Moelfre—Owain Gwynedd—Church of Penmynnydd—The Rose of Mona.
Leaving Pentraeth Coch I retraced my way along the Bangor road till I
came to the turning on the right. Here I diverged from the aforesaid
road, and proceeded along one which led nearly due west; after travelling
about a mile I stopped, on the top of a little hill; cornfields were on
either side, and in one an aged man was reaping close to the road; I
looked south, west, north and east; to the south was the Snowdon range
far away, with the Wyddfa just discernible; to the west and north was
nothing very remarkable, but to the east or rather north-east, was
mountain Lidiart and the tall hill confronting it across the bay.
“Can you tell me,” said I to the old reaper, “the name of that bald hill,
which looks towards Lidiart?”
“We call that hill Moelfre,” said the old man desisting from his labour,
and touching his hat.
“Dear me,” said I; “Moelfre, Moelfre!”
“Is there anything wonderful in the name, sir?” said the old man,
smiling.
“There is nothing wonderful in the name,” said I, “which merely means the
bald hill, but it brings wonderful recollections to my mind. I little
thought when I was looking from the road near Pentraeth Coch yesterday on
that hill, and the bay and strand below it, and admiring the tranquillity
which reigned over all, that I was gazing upon the scene of one of the
most tremendous conflicts recorded in history or poetry.”
“Dear me,” said the old reaper; “and whom may it have been between? the
French and English, I suppose.”
“No,” said I; “it was fought between one of your Welsh kings, the great
Owain Gwynedd, and certain northern and Irish enemies of his.”
“Only think,” said the old man, “and it was a fierce battle, sir?”
“It was, indeed,” said I; “according to the words of a poet, who
described it, the Menai could not ebb on account of the torrent of blood
which flowed into it, slaughter was heaped upon slaughter, shout followed
shout, and around Moelfre a thousand war flags waved.”
“Well, sir,” said the old man, “I never before heard anything about it,
indeed I don’t trouble my head with histories, unless they be Bible
histories.”
“Are you a Churchman?” said I.
“No,” said the old man, shortly; “I am a Methodist.”
“I belong to the Church,” said I.
“So I should have guessed, sir, by your being so well acquainted with
pennillion and histories. Ah, the Church. . . .”
“This is dreadfully hot weather,” said I, “and I should like to offer you
sixpence for ale, but as I am a Churchman I suppose you would not accept
it from my hands.”
“The Lord forbid, sir,” said the old man, “that I should be so
uncharitable! If your honour chooses to give me sixpence, I will receive
it willingly. Thank your honour! Well, I have often said there is a
great deal of good in the Church of England.”
I once more looked at the hill which overlooked the scene of Owen
Gwynedd’s triumph over the united forces of the Irish Lochlanders and
Normans, and then after inquiring of the old man whether I was in the
right direction for Penmynnydd, and finding that I was, I set off at a
great pace, singing occasionally snatches of Black Robin’s ode in praise
of Anglesey, amongst others the following stanza:—
“Bread of the wholesomest is found
In my mother-land of Anglesey;
Friendly bounteous men abound
In Penmynnydd of Anglesey.”
I reached Penmynnydd, a small village consisting of a few white houses
and a mill. The meaning of Penmynnydd is literally the top of a hill.
The village does not stand on a hill, but the church, which is at some
distance, stands on one, or rather on a hillock. And it is probable from
the circumstance of the church standing on a hillock, that the parish
derives its name. Towards the church, after a slight glance at the
village, I proceeded with hasty steps, and was soon at the foot of the
hillock. A house, that of the clergyman, stands near the church, on the
top of the hill. I opened a gate, and entered a lane which seemed to
lead up to the church.
As I was passing some low buildings, probably offices pertaining to the
house, a head was thrust from a doorway, which stared at me. It was a
strange hirsute head, and probably looked more strange and hirsute than
it naturally was, owing to its having a hairy cap upon it.
“Good day,” said I.
“Good days, sar,” said the head, and in a moment more a man of middle
stature, about fifty, in hairy cap, shirt-sleeves, and green apron round
his waist, stood before me. He looked the beau-ideal of a servant of all
work.
“Can I see the church?” said I.
“Ah, you want to see the church,” said honest Scrub. “Yes sar! you shall
see the church. You go up road there past church—come to house, knock at
door—say what you want—and nice little girl show you church. Ah, you
quite right to come and see church—fine tomb there and clebber man
sleeping in it with his wife, clebber man that—Owen Tiddir; married great
queen—dyn clebber iawn.”
Following the suggestions of the man of the hairy cap, I went round the
church and knocked at the door of the house, a handsome parsonage. A
nice little servant-girl presently made her appearance at the door, of
whom I inquired whether I could see the church.
“Certainly, sir,” said she; “I will go for the key and accompany you.”
She fetched the key and away we went to the church. It is a venerable
chapel-like edifice, with a belfry towards the west; the roof, sinking by
two gradations, is lower at the eastern or altar end than at the other.
The girl, unlocking the door, ushered me into the interior.
“Which is the tomb of Tudor?” said I to the pretty damsel.
“There it is, sir,” said she, pointing to the north side of the church;
“there is the tomb of Owen Tudor.”
Beneath a low-roofed arch lay sculptured in stone, on an altar tomb, the
figures of a man and woman; that of the man in armour; that of the woman
in graceful drapery. The male figure lay next the wall.
“And you think,” said I to the girl, “that yonder figure is that of Owen
Tudor?”
“Yes, sir,” said the girl; “yon figure is that of Owen Tudor; the other
is that of his wife, the great queen; both their bodies rest below.”
I forbore to say that the figures were not those of Owen Tudor and the
great queen, his wife; and I forbore to say that their bodies did not
rest in that church, nor anywhere in the neighbourhood, for I was
unwilling to dispel a pleasing delusion. The tomb is doubtless a tomb of
one of the Tudor race, and of a gentle partner of his, but not of the
Rose of Mona and Catherine of France. Her bones rest in some corner of
Westminster’s noble abbey; his moulder amongst those of thousands of
others, Yorkists and Lancastrians, under the surface of the plain, where
Mortimer’s cross once stood, that plain on the eastern side of which
meanders the murmuring Lug; that noble plain, where one of the hardest
battles which ever blooded English soil was fought; where beautiful young
Edward gained a crown, and old Owen lost a head, which when young had
been the most beautiful of heads, which had gained for him the
appellation of the Rose of Anglesey, and which had captivated the glances
of the fair daughter of France, the widow of Monmouth’s Harry, the
immortal victor of Agincourt.
Nevertheless, long did I stare at that tomb which, though not that of the
Rose of Mona and his queen, is certainly the tomb of some mighty one of
the mighty race of Theodore—then saying something in Welsh to the pretty
damsel at which she started, and putting something into her hand, at
which she curtseyed, I hurried out of the church.