broad grassy slopes of Fryn-y-Fawr, (or Vrenny Vawr, as they pronounce it), a big isolated hill to the east of Crymmych-Arms, afford a pleasant morning's stroll, with a widespreading outlook at the end of it. The mountain road by which we approach the monticle follows the course of the ancient trackway called Fordd-Fleming, which we presently exchange for the open, heathery hillside; going as we please for the tall green tumulus that marks the summit.
Save towards the west, where the higher Precelly range intercepts the view, the prospect is wide and unrestricted, comprising nearly the whole of Pembrokeshire, with its setting of silvery sea, and a vast stretch of South Wales, including the peninsula of Gower; while the northern horizon is bounded by the remote Northwallian hills, amongst which, if the day be clear, the peak of Snowdon may possibly be distinguished.
Descending by the opposite end of the hill, we pass a small homestead, whose name indicates that the source of the Nevern River is near at hand.
Somewhere within the flanks of Fryn-y-Fawr, there lies hid (according to the tradition of the countryside) a leaden casket packed full with untold gold. The genius loci that guards this mysterious treasure takes the form of a violent tempest, which bursts, in thunder and lightning, around the head of the man who is foolhardy enough to seek to possess himself of the forbidden prize.
Returning to Crymmych-Arms, we settle up accounts with mine hostess—a simple process in these parts, often arranged without the formality of a 'bill,'—and set forth anew upon our wanderings. The old trackway again forms our route, leading us past the site of a rude monument called Croes Mihangel, and thence across the heather-clad shoulders of Foel Trigarn, the easternmost spur of Precelly, which, as its name implies, is crowned with three cairns, surrounded by the stony ramparts of an ancient British stronghold.
The mountain vale opening out upon our left holds the springs of the eastern Cleddau, a stream that, after forming for some miles the county-boundary, passes below picturesque Llawhaden, and flows onwards amidst the rich woodlands of Slebech and Picton Castle, to merge in the broad, tidal waters of Milford Haven.
For the next few miles we enjoy a breezy tramp athwart the wild, uncultivated shoulders of Precelly—'Parcilly the Proud,' to use old Drayton's phrase. In his own quaint fashion, George Owen thus describes these famous hills: 'The chiefest and principall mountaine of this shire is Percellye, which is a long ridge or rancke of mountaines runninge East and West; beginninge above Penkellyvore, where the first mounte of highe land thereof is called Moel Eryr, and so passinge Eastward to Comkerwyn (being the highest parte of yt), runneth East to Moel Trygarn and to Llanvirnach.'
So far George Owen. Meanwhile we trudge onward across the springy turf, avoiding here a stretch of dusky bogland feathered with white tufts of cotton-grass, yonder a huge pile of weather-stained boulders, riven and tossed asunder by the tempests of ten thousand winters. One of these rugged cairns is known as King Arthur's Grave; another bears a Welsh name signifying the 'rocks of the horsemen': indeed, every feature of the landscape has its story or legend for the imaginative Cymro.
Rounding the head of a lonely glen, a rough but sufficiently easy ascent lands us beside the cairn that marks the summit of Foel Cwm Cerwyn, the loftiest peak of Precelly, and the highest ground in all broad Pembrokeshire. 'This mountaine,' says George Owen, 'is so highe and farre mountid into the ayre that, when the countrey about is faire and cleere, the toppe thereof wilbe hidden in a cloude, which of the inhabitantes is taken a sure signe of raigne to follow shortelie, whereof grewe this proverbe:
'"When Percellye weareth a hatte,
All Penbrokeshire shall weete of that."'
Standing well apart, and removed from the mass of loftier South Welsh hills, the view from Precelly top is both extensive and interesting. Near hand, one's gaze wanders across a vast expanse of rather monotonous, treeless landscape, until the attention is arrested by the lake-like reaches of Milford Haven, spreading like crooked fingers far into the heart of the land.
South and west the sea encompasses all, with Gower lying far away upon the Bristol Channel, and perhaps a faint outline of the cliffs of Devon verging the remote horizon. The isolated hills overlooking St. Davids are easily identified, flanked by a broad stretch of St. Bride's Bay, and its group of guardian islets. Strumble Head thrusts its tempest-torn crags seawards into Cardigan Bay, whose coast-line trends away league upon league with infinite gradation to where, softened by the humid, brine-laden atmosphere,
'The gray, cloud-cradled mountains spread afar.'
Newport Bay, lying under the lee of Dinas Head, looks as though one might cast a stone into its calm waters; and upon turning our gaze inland, the eye loses itself amidst the many-folding hills, as they rise in soft undulations to the dusky highlands of Glamorganshire.
We now push on along the crest of the moorland, striking once more into the course of the so-called Flemings' Way. After the manner of most early roads, this ancient trackway runs athwart the open highlands, avoiding the hollow places; and although much of it has been obliterated by the ploughshare, and the gradual advance of cultivation, its course may still be traced in the less-frequented localities, as it wends its way up country from the site of old Menapia towards the county-town of Carmarthen.
An ancient warrant of Sir Nicholas Martin, referring to the use of this old mountain road by the Flemish colony, observes: 'And well they might make this unusual waie for their passage, for that, passinge alonge the toppe of the highest hill, they might the better descrie the pryvie ambushes of the Countrye people, which might in streightes and woodds annoy them.'
At a place appropriately called the Pass of the Winds, we fall in with the main road as it crosses the hills from Haverfordwest to Cardigan. This we descend for a matter of half a mile, passing across a heathery upland ycleped the Hill of the Unstrung-Bows, until we come to Tafarn Bwlch, a humble wayside alehouse some thousand feet or so above sea-level.
Looking out across a broad brown reach of moorland, the eye detects a sort of rude stone causeway, curving amidst rush-grass and scattered peat-hags. This is known as Bedd-yr-Avangc, or the Beaver's Grave; à propos of which it is worthy of note that Giraldus Cambrensis mentions the beaver as abounding in his day on Teivyside, while more than one venerable legend locates this amphibious quadruped in the llyns and streams throughout wild Wales.
Arrived at Tafarn Bwlch, we call for such cheer as the lowly inn can supply; but the bill of fare proves somewhat scanty, for, in the words of the great lexicographer, 'of provisions its negative catalogue is very copious.' The goodwife, however, rises to the occasion, and regales us with a repast such as appetites sharpened by lusty mountain air make short enough work of. Then we burn incense to the drowsy god in a nook of the chimney-place, where a peat-fire glows untended upon the ample hearth.
Starting forth again like giants refreshed, we breast the stony ascent that leads to the pass amidst a sharp squall of wind and rain, which drags in a darkening veil athwart the lonesome landscape, blotting now this, now that familiar landmark from the view.
From the head of the pass we descend into the vale of the infant Syvynvy, rounding the broad green slopes of the Eagles' Hill, the westernmost buttress of the Precelly range. At the crossways we bear to the left, with the disused windmill of the slate quarries showing conspicuously upon a neighbouring hill.
Pushing on towards Maenclochog, we pass near the defunct Rosebush Station, on the line of the Maenclochog railway, which at present is undergoing in leisurely fashion a process of reconstruction. Indeed, in the matter of slowness, the builders of this line may fairly claim to have 'broken the record,' for 'tis whispered that seventeen years' work has added little more than four miles to the length of the railway!
Be that as it may, we now make our entry into the village of Maenclochog, a bleak-looking place enough, where the storm-rent trees beside the roadway attest the violence of the winter gales that sweep across these bare, lofty uplands.
Towards the farther end of the village, at a widening of the ways, stands the parish church, a structure of no great antiquity, dedicated to St. Mary. The clergyman, who has ministered here for upwards of thirty years, now courteously introduces us to the well-tended interior, the most noteworthy feature of which is a plain old font, with a singular cup-shaped recess upon its eastern face, the purpose of which we are quite at a loss to conjecture.
St. Mary's Church has no tower, but at the western end rises a low turret containing a musical peal of bells. It is a remarkable fact, indeed, that throughout this mountain district church towers are conspicuous by their absence; whereas, in the English country farther south, the tall slender bell-tower usually forms one of the most noticeable features of the parish church.
A marble cross used, we are informed, to adorn the chancel gable; but this has long since been removed to the limbo of things forgotten.
In olden times, it was customary at Maenclochog to draw the water for baptism from St. Mary's Well, a natural spring that rises just without the village. Near to this well are some tumbled stones, that once supported a large horizontal slab. Tradition tells that this stone, when struck, gave forth a loud ringing sound, which did not cease until the water from the holy well had been brought into the church. Hence the name of Maenclochog, which, being interpreted, signifies the village of the 'ringing rock.' It is much to be regretted that this curious object was destroyed many years ago, because, forsooth, the sound thereof was supposed to frighten passing horses!
At the foot of the village stands a large, rambling inn, backed by the singularly artificial-looking rocks known as 'the Castle,' whence the house takes its title. In a country where lodgings of any sort are so few and far between, the wayfarer may do worse than pitch his camp for a night in these unassuming quarters.
The way to Llandilo leads us through a hollow dingle, where a brawling trout-stream rushes along beneath cool, shadowy beech woods: while every here and there a glimpse of the purple hills adds variety to the scene.
Passing by Temple-Druid, the site of a now destroyed cromlech, we arrive at Llandilo, where we search in vain for the church: for this sparsely-peopled parish has been merged into that of Maenclochog, in consequence of which the sacred edifice has been allowed to fall into disrepair, and is now represented by a few crumbling walls smothered in rank, untended ivy.
Crossing the stone stile that gives access to the churchyard, we espy upon its southern side a slab of greenstone bearing, in rudely-chased letters, the inscription: coimagni fili caveti. A similar stone near the east end of the ruined chancel has also its superscription, which reads: andagelli iacit; with a fainter line, possibly fili cnoi, below; and over all a cross with tridented terminations.
But the pride of the place is 'St. Teilo's skull,' which is treasured at the adjacent farmhouse. This curious relic was formerly held in high esteem as a cure for all manner of sickness, water being drawn from the saint's well, and drunk out of the skull. The virtue of the draught was supposed to consist in its being administered by the eldest son of the house of Melchior, then, as now, the hereditary custodian of St. Teilo's skull. Onwards to Llangolman, the country is crumpled up into a succession of hills and narrow, rocky dingles, whereby the numerous streamlets that enliven this locality find an outlet from the foot-hills of Precelly. In one of these dingles is St. Teilo's Well, a wayside spring frequented by that saint in days of yore.
Llangolman Church, perched on its isolated monticle, presents a sorry spectacle of desecration and decay; its windows battered and broken, its roof open to the vault of heaven, while the rusty bell hangs cracked and useless in the dilapidated turret.
As we approach Monachlogddu, the landscape assumes a thoroughly Welsh appearance. A clear trout-stream, that comes rippling and dancing down the glen from the dark brown ridge of the moorlands, is here put to turn the wheel of a little flannel-mill. In response to our request, the goodman describes in broken English the simple processes of manufacture, and explains the movements of his archaic machinery. Then, after a glance at the lowly parish church, dedicated to St. Dogmael, we bid adieu to the village of the Black Monastery, and take to the road again.
The neighbouring village of Llanvirnach is said to derive its name from the following circumstance. When the good St. Byrnach was making his pilgrimage through this portion of the country, he could at first obtain no better quarters than a cowshed; thus, as the story goes, arose the name of Llanbeudy, the Church of the Cowhouse. The next day the saint fared even worse, for, coming to Cilmaenllwyd, he was obliged, for lack of better accommodation, to repose beneath the gray cromlech that gives the place its name. The third night, however, St. Byrnach came to a place where he was accorded a kindly welcome, and provided with a comfortable night's lodging. Overcome with gratitude for this hospitable reception, St. Byrnach declared the place should ever after bear his own name; and hence it is called to this day Llanvirnach, or the Church of St. Byrnach.
But to return to Maenclochog. Retracing our steps through the village, we bear away to the left, and presently come to a roadside spring called St. Byrnach's Well, a resort of that ubiquitous saint.
Our route now leads past Poll-tax Inn, and follows the course of the Via Julia, that ancient highway by which the Roman legions traversed this wild, uncivilized territory, from Maridunum, the present town of Carmarthen, to their remotest settlement at Menapia, on the shores of Whitesand Bay.
Diverging from the mountain road that marks the route of the Roman highway, we turn aside into a cross-country lane, pass several cairns and cromlechs, and presently come to Little Newcastle, a mean, unkempt village, presenting few attractions for the wayfarer.
At Little Newcastle was born a certain Bartholomew Roberts, who, about a century ago, made some noise in the world as a successful filibuster. In company with his fellow-countryman Howel Davies, (as big a rascal as himself), this notorious freebooter sailed the high seas arrayed in priceless silks and jewels galore—as pretty a pair of desperadoes as ever hoisted the skull-and-crossbones flag, or graced the yardarm of a man-o'-war.
From Little Newcastle we make the best of our way to St. Dogwells, a mite of a place tucked into an elbow of the stream, and overlooked upon the north by a rock-strewn eminence called Castell Conyn. Through the woods of Sealyham we pass on to Letterston; noting a curious piscina in the church, and an effigy which long passed muster as that of St. Leotard, its founder.
Beyond the old chapel at Ford, where the Roman highway crossed the river, the road winds through the heart of the gorge amidst a wealth of bracken and purple heather; the huge form of Trefgarn Rock towering high aloft on our right. With the brawling Cleddau, half hidden by copsewoods, tumbling along through the hollow of the glen, the whole forms as romantic a bit of scenery as any to be found in the county.
At the adjacent village of Trefgarn, that great Welsh patriot and freelance, the famous Owen Glyndwr, is said to have first seen the light; an event that took place about the middle of the fourteenth century. Certain strange phenomena that were observed at the time of his birth, were turned to full account by this enterprising adventurer; hence Shakespeare, in his play of Henry IV.,' puts into the mouth of Glyndwr the proud words:
'At my birth
The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes:
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were strangely clamorous in the frighted fields:
These signs have marked me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do show
I am not in the roll of common men.'
Alighting at Rudbaxton village, we step aside in order to visit the parish church. Upon the south side of the chancel, a pair of flat limestone arches open into what is known as the Howard Chapel, the eastern wall of which supports a large, seventeenth-century monument, commemorating various members of that honourable family.
The male and female figures beneath the arched recesses are represented as nearly the full size of life, habited in the costume of the period, and painted in a somewhat crude and barbaric manner. As may be seen in our sketch, every figure save one bears a human skull in its hand, thus recording in a suggestive way the decease of that individual. One effigy alone is minus this grim feature, as it represents the lady in whose lifetime the monument was erected.
The panel beneath the central group bears the inscription, 'To the memory of James Howard of this Parish, Esq. who lyeth before this monument, and departed this life the 29th day of November Ano 1668, Aged 35 years. Also the memory of Joanna, the Wife of James Howard, who erected this monument for her Deare friends and children, with the intent to Joyne partner to this Monument, and left this life....'
The figure to the left represents George Howard, who died in 1665; those upon the right being Thomas and Mary, son and daughter of the central figures, who died, respectively, in 1682 and 1685. A sundial upon the outer south wall of the Howard Chapel bears the initials J. H. and the date 1665.
Descending a hollow lane, we cross a stream and pass near the scanty ruins of Flether Hill, the ancient abode of the Haywards, whose tombstones we have seen in the church. Then, leaving the pleasant grounds of Withybush away upon our left, we presently strike the main road again at a place called Crowsnest, and thus approach the town of Haverfordwest by its long, transpontine suburb of Prendergast.
is market day in Haverfordwest. The big travel-stained waggons of the wholesale traders, drawn by sturdy large-limbed horses, trundle slowly through the crowded streets of the old town; while the distinctive tones of the 'broad Harfat talk' greet the ear upon every side.
Wending our way down the steep High Street, we bear away to the right at the bottom of the hill, and traverse one of the oldest quarters of the town. Presently we descry a low-browed entrance opening upon the footpath, the massive nail-studded door, with its quaint lion-head knocker, being enframed by liberally-moulded jambs. Passing beneath this ancient portal, we are admitted to an interior beautified by the rare old oaken stairway shown in our sketch; this stairway gives access to nicely panelled chambers, whose fireplaces retain their original blue Dutch tiles, painted with scenes from Biblical history.
To the rear of the dwelling-house stands a flour-mill of antiquated type; yet driving, withal, a brisk trade in its green old age. A well-trained old horse, the mainstay of the establishment, jogs round in the mill and supplies the motive power.
Stepping out to the rear, we find ourselves upon the riverside quay, along which we now take our way. Groups of bulky stone warehouses flank the grass-grown wharf, which presently opening out, reveals the Bristol Trader, a little semi-nautical inn, with its trim bit of garden-ground abloom with hollyhocks and nasturtiums; an old-time spot frequented by waterside gossips, and fraught with vague echoes from that wide outer world where men 'go down to the sea in ships.'
Hence we push on past the ruined priory to the diminutive village of Haroldstone, where some traces still exist of the ancient mansion that, for three successive centuries, was the ancestral home of the Perrots, one of the most notable old families of Pembrokeshire.
Vis-à-vis across the river Cleddau rises the parish church of Uzmaston; a picturesque assemblage of roofs and gables, clustering around a quaint old saddle-backed tower. Uzmaston Church has, within the last few years, been rescued from decay, and conscientiously restored by Mr. Lingen Barker, architect, of Hereford.
Skirting a bend of the river, we trudge through the woods to Freystrop, and enter upon a district pitted here and there with old mine-shafts. Over the water lies Boulston, where hard by the brink of the stream (perhaps a bowshot east from the desecrated church) rises a jumble of ivy-clad ruins, backed by a tangled thicket of old forest trees. Here lived the Wogans, a well-known family in days of yore, who adopted a wyvern as their crest from the following tradition.
Amidst the broad-woodlands that formerly extended around the ancestral mansion, wild beasts of various kinds were supposed to roam at large. In the remotest depths of the forest lurked the dreaded basilisk, a formidable monster whose glance caused instant death to the ill-starred wight upon whom its gaze might rest, but which perished itself if first perceived by a man.
At last a certain bold fellow determined to rid the countryside of this objectionable beast. Causing himself to be shut up in a cask and rolled into the forest, he peeped through the bung-hole, and presently spied the basilisk without himself being seen. Thereupon the dreaded monster, giving vent to an unearthly yell that could be heard for miles around, fell down and perished upon the spot, so that the country-folk were no longer troubled by the molestations of the basilisk. A dragon legend, very similar to the above, is connected with the village of Mordiford in Herefordshire.
By-and-by, as we descend from the uplands, a broad reach of the tideway opens out right before us, where the twin streams of Cleddau merge into the widening Haven. Thus we enter the village of Langwm at its upper end, escorted by a rabble of noisy, unkempt urchins who cumber the narrow roadway.
Here, in the very heart of southern Pembrokeshire, stranded like a human jetsam upon one of the inmost recesses of Milford Haven, we find an isolated community, whose speech and physiognomy alike proclaim their Teutonic origin. Imagination conjures up those far-away times, when the sturdy immigrants from over seas—ancestors of these hardy fisher-folk—pushed their advance up the winding waterway, despite the desperate onslaughts of the Britons, who, fighting for hearth and home, 'rolled on like the billows of a retiring tide with noise, fury, and devastation, but on each retreat yielded ground to the invaders.'
In their own thoroughgoing fashion, the newcomers set to work to construct a chain of castles to guard their hard-won territory; and thus, protected from the restless foe, grew up those peaceful villages and smiling homesteads, surrounded by orchards, fields, and pasture lands, that have earned for this portion of the county its title of the Little England beyond Wales.
But revenons à nos moutons, for it is time to look about us.
A curious place is Langwm, and a singular race are the people that dwell therein. Small 'butt-and-ben' cottages, some thatched, some slated, others roofed with hideous corrugated iron, compose the major portion of the village; which straggles down a narrow combe, whose lower reaches open upon an oozy elbow of the river.
The women, as a rule, are conspicuous by their absence; for they are for the most part abroad, hawking fish and oysters up and down the country. Clad in stout pea-jackets and warm blue homespun skirts, worn short for travelling the rough country roads, these hard-working women seem to belong to some alien race, as they elbow their way through the crowded streets of Tenby or Haverfordwest.
The Langwm people have, indeed, always kept very much to themselves, discouraging alliances with outsiders; nor until recent years would they even permit their girls to go out as domestic servants. In the old unregenerate days, courtship and marriage were attended with certain curious, primitive customs—customs which, to say the least, were 'more honoured in the breach than the observance.' One way and another, this singular people forms an interesting little community, which appears to have preserved intact to the present day much of the manners and customs of the early Flemish colonists.
Langwm Church is dedicated to St. Hierom. The little edifice stands, as its name implies, in a hollow combe near Milford Haven. To reach it we cross a bit of rough unenclosed greensward, littered over with oyster-shells, upon which, according to the local story, the village itself is built.
The interior of this church is enriched with some interesting Decorated features; notably a canopied niche and piscina of unusual type, upon the eastern wall of the north chapel, or transept.
Under an ogee canopy, in the gable wall of the same chapel, lies the effigy of a De la Roche (or Dolly Rotch in the vernacular), to whose family this chapel formerly belonged. The figure is that of a Crusader, clad in full armour and sword in hand; the face is both handsome and expressive, and the head reposes upon a plumed helmet. The thong of the boot, twisted around the leg, bears some resemblance to a serpent; and hence this monument is pointed out as that of the founder of Roch Castle, who, as an old story avers, met his death through the bite of a 'loathlie worme.'
Near Langwm the twin Cleddaus merge into the broad bosom of the tideway; becoming, as old George Owen says, 'both a salt sea of a myle broade and xvi myles longue before they forsake their native Countrie, ... and then by Curse of nature yeald themselves to the sea, the endinge of all Rivers.'
We now cross the ferry, and, after passing through Marteltewi, bear away in a southerly direction en route for Lawrenny. The latter is a pleasant-looking village, with comely cottages concentrated around the parish church of St. Caradoc, whose tall, ivy-mantled tower rises close at hand, overshadowed by a grove of stately elms where the rooks are making merry.
To the rear of the church the ground slopes up to a boss of open land, fringed with a thick growth of copsewood, and almost cut off from the circumjacent country by two converging 'pills,' or tidal creeks.
Pursuing a field-path that skirts the stream at the base of the monticle, we stroll through the park-like demesne of Lawrenny Castle, a handsome modern edifice, whose soaring turrets and battlements make a brave show amidst the silvan scenery.
Making our way to a handful of cottages beside a neglected quay, we now select a likely-looking craft, and pull across the Western Cleddau to the ruins of Benton Castle; whose ivy-clad battlements scarcely overtop the redundant oak woods, that come feathering down to the very brink of the stream.
Little remains of the fabric save the principal tower, the base of which is circular in form, the upper works being corbelled out and fashioned into an octagon. With the arched gateway, flanked by a portion of a second drum-tower, these crumbling ruins form a picturesque group, whose features are almost lost amidst the luxuriant foliage that runs riot over all.
Benton Castle appears never to have been more than a mere outpost, planted to guard the passage of the Western Cleddau, and forming a link in the chain of strongholds to guard this remote English settlement. History has little to tell about its past, but the castle is reputed to have been originally built by Bishop Beck. It was at one time surrounded by an extensive deer park, a portion of the ancient estate of Williamstown, which, as George Owen tells us, was sequestrated to the Crown upon the attainder of Sir John Perrot.
After groping about for some time, in vain endeavour to obtain a satisfactory view, we at last secure a sketch of Benton Castle; and then, recrossing the water, make the best of our way back again to Lawrenny.
Inns, good, bad or indifferent, appear to be an 'unknown quantity' in this highly-respectable village; but an enterprising grocer rises to the occasion, and plays the rôle of Boniface as one to the manner born.
Upon resuming our peregrinations, we set our course for Landshipping Ferry; while the gathering clouds, brooding over the darkening landscape, warn us to make ready against the 'useful trouble of the rain.' With a sudden swirl the gale descends upon us, sweeping through the straining tree-tops, and lashing up the waters of the creek into the semblance of a miniature Maelström.
Scudding for shelter to a rustic alehouse, we soon make ourselves at home in the deep, oaken settle beside the chimney-corner; discussing the day's adventures over a mug of home-brewed ale, while the fumes of the 'noxious weed' float upwards to the ripening flitches, that hang from the smoke-begrimed rafters overhead.
Half an hour later finds us once more underway, with the sunshine blinking out again through the tail of the retreating storm, and the raindrops glistening like diamonds on every bush and hedgerow:
'Sweet is sunshine through the rain,
All the moist leaves laugh amain;
Birds sing in the wood and lane
To see the storm go by, O!
'Overhead the lift grows blue,
Hill and valley smile anew;
Rainbows fill each drop of dew,
And a rainbow spans the sky, O!'
Running us ashore near some cottages, at a picturesque nook of the Haven, the ferryman now puts us in the way for Picton; which is reached after a brisk twenty minutes' tramp through the leafy glades of a deep, sequestered dingle.
It would be difficult to image anything more attractive than the situation of Picton Castle. Crowning the brow of a gentle declivity, the stately pile is sheltered from the north and east by groves of forest trees, and mighty banks of rhododendrons; while upon its southern side a beautiful expanse of the home-park rolls away, 'in emerald slopes of sunny sward,' to a broad, land-locked reach of Milford Haven.
In conjunction with the neighbouring estate of Slebech, Picton Park comprises a vast extent of open, park-like land, the haunt of game and wild-fowl; while the river front affords miles of woodland strolls, with a charming variety of ever-changing prospects. What with boating and fishing galore, not to mention an occasional meet of fox and otter hounds, he must indeed be a fastidious sportsman who cannot find recreation in this favoured locality.
Picton Castle can boast a record unmatched in the annals of any other Southwallian fortalice; for the place has never once been deserted, but has always been occupied by those who can claim direct descent from the original founder.
It was in the days of William Rufus (when Arnulph the Norman handed over the whole of the surrounding district to his trusty follower) that Sir William de Picton erected the first castle, and gave his own name to his newly-acquired possession. To his descendant, the good Sir John Philipps, the town of Haverfordwest is indebted for its fine old sandstone bridge, which he caused to be built at his own expense, and presented as a free gift to the borough. John Wesley and Sir Isaac Newton were numbered amongst his friends; and a monument, erected to his memory by the grateful townsfolk, is to be seen in St. Mary's Church, Haverfordwest.
General Picton, of Peninsular War renown, was a famous scion of the same good stock. It is said that, owing to his influence abroad, large quantities of the best wine of Oporto found their way into many a Pembrokeshire cellar, where such a vintage had hitherto been a luxury unknown.
During the Civil Wars, Picton Castle was garrisoned and held for King Charles by Sir Richard Philipps, second baronet; but was eventually surrendered (as the story goes) under the following circumstances.
One day during the course of the siege, a servant-maid was standing at an open casement in the eastern bastion with Sir Erasmus, the infant heir, upon her arm; when a Parliamentary trooper rode up with a flag of truce, and presented a letter at the window. No sooner had the maid reached forward to take the missive, than, raising himself in the saddle, the soldier snatched the child from the nurse's arms, drew his sword, and threatened to slay the hope of Picton upon the spot, unless the castle were instantly surrendered.
Though much altered and extended in comparatively modern times, Picton Castle still presents an imposing and dignified appearance; especially when viewed from the south-east side, whence our sketch is taken.
The entrance front (which is by far the oldest portion of the structure) retains the deeply-recessed portal, the rounded arches, quaint, archaic corbel-heads and narrow windows, that mark the enduring handiwork of the original Norman builders. Above the massive entrance porch rise the deep-set windows of the chapel; the handsome painted glass with which they are adorned, forming an appropriate memorial to a member of the family of Sir Charles and Lady Philipps, whose tragic death, in 1893, aroused the deep sympathy of the entire county.
Rounded bastions project at intervals from the main structure, which is of an oblong form, with a lofty wing flanking its western end. The moat, having no purpose to serve in these piping times of peace, has long since been filled up; and its place is now occupied by pleasant walks and parterres, varied by luxuriant shrubberies.
The interior of the castle contains numerous suites of apartments, disposed around a handsome and spacious hall, from whose lofty walls historic family portraits of various styles and periods look down upon the beholder.
At one end of the hall is a gallery communicating with the private chapel above mentioned; and several quaint, old-fashioned chambers, whose solid circular walls are of enormous thickness. The panelled floors and ceilings of these apartments are worthy of notice, as are their white marble chimney-pieces, delicately wrought in the Italian manner. From the recesses of the deep-set windows, we command a lovely prospect over the rich rolling woodlands of the park, encircled by a silvery reach of the Cleddau towards Landshipping Ferry.
Passing along the green alleys of the home-wood, we presently emerge upon a stretch of breezy downland, and forge ahead through whispering bracken and heather; while the sound of a woodcutter's axe and the distant bleating of sheep float lazily hitherward upon the calm, clear air.
Thence we plunge into a shadowy belt of greenwood that fringes the waterside; nor until we are nearing Slebech do these woodland glades roll back, and give place to the more open scenery of Baron de Rutzen's beautiful demesne.
The mansion and ruined church of Slebech occupy the site of a Commandery of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, who early in the twelfth century established a small community here, to collect funds for the purposes of that ancient fraternity. The creation of this Commandery appears to have been an event of considerable importance; and we find such names as Maurice de Prendergast, the invader of Ireland, and Fitzgerald, the notorious Bishop of St. Davids, enrolled amongst its earliest benefactors.
Dedicated to St. John the Baptist, the old ruined church of the Knights-Templars stands in a low, sheltered situation, half surrounded by the waters of the Cleddau; just one of those secluded spots that seem to have been congenial to the mediæval temperament. The main walls and arches of the fabric still remain fairly intact, and, like the western tower, are smothered in masses of rank, untended ivy.
A doorway in the northern face of the tower gives access, beneath a low-pitched, Gothic archway, to the interior of the church. This archway is surmounted by a decayed stone escutcheon, charged with certain armorial bearings which Fenton deciphered as 'arms quarterly, first and fourth a fesse dauncette, second and third a lion rampant.' A similar shield, at the apex of an upper window, displays the simple cross of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem.
The dismantled interior, carpeted with rank herbage and vaulted with the dome of heaven, looks picturesque in its decay. From the spot whence our sketch was taken, the old font is seen near at hand, overtopped by an arch giving access to a pretty side-chapel with traceried window, and a small piscina formed in the flank of the pillar. Through the open archway upon the right we gain a glimpse of the roofless, desecrated chancel. When Fenton was here, about the beginning of the present century, the latter was still covered with its wooden ceiling, fashioned into square compartments and ornamented at the crossings of the beams with floreated enrichments, conspicuous amidst which appeared the arms of the Barlow family.
At that time the Barlow monument occupied a prominent position against the south wall of the chancel, which may be easily identified by the ragged stonework whence the structure has been torn away. This act of vandalism is much to be deplored, for the monument appears to have been an unusually handsome one, the effigies of Barlow and his lady reposing beneath a sumptuous canopy, surmounted by a blank escutcheon.
By some lucky chance these figures have escaped destruction, and are now safely stowed away in the vaults of Slebech new church. They are excellently carved in alabaster, that of the knight being of great size; his head with its long curling locks rests upon a helmet, while the collar and order of the Golden Fleece is suspended around his shoulders. Hence it is supposed that this figure represents a certain Roger Barlow, who in the reign of Henry VIII. travelled into Spain, and was employed by the Spanish monarch in his South American ventures.
The lady, whose effigy is apparently of somewhat earlier date than that of the male figure, is arrayed in a handsome robe, over which is drawn a gracefully flowing mantle; while her long, smooth hair, bound with a chaplet around the brows, falls upon either side about her sloping shoulders.
Foundations of ancient buildings are said to have been traced in the grounds, between the church and the neighbouring mansion; but nothing worthy of note has as yet seen the light of day.
Slebech House appears to have been erected at a period when architecture had fallen to about its lowest ebb; its yellow plastered walls being pierced with rows of featureless windows, and surmounted by meagre, meaningless battlements. Nevertheless, the spacious chambers command such charming vistas of woodland and shimmering waters, as to go far towards making amends for architectural shortcomings. The mansion has superseded a structure of no mean antiquity, but of its history, which was presumably quiet and uneventful, few records have survived to our times.
Some three miles to the northward of Slebech lies the obscure hamlet of Wiston; a place so small and insignificant, that it is by no means easy to picture it as the erstwhile head of the barony of Daugleddau, a borough town, and the home of the powerful Wogans.
Wiston, we are told, derives its name from a certain Wiz, or Wyzo, a Flemish immigrant of considerable influence, who built a castle here to protect the infant settlement; of this castle a portion of the keep or donjon-tower, and a ruined gateway, still remain in tolerable repair. After having been more than once beleaguered and destroyed, the place was dismantled and deserted at an early period; so that Wiston Castle plays but a minor part in the records of border warfare.
Of the Wogan family, who for many generations made Wiston their home, the most famous scion was Sir John of that ilk, who was Lord Chief Justice of England in the reign of Edward I. This Sir John, it may be noted en passant, took to himself the style and title of 'Lord of Pyketown.'
So much, then, for Wiston. We now set forth from Slebech, and jaunt along beside the Eastern Cleddau, with the broad umbrageous woods of Minwear combing down to the water's edge, upon the farther bank of the stream. Ere long the Vale of Cleddau begins to widen out, forming a comely, verdant strath, through which the highroad winds like a narrow ribbon as it takes its way towards Narberth. For the present, however, we give this road the go-by, and turn near Canaston bridge into a ruddy lane, which climbs by a gentle ascent to the crest of the ridgeway.
Down in the vale below, at a place bearing the name of St. Kennox, lived good Rees Pritchard, the famous Welsh divine, sometime Chancellor of St. Davids Cathedral, and author of a celebrated book entitled 'Canwyll y Cymro,' or the Welshman's Candle. Such was the fame of Pritchard's oratory, that the vast congregations who flocked to hear him preach overflowed the limits of the cathedral walls, and clustered thick as hiving bees in the great south porch, and around the precincts of the sacred building.
In about another mile, our lane suddenly debouches upon the broad, triangular grass-plot, that forms the village-green of time-honoured Llawhaden. Grouped around the green rise a number of old substantial homesteads—true 'homes of ancient peace'—whose low-browed lattice-windows look out upon a vasty duck-pond, overshadowed by clumps of gnarled and weather-beaten firs.