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.
One 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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'oeuvre_ 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: ANCIENT QUERN OR HAND MILL.]