Descending the hill, we work our way along winding sandy lanes, and return to St. Davids by the coast road coming from Fishguard. At an out-of-the-way place called Gwryd-Bach we stumble across a curious old farmstead, and being invited to enter, we proceed to make ourselves at home in a large low chamber, half living-room, half kitchen. At one end of this picturesque apartment is a low-browed, vaulted recess, pierced with a deep-set window, while upon the rough flagged floor beneath stands a mighty oak table of extremely primitive build. The ample dresser beside the wall displays such an array of curious old painted plates, and mugs of antiquated pattern, as might make a connoisseur's fingers itch. One retired corner is partitioned off as a kind of homely parlour; on another side a rough open stairway gives access to the garret, while old guns, lanthorns, baskets and such-like articles of a rustic ménage, garnish every available corner of walls and open-rafted ceiling.
We return to St. Davids by way of Dowrog Common, the 'Pilgrims' land' of earlier days, with its huge upright maenhir, called St. David's Stone. Before turning in for the night we overhaul Ordnance maps and guide-book, in view of an early start upon the morrow in search of 'fresh woods and pastures new.'
CHAPTER IX.
TO FISHGUARD, NEWPORT, GOODWIC AND PENCAER.
five tedious leagues of monotonous cross-country road lie before us to-day, as we leave St. Davids city northward bound for Fishguard. A sturdy pedestrian may strike out a more interesting route by following the coast road—the ancient Fordd Fleming—and diverging at convenient points to explore the grand cliff scenery below Pen-beri, and the microscopic havens of Trevine and Abercastell. At Longhouse, close to the latter place, stands a remarkably fine cromlech, inferior only to its more famous rival at Pentre Evan, near Newport.
About half-way along the main road we cross a country lane that follows the course of the old Fleming's Way; and half a mile farther on our attention is called to an object not unlike a milestone, upon which is rudely traced a cross within a circle: the irregular disc being about a foot in diameter. This is known as Mesur-y-Dorth—the Measure of the Loaf—from a tradition that St. David caused these figures to be made in order to regulate the size of the loaf of bread in times of scarcity.
Presently we approach the village of Jordanston; and here it behoves the belated traveller to 'keep his weather eye open,' for if tales be true, the ghost of a headless horseman that haunts this locality may be expected to put in an appearance.
A couple of miles or so to the northward rises the parish church of Mathry, conspicuous upon its high hill-top. This church of the Holy Martyrs once had a lofty steeple, that served as a useful guide to mariners until blown down one stormy night, many a year ago. Mathry was a place of some local importance in olden times, receiving a patent for a market and fair from Edward III., while the greater tithes of this extensive parish sufficed to endow the 'golden prebend' of St. Davids Cathedral.
As we near our destination, the rugged hills of Pencaer rise picturesquely beyond the sands of Goodwic, while Dinas head rears its bold front above Cardigan Bay, with the delicate outline of the Carnarvonshire mountains serrating the distant horizon.
The town of Fishguard hangs, as it were, upon the slope of a precipitous hill overlooking the vale of the Gwaen, which here, as George Owen puts it, 'falleth into the sea, making a faire Haven and goode Harborow for shipps and Barks.' Its waterside suburb of Abergwaen, approached by one of the steepest bits of coach road in the Principality, is mainly frequented by fisher-folk and seafaring men engaged in the coasting trade.
Encompassed by sheltering uplands, the narrow vale of the Gwaen has a singularly mild and equable climate, which fosters a wealth of luxuriant vegetation. In the course of a stroll through the beautiful grounds of Glyn-y-Mel, we notice the eucalyptus and bamboo evidently making themselves quite at home in this sunny nook, while heliotrope and dracæna, camellia and laurestinus flourish out-of-doors the winter through.
Usually the most easy-going of Sleepy Hollows, Fishguard town awoke one fine morning towards the close of the last century to find itself become suddenly famous. On February 21, 1797, three French frigates were sighted off the Pembrokeshire coast bearing up towards Fishguard Bay, where they presently came to anchor near Carreg Gwastad Point.
During the ensuing night the enemy came ashore to the number of about 1,500 men, regular troops and gaol-birds, under the leadership of one Tate, a renegade Irish-American. Tate, with the chief of his satellites, established himself at the neighbouring farmhouse of Trehowel, while the main body of the 'invaders' encamped atop of an isolated hill overlooking the village of Llanwnda. Thence the Frenchmen dispersed about the countryside, scaring the inhabitants out of their wits, and rummaging the farmhouses in search of potheen and plunder.
In one of these exploits a drunken fellow entered a cottage at Brestgarn, where a 'grandfather' clock happened to be standing in a corner. Dismayed by the sounds issuing from the mysterious object, the simpleton fired his gun at a venture, concluding the devil must be lurking within. This clock is still to be seen at Brestgarn, with the bullet-hole through the panel as may be noticed in our sketch.
Meanwhile the authorities bestirred themselves. Under the command of Lord Cawdor, the Fishguard Fencibles and Castle Martin Yeomanry marched out to Goodwic Sands, where the enemy, finding the game was up, laid down their arms and surrendered à discrétion. Thus these doughty regiments achieved the unique distinction of facing a foreign foe on the soil of Britain itself. It is said that the goodwives of Pembrokeshire, arrayed in their red woollen 'whittles,' countermarched and deployed around a neighbouring hill, thus leading the invaders to suppose that a regiment of gallant redcoats was preparing to oppose their advance.
The French prisoners were subsequently lodged in durance vile at a place near Pembroke, whence some of them effected their escape in Lord Cawdor's yacht, with the connivance of two Pembroke lasses—the old story of cherchez la femme once more. One of the French vessels having been afterwards captured was re-christened the Fisguard, a name that has only recently disappeared from the files of the Navy List. Incredible as it may seem in these days, the news of this famous event took a whole week to travel to the Metropolis, and it is said that the anniversary of the French landing is still held in remembrance amongst the old folk in the locality.
It is a pleasant stroll from Fishguard to the scene of these historic events. Our way lies past the church, where, in a corner of the graveyard, we notice a curiously-incised stone cross. The lane now winds downhill, and we soon find ourselves pacing the smooth firm expanse of Goodwic Sands, with the hamlet of that ilk clinging to a wooded hillside before us.
Goodwic is picturesquely situated, overlooking a tiny haven and pier in an elbow of the rock close under the hill. Its genial climate and safe bathing shore make the place deservedly popular, and cause the handful of lodging-houses to fill up rapidly during 'the season.'
Pushing on again, we now enter the district of Pencaer, and, guided by the trusty Ordnance sheet, thread our way through narrow crooked lanes, rounding the base of Carn Wnda, where the Frenchmen pitched their camp, and passing on to the little out-of-the-way village of Llanwnda.
The church stands in an isolated position overlooking a piece of rough ground that does duty as village 'green,' a place scattered over with gray tumbled stones that seem to group themselves into the lines of rude hut-circles. Two or three low thatched cottages, that might pass for Irish cabins, appear to have been 'dumped' down haphazard, and look old enough to have seen Giraldus Cambrensis when he held the benefice here.
Built in a strong, simple manner well-suited to its exposed situation, Llanwnda Church has some characteristic features. Above the western gable rises a low double bell-cot, while a similar but smaller erection for the sanctus bell divides nave from chancel roof. As we enter the low-browed porch, we espy a cross of archaic type carved upon a stone slab in the outer wall; and two similar crosses are to be seen upon the exterior of the chancel gable.
The nave retains its dark, oaken timbered roof, having a rudely carved head upon the eastern side of one of its ancient beams. The openings to the rood-loft are now blocked up, but at the time of the French incursion these apertures afforded a hiding-place to a servant-maid and child, who peeped out in trepidation whilst a gang of ruffians played havoc in the sacred edifice, setting fire to everything inflammable they could lay hands upon.
After some little persuasion Mary Reece, the sprightly nonagenarian caretaker, is prevailed upon to produce the communion chalice for our inspection. This little vessel has a history of its own, having been stolen by a Frenchman, who endeavoured to dispose of it at Carmarthen, trying to pass off the word Llanwnda engraved upon the cup as La Vendée, a name of France. The chalice, which is much cracked and dented from the rough handling it has undergone, bears upon the exterior the inscription: poculum eclesie de llanwnda.
Pushing on across country, we win our way after half an hour's rough scrambling to Carreg Gwastad Point, a low, rocky, furze-clad headland sloping down to a secluded creek, where the would-be French invaders effected a landing.
A more out-of-the-way spot, or one more suited to embark on such an enterprise, they could not well have chosen. The wild and little-frequented coast-line of Pencaer stretches away on either hand with scarce a vestige of a landing-place; while the scattered peasant-folk, dwelling in isolated cottages and lone farmhouses, could offer but an ineffectual resistance to the enemy.
We now extend our route to Trehowel, a large, rambling old farmstead shaded by trees, where the French commander took up his unwelcome billet. Thence we strike up the slope of Garn-vawr to the huge British camp that crowns the summit, a wide prospect over land and sea rewarding our exertions. Following the crest of the ridge, we enjoy a breezy tramp across country, sundry fallen cromlechs and such-like relics lending an old-world interest to the locality.
Anent the country of Pencaer there is a venerable tradition which runs somewhat to the following effect: 'Once upon a time' there was a town in Pencaer called Trêf Cwlhwc, or Cwlhwc's Town. This Cwlhwc appears to have been a sort of Celtic Hercules, who roamed about his native country in search of adventures. When grown to man's estate, Cwlhwc began to entertain ideas of marrying and settling down; whereupon he was informed by an oracle that no maid save the fair Olwen might become his wife. Nothing daunted, the giant set forth in quest of his future bride, and after searching for a year and a day found the beautiful Olwen seated alone in her bower.
'She was arrayed,' says the old Welsh Mabinogion, 'in a vesture of flame-coloured silk, a wreath of ruddy gold was about the damsel's neck, set with pearl and coral. More yellow was her head than the blossoms of the broom; her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave; her fingers fairer than the opening buds of the water-lily, amid the small ripplings of the fountain of the waters. No brighter eyes than hers were seen; whiter was her bosom than the breast of the swan, more red her cheeks than the rose of the mountain. Whoever saw her was filled with love, and in her every footstep four white trefoils sprang wherever she trod, and therefore she was named Olwen.'
The Royal Oak inn at Fishguard (see head of present chapter) formed the British headquarters in the affair of '97. Trundling out of the town by the Newport coach, we skirt the slopes of Carn Enoch, across whose western flank extend the lines of prehistoric maenhirs known as Parc y Marw, the Field of the Dead. Away to our left rises the big bluff headland that shelters the village of Dinas, whose pretty cottages peep out from amidst bowery orchards upon a little secluded cove. A new church has supplanted the old one, of which the western wall alone remains, all else having been swept away by inroads of the sea.
Our route now leads around the rocky shores of Newport Bay, the rough country lane affording some refreshing glimpses of narrow inlets, with woodlands feathering down to the water's edge. As we advance, the dark brow of Carn Englyn swings into view, with the houses of Newport clustering about its lower slopes. Arrived at that pleasant country town we beat up quarters for the night, intending to make it our head centre while exploring that portion of the shire stretching from the foot-hills of Precelly to the shores of Cardigan Bay.
CHAPTER X.
NEWPORT, NEVERN, AND TEIVYSIDE.
now enter upon that portion of Pembrokeshire distinguished from earliest times by the name of Kemaes, a district that was constituted a Lordship Marcher by the Norman invaders of Wales.
The first conqueror established himself in a strong castle at Newport, which formed the Caput Baroniæ, or chief place of the district. Here the Lord Marcher of Kemaes held his court in almost regal state, exercising practically unlimited control over the lives and property of his newly-conquered vassals. After the manner of the times, the Lord of Kemaes was empowered to deal summarily with felons, for whom a gaol was provided within the castle precincts, where a gibbet stood on a mound called by the natives Cnwc y Crogwydd, or Gallows Tump.
Amongst the privileges peculiar to this lordship was the patronage of the British Bards, and the disposal of a much-prized silver harp, which was treasured in the ancient abbey of St. Dogmaels, near Cardigan.
Standing upon a gentle declivity overlooking the town and bay, Newport Castle owes its origin to William, son of Martin de Turribus, the conqueror of Kemaes. The date of its erection appears to have been about the close of the eleventh century, but the castle was probably altered or enlarged by subsequent rulers.
In Queen Elizabeth's time that curious antiquary George Owen paid a visit to Newport Castle, in which he noticed 'faire and lardg Roomes'; moreover, he tells us the place 'was moatid with a clear Springe of swete running Water, out of whiche, after it had pleasured the Eye in that capacitie, by a sluice it was let foorth to drive the myll, called the Castle myll, adjoininge the sayd moate.'
Of this lordly structure the entrance archway, flanked by two noble crenellated towers, are the best preserved features; but extensive ruins of walls and circular bastions, encompassed by the half-obliterated moat, may still be traced upon its western side.
Nestling beneath the castle, on the outskirts of the town, stands the handsome parish church of St. Byrnach. The original edifice is said to have been erected by the builder of Newport Castle, but the present Decorated structure has superseded a building of later date that was the very epitome of ugliness. Within the church stands a very early font, probably the original one of Norman times. Of the finely wrought and gilded rood-screen it is said once to have possessed, not a vestige has been preserved.
St. Byrnach, the patron saint of Newport Church, was an Irishman by birth, and a contemporary of St. David. He appears to have been held in high esteem throughout all this district, where many of the parish churches are dedicated to his name. This holy man is supposed to have led the life of a hermit, dividing his time between Buarth Byrnach, or Byrnach's Fold, on the singular mountain called Carnedd Meibion Owen, and the rocky recesses of Carn Englyn, the Angel's Peak, above Newport town, a hill that derives its name from a tradition that St. Byrnach was nourished by angels during his lonely sojourn there.
But revenons à nos moutons. Newport was anciently a borough town, having obtained its charter of incorporation as early as a.d. 1215. The town also received the grant of a market from Sir Nicholas FitzMartin, Lord of Kemaes, in the year 1278. This ancient document is still extant. Henceforth Newport continued to grow and prosper, and in the sixteenth century carried on extensive woollen manufactures. Upon the outbreak of the 'sweating sickness,' the place suffered severely; its market was discontinued, and many of the inhabitants fled to the more salubrious air of Fishguard.
Though its privileges have been much curtailed in modern times, the town has still nominally a municipal body, though the latter has neither revenues to dispose of, nor functions to perform. Of recent years, however, Newport has shown signs of re-awakening prosperity: and when the long-talked-of railway line becomes a fait accompli, this pleasant little market town will doubtless enter upon a new lease of life and activity.
At Parrog, where the Nevern stream embouches upon Newport Bay, we find a watering-place in its infancy. Parrog is an attractive spot in a quiet sort of way, and draws a fair sprinkling of holiday-makers from up the country during the long days of summer. A few comfortable if unpretentious lodging-houses offer decent accommodation, and cater in a manner that leaves little to be desired where criticism is disarmed by lusty appetites, bred of long hours spent in the brine-laden air. The neighbourhood, too, is pleasantly diversified, and contains many secluded nooks affording charming rural rambles.
But to return to Newport. At the farther end of the town, after passing the Llwyngwair Arms, we turn down a lane in the direction of the river, and in a couple of hundred paces descry a cromlech standing amidst an adjacent meadow. Though smaller than many others in the county, this cromlech is in a good state of preservation, and, as may be seen in the sketch at the end of the chapter, possesses an uncommonly massive capstone.
Retracing our steps to the highroad, we then jog pleasantly along beneath the welcome shade of an avenue of trees. Just beyond Pont Clydach, we enter the grounds of Llwyngwair by a meadow path that winds amidst delightful groves, where oak, beech, and ash shelter a wealth of tangled undergrowth.
Crossing a couple of fat grazing meadows, decked with hemlock and fragrant meadowsweet, we find ourselves on the brink of the Nevern Brook, a genuine Welsh streamlet that rushes briskly onward in deep brown pools and broken, shingly reaches—
'With here and there a lusty trout.
And here and there a grayling.'
This Nevern stream rises far away on the slopes of Fryn-y-Fawr, whence, after pursuing a picturesque course below Pencelly forest, it finds its way by many a 'crankling nook' to Nevern, where it is spanned by a graceful old stone bridge, whose buttresses are shrouded in luxuriant ivy.
Over this same bridge we presently take our way, passing the lowly village school-house, whence the sing-song iteration of young voices salutes our ears through wide-open windows. In another minute we find ourselves at the churchyard wicket, where we pause awhile to look about us and take our bearings.
The village of Nevern is situated in the richly-wooded glen of the Dûad, or Nevern Brook, and is surrounded by some of the most charming scenery in the county. The luxuriant groves of Llwyngwair afford shelter from the strong sea winds, while the purple shoulders of Precelly sweep upward in graceful folds to the lofty southern horizon. The picturesque peak of Carn Englyn forms a prominent feature in the landscape; and, separated from it by the deep, narrow vale of the Clydach, rises Carnedd Meibion Owen, a rocky monticle that reminds one strongly of the Dartmoor Tors.
Time was, 'tis said, when this village of Nevern took precedence of its rival neighbour Newport. In those early days Nevern was a borough town, having its own portreeve with courts of government, and eighteen 'burgages' to manage its affairs. Above the townlet rose the protecting walls of Llanhyvor Castle, a fortalice long regarded, so to speak, as a precious gem in the diadem of every South Wallian prince. A steep grassy knoll alone marks the site where this important castle stood.
But it is time to look at Nevern Church. Dedicated to St. Byrnach, this ancient structure presents, with its gray walls peeping amidst masses of dark foliage, a picturesque and venerable appearance. The western tower, though of no great height, is of vast breadth and substance, extending to the full width of the church, and having a projecting stair-turret upon its northern side. In this tower hangs a peal of six very musical bells.
Approaching the south porch, we pass beneath a dense avenue of ancient yews, which even at noontide cast a gloomy shade around. Though lacking aisles, the church has shallow transepts, that on the north being called the Glasdwr Chapel, while the south transept is appropriated to the use of Trewern, an old mansion in the vicinity. This Trewern Chapel has a solidly groined stone ceiling and elegantly proportioned windows, with a projecting turret for the stairway, leading to an upper chamber, as depicted in the adjoining sketch.
Upon either side the chancel is a sort of shallow bay, lighted by a narrow pointed window, a characteristic feature of Pembrokeshire churches. The sacred edifice is provided with a pair of silver chalices dated respectively 1696 and 1733, the gifts of former parishioners.
Near the south-east angle of the Trewern Chapel rises the ancient Celtic cross that figures conspicuously in our sketch. This curious monument goes by the name of St. Byrnach's Stone. It stands upwards of 10 feet in height, and is overlaid with the interlacing ornament peculiar to these structures. So boldly and deeply are the patterns incised, as to be little the worse for ten centuries of wind and weather, the hoary lichens that cling to the rugged surface of the monolith serving but to enhance its venerable aspect.
Anent this ancient stone, there is a quaint tradition which tells how, in olden times, the cuckoo was wont to first sound his note in this locality on the day of the patron saint, April 7.
'I might well here omit,' says George Owen, 'an old report as yet fresh of this odious bird, that in the old world the parish priest of this church would not begin Mass until the bird—called the citizen's ambassador—had first appeared, and began her note on a stone called St. Byrnach's Stone, being curiously wrought with sundry sort of knots, standing upright in the churchyard of this parish; and one year staying very long, and the priest and the people expecting her accustomed coming (for I account this bird of the feminine gender), came at last, lighting on the said stone—her accustomed preaching-place—and being scarce able once to sound the note, presently fell dead.'
It is somewhat reassuring to be told by the same authority that 'this vulgar tale, although it concerns in some sort church matters, you may either believe or not without peril of damnation.'
Quitting the pleasant precincts of the church, we pursue a crooked lane that skirts the green mounds of the 'castell,' and, turning thence past a solitary thatched cottage, make our way along a hollow tree-shaded pathway. Keeping a sharp look-out upon every side, we presently espy the object of our search, the form of a cross, half obliterated by ivy sprays and tufts of rushy grass, being seen rudely graven upon the high sandstone bank by the lane side; while a sort of hollow kneeling-place can be distinguished in the rock at the bottom of the cross.
For we are now upon the line of an ancient pilgrims' way, whose course is marked by well-worn tracks in the soft red sandy rock; and this solitary cross calls up visions of the mediæval wayfarer pausing upon his journey to St. David's Shrine, to invoke before Croes Byrnach the benediction of that influential saint. We are at some pains (owing to the exuberant undergrowth) to obtain a sketch of this interesting object, for, so far as we are aware, no other cross like this is to be found throughout the length and breadth of Wales.
In an out-of-the-way locality about two miles north of Nevern stands a farmhouse called Trellyfan, anglicè Toadstown. The origin of this singular name is explained by the following story, narrated by no less an authority than the famous Giraldus Cambrensis.
One day in the course of his travels Giraldus fell in with an exceedingly tall young man, who, owing to the length of his limbs, was known as Sitsyllt of the Long Legs. The career of this ill-starred individual was cut short in a strange and tragic manner, the unhappy Sitsyllt being worried to death by toads, in spite of the fact that his friends had very considerately hung him up in a sack, to save him from the molestations of these malignant reptiles!
As a memento of this incident, the marble effigy of a toad was built into a chimney-piece at Trellyfan, where it was treasured for many generations. The toad was afterwards cut away and removed from its place in the farmhouse, but eventually came into the possession of its present owner, a resident at Haverfordwest, by whose courtesy we are enabled to give a sketch of this venerable relic. The toad in question is carved in a dark-green veined marble, about as large as the palm of a woman's hand, and is reputed to be the work of an Italian artist.
Retracing our steps to Nevern, we call a halt at the Trewern Arms, a modest hostelry so near the stream that its waters play a pleasant accompaniment during the course of our homely meal. Then, with energies recruited, we plunge into a shadowy woodland path that leads to Pont-y-Baldwyn, a bridge that spans the rippling stream at a point where, according to tradition, Archbishop Baldwyn preached the crusade in company with Giraldus Cambrensis. From Pont-y-Baldwyn we follow a farm road that leads us to Hênllys, a place memorable in Pembrokeshire annals as the birthplace of that industrious chronicler and local antiquary, George Owen of Hênllys. Of his curious and fascinating work entitled 'The Description of Penbrokshire,' we have largely availed ourselves throughout these present pages. George Owen appears to have come of a stout old country stock. His father is said to have died a centenarian, after begetting a family of some twenty children. Both George Owen and his father before him held the ancient and honourable office of Lord of Kemaes.
Taking leave of this historical spot, we now drop into a hollow bowery lane that hugs the course of the Dûad Stream, and passes through the rough intricate country known as Pencelly Forest, where in olden times the lord of the manor claimed right of pannage for hogs, with the wild honey and sparhawks found in the forest. Our route now leads near Court, where Martin de Turribus, the conqueror of Kemaes, had a lordly dwelling, which, according to George Owen, 'seemeth to have been a house both of account and strengthe.'
A short half-hour later we find ourselves pacing the single 'street' of Eglwys-Erw, a picturesque village said to derive its name from the church having been built upon a plot of land measuring an acre. Fenton, on the other hand, attributes the origin of the name to a certain St. Erw, whose chapel, containing the tomb of the patron saint, used to stand in a corner of the churchyard. In olden times the peasant folk were averse to being buried in this chapel, owing to the prevalent superstition that their bodies were liable to be mysteriously ejected at dead of night, because, forsooth, St. Erw would brook no bedfellow!
Passing on between the neat, whitewashed cottages, we come to Sergeants' Inn, whose bow-windowed front stands near the upper end of the village. The somewhat unusual title of this hostelry is derived from the fact that, in earlier days, it was customary for the gentlemen of the Bar when 'on circuit' to foregather here; and the building next the inn is still called the Sessions House. At Sergeants' Inn is to be seen a small chest-lid, incised with the rather enigmatical legend: i.h.s, prestat ezze promethevs quam epimetheum, 1603.
Eglwys-Erw Church is soon disposed of; for it has been completely modernized, and bereft of any noteworthy features it may formerly have contained.
We now approach the confines of the parish of Eglwys-wen, or Whitechurch; a parish where adders are commonly reputed to be, like snakes in Iceland, absolutely unknown.
There is a curious tradition anent the yokels of Whitechurch parish. Says our trusty friend George Owen, 'In ancient times in this parish the Meanest and simplest Sort of people, yea the plain ploughmen, were Skillful at chess play; they never being dwelling out of their Parish, but unlitterate, and brought up at the plough and Harrow altogether.' One would be curious to learn how it came to pass that these simple folk, dwelling in this remote Welsh parish, acquired such an unlooked-for reputation.
But the day is waxing old, and it is still a far cry to our night's bivouac at Newport. So, putting the best foot foremost, we speed along the highroad for a couple of miles or so, until, near a huge old earthwork ycleped Castell Mawr, we diverge to the left, cross a pretty streamlet, and get a direction from a passer-by to the famous cromlech at Pentre-Evan.
Standing in an open field, on the northern slope of the strange-looking hill called Carnedd Meibion Owen, this wonderful structure is undoubtedly the finest cromlech to be found in the Principality.
The gigantic capstone that forms the roof measures some 16 feet in length, by half as much across; its longer axis lying, roughly speaking, north and south. Beneath it stand four upright stones, tall enough to permit of a horseman passing beneath the cromlech. A closer inspection shows that two only of these standing stones support the weight of the capstone; and their upper ends, being shaped like a narrow wedge, appear pointed when seen from the position whence our sketch was taken.
This noble relic of the prehistoric past has, under the Ancient Monuments Protection Act, been enclosed within a tall iron fence, which, if not exactly a pleasing feature in itself, will doubtless preserve the cromlech from further abuse and injury.
Soft white mists are stealing athwart the vale of Nevern, and clinging around the skirts of the lower foot-hills, as we wend our way back to quarters at Newport town. Glancing in the direction whence we have come, the cloud-wreaths gathered around the shoulders of Precelly glow crimson under the rays of the declining sun, as he sinks into the pallid sea away beyond Dinas Head; and by the time we arrive at our rendezvous, Darkness has spread her wings o'er the dusky landscape.
The next morning sees us early under way, and well on the road to Kilgerran, ere the sun has climbed high enough to make matters unpleasantly warm for the wayfarer. Beyond Nevern we pass near the lonely deserted chapel of Bayvil, and, after a long spell of steady collar-work, get some fine vistas of varied landscape near the old grass-grown barrows called Crugau Kemaes.
At the crossways farther on we are a matter of 500 feet above the sea, with Monington village on our left, and the church and ruined castle of Llantood away to the right. Then, as we near Kilgerran, we notice an old boundary-stone under the hedgerow, bearing a few half-obliterated lines anathematizing him who should venture to remove this landmark, the original purpose of which has probably long since been forgotten.
Passing under a railway arch, we soon descry Kilgerran Church, standing on the brink of a narrow ravine that opens towards the Teivy. St. Llawddog, from whom this church inherits its euphonious patronymic, appears to have been a saint of some local celebrity, for his name crops up at more than one place in the immediate neighbourhood.
With the exception of its gray old tower, Kilgerran Church has been entirely rebuilt, and calls for no particular notice. In the graveyard stands a venerable monolith, much older than the church itself. The weathered surface of the stone is scored with those Ogham characters, so fascinating to the antiquarian mind; these hieroglyphics have been deciphered as follows: trengussi fili hic jacit. Unfortunately, a large portion of the maenhir is sunk below the level of the ground, thus rendering a thorough examination of its surface impracticable.
To eyes fresh from the beauties of Nevern, the long, rambling street of Kilgerran offers anything but an inviting appearance, being flanked by meagre unkempt dwellings, with but one or two cottages of more antique mould in the older portion of the village.
Despite the humble, not to say squalid, aspect of the place, there was a time when Kilgerran held a position of no small consequence. A borough town, governed by portreeve, aldermen and burgesses, its 'court-leet' and 'view of frankpledge' held their annual meetings at Kilgerran; while many another time-honoured privilege bore witness to a state of things that has long since passed away.
In those piping times, it was customary for each newly-elected burgess to prove his fitness for office by draining at one draught a horn of strong Welsh ale; the Corporation horn used on such occasions holding fully a pint and a half of liquor!
We now make our way to the castle ruins, which occupy the brow of a lofty cliff overhanging the deep gorge of the Teivy. The existing remains of Kilgerran Castle consist of two massive round towers, separating the outer from the inner bailey, with considerable fragments of the gate-house.
The entire fabric is plain, and very massively constructed, showing little or no trace of ornamentation; the few doorways and windows that remain being arched in a primitive fashion, without the use of the customary keystone. A rough stone wall encircles the precipitous scarp next the river, a portion of which fell down suddenly many years ago, having been undermined by the excavations of the quarry-men.
Kilgerran Castle appears to have been founded at a very remote period, though the existing structure is probably not older than the beginning of the thirteenth century. In Powell's 'History of Cambria,' we read how, Henry I. having granted to Strongbow the lands of Cadwgan ap Blethyn, the great Earl' builded a faire castel at a place callyd Dyngeraint, where Roger Montgomerie had begonne a castel before tyme.' Its subsequent history is unimportant, and Kilgerran Castle has at last succumbed to the shocks of time and the more devastating hand of man, who appears to have regarded its ancient walls in the light of a convenient quarry.
Looking out across the deep vale of Teivy, we can see the mansion of Coedmore amidst its ensheltering woodlands. It is said that, in olden times, a fishing-net was stretched athwart the river just below the mansion, a line being attached to the net and connected to a bell, which rang in the house to give notice to the inmates when a catch of salmon had been effected.
The clear, unsullied waters of the Teivy, have ever been a favourite haunt of the king of fishes. Giraldus Cambrensis asserts that 'The noble river Teivy abounds, more than any river of Wales, with the finest Salmons; and it has a productive fishery near Kilgerran.'
That curious craft the ancient British coracle is a familiar object to all dwellers on Teivyside, where from days immemorial it has been employed by the fisher folk in the pursuit of their time-honoured calling.
The coracle, or corwg as it is called in Wales, is somewhat of an oval shape, but is raised high and flattened at the bows. The framework consists of split rods forming a sort of basket-work, over which tarred canvas is stretched, though in olden times cowhide was used for this purpose; hence the ancient coracle weighed considerably more than the modern one, and this explains the old Welsh adage, Llwyth gwr ci Gorwg (A man's load is his coracle). The seat is a stout ash-plank, and through it a loop or sling is twisted by which the owner carries his coracle upon his back, the wooden rails with which the seat is provided acting as a basket to carry the fish. The method of carrying the little craft is shown in the sketch at head of the present chapter.
Notwithstanding its great breadth of beam, it is by no means easy for a novice to propel the coracle by means of its single paddle; indeed, his efforts are likely to be brought to an untimely end by a plunge in the cold, clear depths of the Teivy.
After this digression, we will now take a stroll by Teivyside; descending from the village by a steep pathway beside some humble cottages and heaps of quarry refuse. As a result of certain ancient privileges, the townsfolk have gradually converted this portion of the left bank of the Teivy into a succession of slate quarries, whose ragged talus of débris encumbers the water's edge; a sorry substitute for the luxuriant groves that greet the eye wherever Nature has been allowed fair play.
Pursuing this rough track for about a furlong, we turn to the right-about, and obtain a fine view of the castle lording it above a pretty reach of the river; and thence pursue a path that hugs the brink of the stream. After passing the last and deepest of the slate-mines, which has been carried far below the river-bed, we enjoy a still more charming glimpse of the grand old ruins enfolded amongst richly wooded hills, all mirrored in an unruffled sheet of water at a point where the ferry-boat lies moored, beside the grassy bank.
Thenceforward our footpath meanders amidst the magnificent groves of oak, beech and ash, that adorn the estate of Castle Malgwyn; their graceful forms reflected in the still, dark reaches of the placid Teivy, which hereabouts affords some of the finest river scenery to be found in all wild Wales.
Onwards to Llechrhyd Bridge, whose ivy-mantled arches, backed by the lodge and woodlands of the park, form a 'likely' subject for the artist's pencil.
The village, with its snug waterside inn beloved of anglers, has a very seductive air about it; but we must not linger here, for these transpontine lands lie without the bounds of Pembrokeshire, and are therefore taboo to us. So, striking away in the direction of the south, we traverse the spacious demesne of Castle Malgwyn, getting a peep of the mansion set amidst dark, umbrageous woodlands; our approach causing the startled bunnies to skirmish away helter-skelter into the bracken coverts as we pass.
The return route to Kilgerran lies through a pleasant vale, with young oak-coppices upon the one hand, and a marshy reed-grown watercourse upon the other.
Setting forth by a different route upon the morrow's morn, a row downstream from Kilgerran introduces us to some charmingly diversified reaches of the swift-flowing Teivy. After passing below the wooded slopes of Coedmore, our little craft threads the rocky channel as it twists, now this way, now that, through the broken undulating country, affording ever some fresh variation of the lovely changing landscape, to which the castle ruins form an imposing centre.
Presently we emerge upon broad tidal flats, where groups of cattle are browsing amidst the lush sedgy herbage. Shooting under Cardigan Bridge, we open out that final reach of the river where, in the words of George Owen, 'Teivy saluteth St. Dogmells, as it passeth to the sea.'
About a mile distant from the county-town of Cardigan, but on the Pembrokeshire side of the river, stands the before-mentioned village of St. Dogmaels. The little place is perched upon a rather steep declivity, its comely dwellings clambering up the slope, so that, from the top of the village, one's eye follows the course of the Teivy to the foam-fringed shores of Cardigan Bay, and the headland called Pen-Kemaes.
Here the cottage gardens are gay with heliotrope, fuchsias and hydrangea, which brave the winter out in the more sheltered corners; while the full-rigged flagstaffs that rise amidst the garden plots bespeak the nautical proclivities of the residents.
This village derives its name from the ancient Welsh monastery of St. Dogmaels, which stood about a mile away at a place still bearing the name of Yr Hên Mynachlog (the Old Monastery). Of this venerable structure, founded by Robert de Turribus, but scanty traces now remain, in the shape of a few ivy-mantled walls pierced with Gothic arches, whose crumbling stones retain the ball-flower ornamentation of the Decorated period. The neighbouring parish church has, alas! been swept and garnished by iconoclastic hands, which have ruthlessly bereft the fabric of every feature of interest.
Our investigations completed, we betake ourselves to the Cardigan terminus, and travel thence over the branch line of the Great Western Railway as far as Crymmych-Arms Station. Beyond Kilgerran the line traverses some pretty furze-clad dingles, and, as we approach our destination, mounts in short, sharp curves towards the high ground that forms the watershed of northern Pembrokeshire.
From the summit level, some 700 feet above the sea, we command a noble prospect of the Precelly range, and the more remote hills about Newport Bay and Fishguard; the effect being heightened by the sunset glow, while a brilliant rainbow spans the purple clouds that brood over the loftier crests of the distant mountains.
At Crymmych we avail ourselves of such accommodation as the wayside inn affords, intending to start away bright and early upon the morrow's explorations.