as we drive leisurely along the Ridgeway road, bound westward ho! to 'fresh woods and pastures new.'

Fairy cobwebs, gemmed with glistening dewdrops, sparkle in every hedgerow as we mount slowly up the steep, ruddy flank of the Ridgeway. Bowling merrily along the smooth, well-kept road that traverses its breezy summit, we are in all probability following the course of some primitive trackway, used from the earliest times when enemies lurked in the lowlands.

Ever wider grows the outlook as we jaunt along; the glory of the scene culminating as we clamber up the last of these steep 'pinches,' and call a halt, near a farm called the Rising Sun, to scan the summer landscape spread around.

Close at hand broad meadows, green with the promise of spring, spread away down a winding valley tufted with shadowy woodlands, whence gray old steeples peep above the clustering cottage roofs. Far away amidst the folding hills, the walls and towers of lordly Carew rise near a silvery sheet of water—an arm of Milford Haven—backed by leagues of unexplored country, o'ertopped by the faint blue line of the Precelly Mountains—a glorious scene indeed!

'Ah! world unknown! how charming is thy view,
Thy Pleasures many, and each pleasure new!'

Turning across the lane, we lean upon a neighbouring gate, and leisurely scan the fair prospect over land and sea. Yonder the snow-white cottages gleam amidst the ruddy ploughlands. Seawards, the gorse-clad downs plunge in warm red sandstone cliffs to the all-encircling ocean, that stretches in unbroken span from St. Govan's Head, past Caldey Isle, to the gray-blue line of distant Devon, with Lundy lying under its lee.

Forward again, betwixt pleasant greenswards tangled with fragrant gorse, brambles and unfurling bracken, within whose cool retreats the yellow-hammer lurks in his new spring bravery; while smart little goldfinches hunt in pairs amidst the thistle-heads under the hedgerow.

Gradually we slant away downwards, passing an ancient tumulus whence, in the old war times, a beacon fire gave warning against threatened invasion; and catching glimpses ahead of ruined towers and curtain-walls, where time-honoured old Pembroke nods over its memories of 'the days that are no more.' Soon we are clattering through the diminutive village of Lamphey. Here we dismiss our driver, and, turning across park-like meadows where cattle are grazing under the broad-limbed oaks, we soon descry the ivy-mantled ruins of Lamphey Palace.

The graceful character of the architecture, and calm, reposeful situation in this peaceful dell, combine to enhance the peculiar charm that hangs around these venerable ruins. Thanks to the timely care of their present owner, the remaining portions have been preserved from further desecration, and are freely shown to visitors who pass this way.

At Lamphey Palace.

At Lamphey the Bishops of St. Davids possessed an episcopal manor, and built themselves a palace there; so that, from the middle of the thirteenth century, they paid frequent visits to the place. Withdrawing hither from affairs of State, they assumed the rôle of the paternal country squire; tilling the fat acres spread around their walls, and stocking their snug granaries, such as may still be traced at the farmstead called Lamphey Park.

John Leland, travelling this way in his tour through South Wales, tells how he 'came by meane Hills and Dales to Llanfeith, where the Bishop of St. Davids hath a place of Stoone, after Castel Fascion.'

Strolling through a ripe old garden, set round with sheltering walls, we proceed to trace such features of the fine old fabric as the hand of Time has spared to us. Passing the refectory, a picturesque building draped in ivy and Virginia-creeper, we are confronted by the tall mass of the banqueting-hall, with its pointed windows and pretty projecting chimney.

Hence a winding stair in the thickness of the wall leads to the ruined parapet. Near the east end of the hall stands the chapel, roofless now, and wreathed in luxuriant ivy; one graceful traceried window alone bearing witness to Bishop Vaughan's artistic genius.

Farther away across a verdant meadow, and standing, so to speak, en échelon to the main fabric, rise the ruins of the domestic apartments; approached by a dilapidated flight of outside steps, and crowned with an elegant open arcade such as is usually associated with the work of that famous builder, Bishop Gower. In a corner of the adjacent field we observe the vivarium, or fish-pond of the priory.

We now return to the neighbouring gardens, in order to sketch the picturesque little tower which stands isolated amidst trim walks and old-fashioned flower-beds.

It is difficult to assign a raison d'être for the existence of this quaint old structure. By some folks it has been called the gate-tower to the inner ward; but others, again, have styled it the priests' dwelling-place; and our investigations seem to point to some such use as the latter.

A stone stairway, hollowed in the thickness of the wall, leads to an upper chamber, which contains a niche (suggestive of a piscina), a fireplace, and several small windows. The peaked roof, which is modern, is surrounded by open, pointed arches corbelled out from the wall below, and finished with plain battlements. Thus, with its picturesque medley of weather-stained brick, stone and timber, touched here and there with green moss and golden lichens, this curious tower proves an attractive bit for the sketch-book.

At Lamphey Palace Robert Devereux, the ill-fated Earl of Essex, spent several years of his youth; and is reputed to have quitted the place 'the most finished gentleman of his time.'

Superstitious folk, when approaching these ruins after nightfall, while 'the moping owl doth to the moon complain,' may (or may not) have their nerves agreeably thrilled by the apparition of a mysterious white lady, presumably a Devereux, who is said to haunt these historic shades at that witching hour!

Lamphey Church, which lies a short half-mile away, has been too much modernized to detain us long. The tall, plain tower has been preserved, however, in its original simplicity; and the large square font, of early type, has a little ornamentation of good character.

Crossing the railway bridge past the shop of the village, with its alluring display of miscellaneous olla podrida in the window, we pursue our shadows along a dusty country road; cutting off a circuitous corner by taking to a pleasant field-path. A bright little country maid pioneers us hence into Hodgeston, a sleepy hamlet consisting of some half-dozen whitewashed cottages clustering around the sorry remnants of a village green, now shrunk to half its old proportions owing to recent encroachments.

Obtaining the key at one of these cottages, we now make straight for the parish church, which rises beyond a grove of trees, less than a bowshot away.

Seen from the outside, this little edifice looks unostentatious enough, with its slender western tower, chancel, and nave devoid of the usual excrescences; but upon entering we soon find matter to arouse our keenest interest.

The Chancel Hodgeston Church.

The nave is simple, though well proportioned; setting off to fullest advantage the rich and elaborate features that adorn the Decorated chancel. Good traceried windows rise upon either hand, surmounted by an open timber roof, with the pretty ball-flower ornament running around the top of the wall.

Upon the south side of the chancel stands a handsome triple sedilia; its shapely, richly-moulded arches aflame with elaborate crockets, which cluster upwards to the large, florid finials. A plain stone bench flanks the lower part of the wall, whence projects a flight of steps that gave access to the vanished rood-loft.

We also notice a dainty piscina sunk in the thickness of the wall, having a beautiful ornamental canopy, closely resembling that of the sedilia, and a fine old Norman font. One cannot but feel surprise that such rich design and delicate workmanship should be thus hidden away in this remote locality; and can only hazard the conjecture that the influence of Bishop Gower (whose handiwork is seen to such advantage in his great palace at St. Davids) must have made itself felt even in outlying parishes such as this. There is reason to suppose, too, that a religious house existed at Hodgeston in olden times, which would probably exert a refining influence upon the local craftsmen, for the monks of old were often goodly builders.

These charming features, then, provide attractive matter for the sketch-book, which keeps us pegging away until well on towards sundown: so that, as we wend our way back to Lamphey Station, we lounge over a stile formed from some broken ship's timbers to enjoy the exquisite after-glow, which lingers still above the falling dusk as the train carries us homeward to Tenby.

Ancient Quern or Hand Mill.

[CHAPTER III.]

MANORBERE CASTLE: AND GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS.

the courtesy of a hospitable friend, we now shift our moorings from Tenby's tourist-haunted streets, to the quiet precincts of Manorbere Castle. Within those time-honoured walls the charm of modern hospitality is enhanced by contrast with its mediæval background.

MANORBERE CASTLE FROM THE EAST.

Quitting the train at the little wayside station, a quarter of an hour's pleasant drive through deep lanes fringed with hartstongue fern, and gay with 'floureis white and blewe, yellow and rede,' gives us our first glimpse of the stately old pile. Crowning a low, isolated hill, the castle stands out 'four square to all the winds of heaven' against a silvery expanse of the distant ocean; for, as old Leland says: 'This place is not in the Hyeway, but standith neere the shore of the Severn Se.'

A country lad opens a gate giving access to a rough meadow, flanked by the remains of barbican walls and ruined bastions; traversing which we presently draw rein before the broad, landward front of the castle. Crossing the grim but inoffensive drawbridge, our friend explains the ingenious device by which, in the 'good old times,' an intruder must perforce 'turn turtle' upon a sort of human beetle-trap. Overhead are seen the openings whence the garrison might pour down 'something lingering and humorous, with molten lead in it,' by way of warm welcome to the foe.

Passing beneath the ivy-mantled gate-tower, we emerge upon the spacious greensward of the inner court, which is enclosed on every hand by hoary walls and turrets, whose weather-beaten ruins tell of heavy treatment at the hand of Father Time.

Manorbere Castle.

For it is a notable fact in the history of Manorbere Castle, and one in which we are indebted for its relative state of preservation, that, unlike its great neighbours of Pembroke and Carew, it has never withstood a siege. Moreover, having ceased to be inhabited at a very early period, this castle has preserved unaltered the salient features of its construction. The architecture is very simple and massive, being indeed almost entirely devoid of ornament. Some of the apartments retain the plain, pointed stone vault, devoid of ribs, so frequently met with in South Wallian castles; while several of those circular chimneys, peculiar to the locality, rise above the crumbling battlements.

Continuing our stroll around the inner court we observe, hard by the great gateway, the warders' room, with its narrow window commanding the entrance. Behind it rises the huge, circular 'Bull' Tower; a massive structure honeycombed with quaint little chambers approached by a winding stone stair, and connected with the gate-tower by a narrow passage in the thickness of the walls. Along the eastern side of the court extends a long range of apartments, which constitute the modern residence. These were resuscitated by Mr. J. R. Cobb, a former occupant, who restored the castle in so admirable and conscientious a manner, that the modern additions in no wise detract from their venerable surroundings. Farther away in the same direction lie the ruined kitchens, with their huge projecting chimneys, and ovens of such capacity that, as tradition avers, the lord of the domain was wont to regale his guests upon oxen roasted whole!

Manorbere Castle.

Traversing the sunny castle-garth, we pass a circular receptacle formed in the ground for melting the lead aforesaid. Close at hand is a deep draw-well, half full of water. Some twenty feet down this well is a blocked-up archway which was opened years ago by old 'Billy,' the local factotum, who discovered dark, subterranean passages running hence beneath the adjacent ruins. Here he stumbled against casks and kegs left behind by the smuggler folk, who in former days carried on their illicit traffic around the neighbouring coast. At the same time, as a 'blind' for the Excise officers, they carried on a traffic in grain, which was stored for the purpose in large barns outside the castle.

At the farther end of the courtyard rise the picturesque walls and arches of a lofty group of buildings, containing the banqueting-hall and chapel. This appears to have been the handsomest part of the castle; and the great hall, with its broad flight of stone steps and stately range of pointed windows overlooking the sea, must indeed have been a noble apartment. Beneath it, in grim contrast, lurks a series of dark, windowless dungeons.

Entering the chapel by a flight of ruinous steps fringed with sprays of spleenwort fern, we explore its dimly-lighted recesses, and discern traces of half obliterated colour decoration. Clambering by a narrow stone stairway to the grass-grown roof, we awaken the resentful clamour of a colony of jackdaws; anon we peer into the tiny chamber for the priest, and dive into the gloomy crypt, with its low-vaulted roof and fireplace improvised from a desecrated tomb.

Manorbere Castle.

Then out once more into the castle garth, to follow the loopholed wall. This terminates in the many-sided Pembroke Tower, which, bowered in climbing plants, boasts a certain diminutive chamber wherein, as the local tradition runs, Giraldus Cambrensis, the famous Welsh historian, was born. Thence ensues another stretch of lofty wall, backed by a series of curious flying buttresses: and our peregrination is completed beneath the hoary, lichen-clad stonework of the great tower beside the entrance gateway. This is the oldest part of the castle, and (with apologies to the local tradition) probably the only portion of it that dates as far back as the days of the worthy Giraldus.

The water-gate, set deep in the seaward wall, is flanked by a huge mass of stonework which still bears traces of the smugglers' ineffectual efforts to dislodge it. Following a rough track that winds down the rocky slope, we stroll onward beside a pretty rill of water meandering, amidst bullrushes and marsh marigolds, to the moss-grown wheel of the castle mill. Here we linger upon the rustic foot-bridge to enjoy a charming retrospect. The gray walls of the grim old castle, crowning the low, steep hill we have just descended, are reflected in the placid stream at our feet. A group of low-roofed cottages, and the mill with its plashing wheel, nestle in the valley beneath; while the towers and gables of the quaint old parish church peep from a rival hill that fronts the sea.

The western flank of the castle looks down upon a weed-grown marsh, occupying the site of a lake that formerly protected it upon that side. Beside the marsh stands a picturesque old stone pigeon-house, smothered in ivy and golden lichens; beyond which extends a secluded vale shaded by oak, ash and holly, that formed part of the ancient park or chase of Manorbere. The whole scene has a quiet beauty of its own very pleasant to contemplate.

Meanwhile, after tackling this fascinating bit, we roam across the wind-blown sandhills, where a derelict boat, lying high and dry above high-water mark, offers a convenient resting-place for the noontide siesta. Stretching our limbs upon the warm, dry sand, and gazing dreamily across the deep-blue line of the bay, we call to mind a certain glowing description of the Manorbere of seven long centuries ago. Gerald de Barri, the author of this panegyric (better known as Giraldus Cambrensis), can scarce find words to express his admiration for the home of his boyhood.