PEMBROKE TOWN AND CASTLE. STACKPOLE AND THE SOUTHERN COAST.
In course of time the _Wanderlust_ returns in full force upon us; so
bidding farewell to our hospitable entertainers, we transfer ourselves
bag and baggage to the county-town; in order to explore from that
convenient starting-point the remoter recess of South Pembrokeshire.
The district locally known as the Stackpole Country forms part of the
hundred of Castle Martin, and is the southernmost land of the county.
Lying apart from any town or railway, it is somewhat difficult of
access; but though boasting few striking features to attract the
ordinary tourist, it yet offers no small attractions to the wanderer who
can appreciate 'the pleasures of the quiet eye.'
Threading our way at first amidst rather intricate lanes, we pass once
more through Hodgeston village, whence our route is all plain sailing.
Near Lamphey Church we fall into the main road, which runs in a bee-line
beside softly-swelling hills, until the long street of Pembroke is
entered at its eastern end.
The 'lie' of this town has been not inaptly likened to the shape of a
herring-bone; the castle precincts occupying the head (whereof the great
donjon answers to the eye), while the long main street, with its
branching lanes and gardens, suggests the vertebral bone of the fish
with its radial spines. _Apropos_ of the situation of the town, we refer
to our trusty Leland and read that 'Pembroch standith upon an arme of
Milforde, the which, about a mile beyond the Towne, creketh in so that
it almost peninsulateth the Towne, that standith on a veri main Rokki
ground. The Towne is well waullid and hath iii gates by Est, West and
North; of which the Est gate is fairest and strongest, having afore it a
compasid Tour not rofid in; the entering whereof is a Port colys, _ex
solide ferro_.'
[Illustration: PEMBROKE.]
Neither gate nor 'compasid Tour' now spans the prosaic-looking street;
and the houses in this eastern suburb have small pretensions to beauty.
We catch a hasty glimpse, however, of the 'two paroche chirches'
discovered by our author; and entertain ourselves _en route_ by trying
to pronounce the curious, unfamiliar surnames such as Hopla, Treweeks,
Malefant and Tyzard, emblazoned above the shop-fronts: while an
occasional Godolphin, Pomeroy or Harcourt, attests the strain of
sang-azure that lingers yet among the _bourgeoisie_ of the ancient
borough.
[Illustration: PEMBROKE CASTLE.]
Midway adown the High Street rises a mighty elm, whose spreading
branches quite overshadow the adjacent dwellings. Presently we catch a
glimpse of Pembroke Castle, beyond a pretty vista of old-fashioned
structures whose quaint, irregular outlines stand sharply cut against
the clear sky.
The records of this great historic fortress would alone suffice to fill
a bulky volume; the best account of the earls, earldom and castle of
Pembroke being, perhaps, that by G. T. Clark, Esq.; and there is a
detailed description of the building by the present proprietor, J. R.
Cobb, Esq. We will not attempt, therefore, to give more than a slight
outline of its past history.
Pembroke Castle was originally built by Arnulph de Montgomery, in the
reign of William Rufus; and it was greatly enlarged and strengthened by
Earl Strongbow, the invader of Ireland, who held it in the time of Henry
I.
A romantic story is related of his predecessor, the King's castellan,
Gerald de Windsor, who espoused the beautiful but notorious Nesta. A
certain Welsh chieftain, named Owen ap Cadwgan, beheld the famous beauty
presiding one day with her ladies at a tournament (like the moon amidst
her satellites); when, sighing like Alcestis for the Queen of night, the
enamoured warrior determined to possess himself of his seductive
charmer. Obtaining access to the castle at dead of night, Owen wrested
his victim from the arms of her outraged lord, and carried her off to
his stronghold among the mountains. Though a large reward was offered by
the King to anyone who should capture or slay the outlawed man, it was
eight long years before justice was vindicated, when Gerald, meeting his
adversary, put an end to his career by an avenging arrow.
But to return to history. William, Earl Mareschal of Pembroke, was
honoured with a visit from that sorry monarch, King John. During the
Edwardian period, the castle was enlarged and strengthened by the
addition of the outer ward. In 1457 Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond
(afterwards King Henry VII.), was born at Pembroke Castle.
During the Civil Wars the garrison made a gallant defence against a
large force under Oliver Cromwell. One tragic episode that closed the
eventful days of the siege may be mentioned here. Upon the fall of the
castle the three leaders, Poyer, Mayor of the town, Powell, Governor of
the castle, and Laugharne, the whilom Parliamentary Colonel, were
expressly exempted from the pardon extended to the garrison. These three
men were condemned to death: but Parliament in its clemency resolving to
punish only one of them, they were directed by Cromwell's orders to draw
lots as to who should suffer the penalty. Two papers were inscribed
'Life given by God'; the third was a blank. A child drew the lots, when
the blank fell to the ill-fated Poyer; who was afterwards shot in the
Piazza, Covent Garden, 'dying very penitently,' as we are told. After
the fortress was delivered into Cromwell's hands, it was so effectually
dismantled that, to this day, the results of his destructive work are
only too manifest.
The ruins of Pembroke Castle still present, after the lapse of centuries
of neglect and decay, a truly magnificent appearance. The massive towers
and ivy-curtained walls crown a bold and rocky eminence, that rises
abruptly from the tidal waters of Milford Haven; sweeping around the
landward face of the promontory, and enclosing a broad and spacious
castle garth.
In the centre rises the great donjon tower, which stands as an enduring
memorial of William de la Grace, the great Earl Mareschal, who in all
probability designed the main fabric of the castle as we see it to-day.
An imposing _coup d'oeil_ of the ruins may be obtained by turning down
Dark Lane, crossing the old bridge that spans the stream hard beneath
the castle, and entering a timber-yard close by. Prominent in the view
is a lofty tower, mantled in glossy-green ivy and pierced with graceful
pointed windows, that soars from the river brink, enclosing, deep below
its foundations, that 'mervelous vault called the Hogan,' whence the
garrison in olden times drew their supplies of water.
Beside the tower extends a long stretch of ivy-clad wall, rooted in the
living rock and broken at intervals by shapely turrets; over which peep
the upper works of the central keep. The spars and cordage of some
stranded coasting vessels, and a group of men calking their
weather-beaten timbers, lend an added charm to an exceedingly
picturesque scene.
We are indebted to Leland for the ensuing description of the castle as
it appeared in the days of bluff King Hal: 'The Castel stondeth hard by
the waul on a hard Rokke, and is veri large and stronge, being doble
wardid. In the atter ward I saw the chaumbre wher King Henri the vii was
borne; in knowledge whereof a chymmeney is now made, with the armes and
Badges of King Henri vii. In the botom of the great stronge Towr, in the
inner warde, is a mervelous vault called the Hogan.' Another chronicler
of very different stamp, the late Professor Freeman, thus records his
impressions of this interesting pile: 'Pembroke Castle remarkably
combines elevation and massiveness, so that its effect is one of vast
general bulk. It is another conspicuous instance of the majesty often
accruing to dismantled buildings, which they could never have possessed
when in a perfect state.'
Traversing the outer barbican that protected the deep-set entrance, we
pause to marvel at the elaborate defences of double portcullis and
thick, nail-studded doors, commanded by loopholed guard-chambers, set
within the gloomy arches of the gate-tower. The latter presents a
stately front, flanked by attached round towers, overlooking the inner
court; and contains a number of fine apartments for the accommodation of
distinguished guests.
We next turn our attention to the adjacent barbican tower, whose massive
walls are seamed from top to base by huge, gaping rents, through which
the daylight peers; yet so great is their tenacity they still remain
intact, and support the original stone roof. Each story is pierced with
loopholes, ingeniously constructed to prevent missiles entering from
below. The spacious courtyard enclosed by the outer walls is carpeted
with velvety turf, whereon 'the quality' are wont to foregather from far
and near to wield the tennis-racket, and contest for 'deuce' and 'love'
upon the selfsame spot where, in the brave days of old, the Harcourts
and De Valances, and all the flower of Norman chivalry, flung down the
gauntlet or broke a lance upon the field of honour, while fair
spectators waved encouragement from every arch and balcony.
Beside the great central keep a labyrinth of crumbling walls, towers and
arches, mainly of Edwardian date, cluster together in 'most admired
confusion.' Here are pointed out the remains of the chapel of St.
Nicholas, given by Montgomery to the Norman abbey of Sayes. A chamber is
usually pointed out, in the building called the Exchequer, as that in
which Henry VII. first saw the light; but Mr. Cobb suggests a room in
the tower overlooking Westgate Hill. Unfortunately, the arms and badges
noticed by Leland no longer exist to mark the scene of that interesting
event.
Clambering down a flight of broken steps in an obscure corner of the
North Hall, we enter the vast cavern known as the Wogan; a very curious
and characteristic feature of Pembroke Castle. As we ramble over the
damp and slippery floor, by such light as can struggle in through the
huge sally-port and a narrow, pointed window, we find ourselves in a
spacious, natural vault sunk deep in the living rock; its rugged walls
and roof festooned with hartstongue fern, and stained by oozing
moisture--a weird, fantastic spot, such as the shade of the primæval
cave-dweller might frequent, should he elect to revisit the glimpses of
the moon.
Sheer from the 'main Rokke' upon which the castle is founded, rises the
vast, circular keep or donjon tower, which formed the central stronghold
of the fortress. This is undoubtedly one of the most ancient parts of
the castle, having been erected by William Strongbow the elder, 'Rector
Regis et Regni,' as he proudly styled himself; who was Earl Mareschal of
Pembroke during the reigns of Richard Coeur-de-Lion and John.
This imposing structure impresses every beholder by the vast proportions
and stern simplicity of its mighty bulk. The massive walls rise to a
height of more than 75 feet, and are of amazing thickness and solidity;
a spiral staircase, set deep within the wall, gave access to the several
floors and to the rampart around the summit, which commands a wide sweep
of the circumjacent landscape, with a glimpse of the winding Haven. The
floors have long since fallen away, though the holes for the beams that
supported them may still be seen, and two huge fireplaces with yawning
archways of enormous size. Lancet-windows and loops for the archers open
out here and there; one of the former, high up the wall (which appears
in our sketch), retaining some touches of ornamentation.
'The Toppe of this round Towr,' as Leland quaintly puts it, 'is gatherid
with a Rose of Stone;' and, despite seven centuries of rough weather and
hard usage, the huge fabric appears intrinsically little the worse for
wear, and capable still of making a stand ''gainst the tooth of time and
razure of oblivion,' for many a long year to come.
A stroll around the outer walls, and a peep at the Monkton Tower,
completes our perambulation of Pembroke Castle. With its neighbours of
Manorbere, Tenby and Carew, Pembroke formed a quadrilateral, planted to
guard this exposed district against attack from without: moreover, as
Professor Freeman has pointed out, this time-honoured fortress has a
special interest for the antiquarian student, as affording an unusually
complete example of a mediæval castle protecting a civic settlement.
In the course of a ramble around the town, we turn into old St. Mary's
Church, a handsome edifice containing some curiously sculptured tombs
and a brand-new reredos. A low, massive tower rises at one end of the
church; and hard by it stands the quaint cupola of the old market-house,
which, adorned with a clock, and little figures of boys by way of
pinnacles, makes a pretty show in the view along the High Street. Many
of the older houses have an unpretentious charm about them, with their
antiquated bow-windows and wide oak staircases with twisted balusters.
Not a few of the better sort have old-fashioned gardens to the rear,
abloom in summer days with homely flowers, and redolent of honeysuckle,
lavender and jasmine.
[Illustration: THE OLD WEST GATE. PEMBROKE.]
Of the three town gates described by Leland, a scanty remnant of the
West Gate is all that now survives. Proceeding down the main street,
with the castle walls upon our right hand, we pass a group of cottages
jumbled all together upon a rising bank beside the highway, whence they
are approached by flights of crazy steps. A glance at our sketch of
these picturesque old structures (which have already been partially
'restored' since this view was taken) will show the broken arch of the
demolished West Gate, and the castle walls frowning across the roadway,
which has been widened out since the gate was removed.
At the bottom of the hill we skirt the salt waters of a creek, or
'pill,' to use the local term, that 'gulfith in' beneath the shaggy bank
upon which the castle stands. Traversing the bridge, we mount upwards
again, and turn aside into a hollow way where a cluster of thatched
cottages, half hidden beneath embowering woodbine, stands high above the
roadway; whence time-worn steps clamber to their lowly porches.
But, _vis-à-vis_ across the lane, rises a building whose unfamiliar
aspect at once arrests our attention. This is Monkton Old Hall, whose
massive front of dark-hued stone is pierced with narrow windows, set
beneath a low browed archway. Upon passing to the rear we stumble upon a
real old-world nook, where a crazy old 'Flemish' chimney rears above a
curious medley of weather-stained roofs and gables.
With the courteous assent of the proprietor, we now take a glance round
the interior. Passing through a low, pointed doorway, we thread our way
amidst tortuous passages, and enter a lofty apartment.
A large stone arch in the wall at one end encloses two quaint little
slits of windows (or peepholes, rather), with a similar opening lower
down, overlooking the approach from the outer entrance. A tortuous
stairway gives access to the upper regions, which contain various small
chambers, one of them having a fine old stone chimney-piece.
But the most notable feature of the place is a large, oblong chamber cut
out of the rock, with vaulted roof of Norman date supported by massive
ribs, which occupies the lower part of the house. It has a separate
entrance from the road, and a big fireplace opening to the circular
chimney-shaft above mentioned.
[Illustration: THE PRIORY DWELLING MONKTON.]
Monkton Priory, of which this old hall appears to have been the
hospitium, or Prior's dwelling, was founded in 1098: and was subordinate
to St. Martin's Abbey at Séez, in Normandy.
Resuming our ramble, we turn through a wicket at the top of the road,
and follow a narrow path that leads to the great south porch of Monkton
Priory Church. The venerable edifice has a picturesque appearance; with
the ruined walls and traceried windows of an ancient chapel beside the
chancel, and the Norman porch breaking the line of the nave roof. Upon
passing around to the north side, we are struck by the archaic
simplicity of the long, Norman nave, strengthened with vast rugged
buttresses and lighted by narrow, round-arched windows, set few and far
between. The chapel above mentioned projects upon this side; and the
ground is broken by traces of buildings that formed part of the
precincts of the ancient priory.
The lonely dwelling to the westward was until lately used as the rectory
house; an unpretending edifice, whose weather-stained coating of
rough-cast partially conceals rows of old corbels, and other
half-obliterated features. Looking hence across Monkton Pill we have a
fine view of the castle, with its picturesque array of broken towers and
bastions, and a quaint old stone pigeon-cot down in the valley which
formed an appendage to that lordly _ménage_. While enjoying this goodly
scene, a summer shower sweeps up from the sea, and robs us for a time of
the enchanting prospect: but ere long the old fortress reappears beneath
a brilliant arc of rainbow, glowing in borrowed splendours under the
warm rays of the declining sun.
* * * * *
'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,'
as we fare cheerily forth, on the morrow's morn, to explore the remoter
recesses of that secluded district ycleped the Stackpole Country.
Our footsteps echo loudly as we trudge through Pembroke's deserted
street, where as yet a few half-awakened housemaids, and labouring men
going to their day's work, are the only signs of life.
Nearing the railway-station we turn aside into a narrow, tortuous lane;
cross the stream that fed the old town moat and, passing a water-mill
beside a disused limestone quarry, we strike up the steady ascent of
Windmill Hill; catching _en route_ a glimpse of the time-worn steeple of
St. Daniel's Church, now used merely as a cemetery chapel.
Upon winning the crest of the ridge the country opens out ahead,
showing a cluster of tall church towers clear against the skyline; and
then we drop sharply down one of those short, steep 'pinches' that make
such heavy work for the horses hereabouts.
Groups of country-folk jaunt by to market in carts of primitive build,
propelled by strong, well-cared-for looking donkeys; and thus, _a poco a
poco_ as they say in Italy, we work our passage through quiet,
unfrequented byways startling a shy rabbit here and there, or flushing a
buxom partridge and her brood from beneath our very feet.
Now and again we pause to catch the throstle's mellow song, or to watch
the easy movements of a pair of sparrow-hawks, as they wheel in slow,
graceful gyrations through the air.
By-and-by we come to Cheriton; a tiny hamlet with a comely church, whose
tall, ivy-clad tower rises from a wooded dell. In the churchyard stands
an ancient cross smothered in creepers, and the stepping-block for those
who rode to church in bygone days.
[Illustration: SIR ELIDUR DE STACKPOLE.]
In the north wall of the chancel, beneath a handsome, canopied recess of
somewhat unusual character, lies the effigy of its reputed founder, Sir
Elidur de Stackpole.
The figure has a grave and dignified appearance; it is clad in a suit of
chain-and-plate mail, and has sword, shield and large spurs. The worthy
knight is represented with crossed legs, as having fought in the wars of
the Crusades; at the time, no doubt, when Baldwyn and Gerald of
Manorbere were inciting the people to that famous enterprise.
The base of this monument is divided into six panels, in each of which
is a figure beneath a cusped and crocketed arch. These quaint little
effigies show a curious variety of costume and expression, and are worth
close examination. Upon the opposite, or southern, side of the chancel
is the figure of a lady, apparently of Edwardian date. The head is
covered with a square hood, and is supported by two kneeling angels.
This effigy is very well executed, and in an unusually good state of
preservation.
In the adjacent chantry we notice the early seventeenth-century monument
of 'Roger Lorte, late Lorde of the Mannor of Stackpoole.' This singular
erection is enriched with the painted figures of Sir Roger, his lady,
and their twelve children, and bears a pious inscription in the peculiar
style of the period. Under the window of this chantry lies a disused
altar stone bearing the following inscription, which we respectfully
submit for antiquaries to exercise their wits upon: CAMU ORIS FILI
FANNUC.
Hard beneath the church we plunge into a woodland path, and follow the
meanderings of a prattling brook which hurries along, beneath the cool
shade of overarching trees, to the lake-like river that skirts the broad
demesne of Stackpole Court.
The variety and luxuriance of the forest trees that flourish in this
sheltered locality, are all the more striking in a country where
well-developed timber is, as a rule, conspicuous by its absence; for the
rigorous gales that sweep across the more exposed uplands, give to the
struggling vegetation that leeward slant which is a characteristic of
many a Pembrokeshire landscape.
Pleasant it is, turning from the glare of the dusty roadway, to saunter
beneath these leafy aisles of smooth-stemmed beech and knotty oak,
mountain-ash, ilex and Scotch fir; and to push our way through
intertwining thickets of bramble, wild-rose and ivy, enmeshed by the
clinging woodbine and traveller's joy; while all the time the mercury,
in less-favoured spots, is climbing steadily towards the eighties.
Crossing a rustic bridge that spans the lake, we pause to watch the
slim, brown trout darting in every direction beneath the water-lilies
that adorn its placid surface; when, suddenly, a brace of dusky
waterfowl, alarmed by our intrusion, dart off with an impetuous splash
and trail away in rapid flight to the shelter of the ozier-beds.
[Illustration: STACKPOLE.]
Ere long the broad, gray front of Stackpole Court comes into view beyond
a stretch of velvety greensward; the massive porch being flanked by two
small Spanish field-guns of antiquated pattern, bearing the titles 'La
Destruidora' and 'La Tremenda.' The existing mansion was built by an
ancestor of the present Lord Cawdor, upon the site of the baronial
residence of that same Sir Elidur de Stackpole, whose tomb we have so
lately seen at Cheriton.
The older house had experienced a chequered career. After weathering
many troubles in mediæval times, it was garrisoned by the King's troops
during the Civil Wars: when its stout old walls offered such effective
resistance to the Parliamentary cannon, that they did but little
execution.
Stackpole is now the residence of the noble 'Thane of Cawdor,' whose
ancestor acquired the estate by marriage with Miss Lort, the sole
heiress to all these broad acres.
The mansion contains some interesting works of art and relics of
antiquity, including a portrait by Romney of the famous Lady Hamilton; a
fine painting of Admiral Sir George Campbell, G.C.B., who captured the
French invaders at Fishguard in 1797: and a curious old map of the
county, adorned with shields and armorial devices.
[Illustration: THE HIRLAS HORN.]
That famous drinking-cup the 'Hirlas horn' was formerly to be seen at
Stackpole, but has since been removed to Golden Grove, in
Carmarthenshire. This curious treasure is mounted in silver, and is
supported upon an oval plinth by two silver quadrupeds, as shown in our
sketch. The latter are probably the only remaining portions of the
original horn, presented by Henry of Richmond to his faithful
entertainer, Dafydd ap Ievan, while resting at the castle of Llwyn
Dafydd, in Cardiganshire, on his way to Bosworth Field.
Upon faring forth again, we are struck with admiration of the splendid
groups of evergreen trees that adorn the vicinity of the mansion, and
the trim, well-tended grounds that contrast so pleasantly with the wild
luxuriance of the surrounding woodlands.
At the neighbouring farm we pick up a track diverging to the left, that
leads us over a bridge spanning the lake-like estuary, affording a
pretty peep of the mansion upon its bank. Thence our path winds across
the breezy slopes of Stackpole Park, until we drop suddenly upon a tiny
quay and cluster of cottages, stowed away beside the sea in the oddest
corner imaginable, under the sheltering lee of the cliffs. Ensconced in
this out-of-the-way nook, we snatch a well-earned _siesta_; and upon
resuming our stroll we follow the coast-line, passing near a cavern that
goes by the name of Lort's Cave, and catching a glimpse of the secluded
cove of Barrafundle, backed by a stretch of blue sea and the bold crags
of Stackpole Head.
Retracing our steps to the farm we pass near a spot where, according to
a fading tradition, a certain ghostly party of headless travellers were
wont to arrive, about nightfall, in a spectral coach from Tenby; each
pale shade, as 'tis said, bearing his head stowed snugly away under his
arm!
Another half-hour sees us into Bosheston, the remotest village of this
Ultima Thule. The place has a nautical air all its own; with a row of
trim coastguards' cottages, whose strip of sandy garden ground is
embellished with the figure-head of some 'tall Ammiral' of bygone days.
Atop of the hamlet stands the church, a primitive-looking old edifice,
with a rude stone cross and broken stoup standing amidst the tombstones.
The route is now all plain sailing, for we have merely to 'follow our
noses' along the sandy trackway; while the salt wind deals us many a
lusty buffet as we trudge seawards across the open, shelterless uplands.
Upon reaching the cliff-head, we discover a flight of rough steps,
whereof, as the fable goes, no man can tell the number. Descending the
winding way we find ourselves, a few minutes later, before St. Govan's
Chapel.
[Illustration: ST. GOVAN'S CHAPEL.]
This diminutive structure stands in a narrow chine between wild,
tumbled crags. It is rudely constructed of weather-stained blocks of
limestone, arched over with a primitive kind of vault, and is lighted by
two or three narrow windows. A low doorway in the eastern wall gives
access to a cell-like recess, just big enough for a man to turn round
in. Here, according to a curious old legend, St. Govan sought shelter
from his pagan enemies; whereupon the massy rock closed over him and hid
him from his pursuers, opening again to release the pious anchorite so
soon as the chase was overpassed.
Anent this queer nook, the popular superstition runs that all who can
keep to the selfsame wish, while they turn around therein, will obtain
their desire before the year is out--a belief that, to judge from the
well-worn appearance of the rock face, must be widely entertained.
Upon the western gable rises a small bell-cot, long since bereft of its
solitary bell. For it happened, 'once upon a time,' that a wicked pirate
who chanced to be sailing by became enamoured of its silvery tones, and,
landing with his rascally crew, plundered the sanctuary of its treasure.
His success, however, was short-lived, for a mighty storm arose and
overwhelmed the vessel, so that every soul aboard perished in the raging
waves. Meanwhile the bereaved hermit was compensated for his loss with a
miraculous stone, which, when struck, gave forth the identical tone of
the cherished bell; and credulous folk to this day affirm that the
neighbouring rocks ring, upon being struck, with surprising alacrity.
From the chapel we next scramble down to the 'holy well,' a neglected
spot of no interest save such as tradition can lend. Yet in olden times
folk were wont to gather here from far and wide, in anticipation of an
instant cure for 'those thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.'
Quaint legends and superstitions such as these linger, to this day,
amongst the older peasantry of this remote portion of South
Pembrokeshire. Indeed, the whole locality offers a happy hunting-ground
to anyone curious in the matter of old-time folk-lore.
For behold, is not this Gwlâd yr Hûd, the Christian Kymro's Land of
Phantasy; which, long ere the time that history had dawned, was
enveloped in Llengêl, the Veil of Mystery? Each castle-crowned headland
of this rock-bound coast, and every grass-grown rath and barrow that
furrows the surface of these immemorial hills, has formed the theme of
some half-forgotten legend or lingering tradition, long cherished among
this imaginative people.
A lonesome, sea-girt land where storms and sea-mists, sweeping from the
wide Atlantic, wreath the steadfast hills in unsubstantial vapours,
through which each beetling precipice that frowns across the ocean looms
like some weird vision of a dream. Amidst such scenes as these, the
fantastic creations of the Keltic imagination must readily have found 'a
local habitation and a name.'
Well, _revenons à nos moutons_, after this excursion into legend-land.
Seated on a mossy stone, we contemplate the age-worn cliffs whose ruddy
bastions, carved into a thousand castellated forms, range their
impregnable fronts against old Ocean's impetuous artillery. A steady
south-westerly breeze sends the green, translucent rollers vollying with
thunderous roar against the weed-fringed rocks upon the shore; while
flocks of gulls wheel overhead, drifting on motionless, angular pinions,
or sweeping across the breakers with harsh, discordant cries.
We now seek out a view-point for a sketch of the lonely hermitage, a
matter of no small difficulty owing to the tumbled nature of the ground;
but eventually we select a sheltered spot where the noontide sun,
peering downward from the cloudless vault of heaven, draws out the rich,
sweet odours of sea-pink, wild-thyme and gorse.
Mounting again to the brow of the cliffs, we ramble around the lonely
coast, which hereabouts is indented with a series of 'crankling nookes'
that penetrate, like long fingers, deep into the land.
Here is the wild and perilous abyss yclept the Huntsman's Leap, from the
story of some fabulous rider who, putting his horse to full gallop,
plunged across the unexpected chasm, only to perish from sheer fright
upon regaining his home! The nodding cliffs approach so closely upon
either hand, as to have been not inaptly likened to a pair of leviathan
vessels locked fast in collision.
A bowshot westward lies Bosheston Meer, a similar cavern sunk fathoms
deep in the solid rock. Near it is a funnel-shaped aperture that acts in
stormy weather as a blowhole; whence it is said the waves are driven
high above the land, plunging back again with a roar that can be heard
far inland.
Strange tales were told in bygone times of the freaks of this
tempest-torn abyss. George Owen, an Elizabethan chronicler, observes:
'If Sheepe or other like Cattell be grazing neere the Pitt, offtimes
they are forcibly and violently Drawne and carryed into the pitt; and if
a Cloke, or other garment, bee cast on the grownd neere the Pitt, at
certaine seasones, you shall stande afarre off, and see it sodainely
snatch'd, drawne and swallowed up into the Pitt, and never seene
againe.'
Quitting this wild and fascinating spot, we pass near the grass-grown
mounds of a prehistoric camp; and then, striking a little inland, make
for a sort of green oasis that marks the 'Sunken Wood.'
A vast, shelving pit, sunk some 50 feet below the level of the ground,
and twice as many across, is filled with a grove of vigorous ash-trees.
Their dense foliage entirely covers the top of the chasm; where it is
cut off, smooth as a well-trimmed hedge, by the sea-spray borne upon the
gales from the adjacent ocean.
Many conjectures have been formed as to the origin of this remarkable
freak of Nature; the most plausible being that, the subsoil having been
excavated by the waves through some subterranean fissure, the ground has
fallen in from above and formed this cavity.
We now hark back to the cliffs once more, and coast around the broad
inlet of Bullslaughter Bay, whose rocky walls are pierced with many a
dark, weed-fringed cavern where
'Old Triton blows his wreathed horn.'
Pacing the springy turf of the open down, we feast our eyes upon the
sparkling waters of the Channel, whose sunlit waves roll in upon the
rocky headlands, 'where the broad ocean leans against the land.' The
flat, featureless character of the landward view enhances by contrast
the attractions of the iron-bound coast; upon whose wild, fantastic
crags and beetling precipices, the traveller gazes in undivided
admiration.
Anon we diverge seawards again, and, traversing the grassy mounds of a
prehistoric camp, we look down into the depths of a profound abyss known
as the Cauldron. The weather-stained precipices of this magnificent
chasm rise sheer from the ocean, inaccessible save to the gulls and
cormorants that haunt their rocky ledges. Huge archways and vaulted
passages, yawning in the limestone rock, afford glimpses of the
foam-flecked waves beleaguering, in unceasing onslaught, these sea-girt
bulwarks of the steadfast land.
Onward we plod, until erelong the incessant clang and clamour of the
myriad sea-fowl that, time out of mind, have made their home amidst
these wild and inaccessible sea-cliffs, tell of our approach to the
far-famed Stack Rocks.
Standing upon a rocky vantage-point, we have the two lofty, isolated
rocks, or 'stacks,' full in view; rising from the surging ocean that
rolls in foaming eddies around their feet. Countless sea-birds wheel
with harsh, discordant cries around their weathered sides; where every
available ledge and cranny of the rocks is peopled with a multitude
of feathered bipeds, huddled together close as herrings in a barrel.
Here, cheek-by-jowl in sociable good-fellowship, cluster clumsy
guillemots (or'eligugs,' as they call them locally), razorbills,
and ridiculous-looking puffins in clerical black and white; while
kittiwakes, sea-pies and dark-green cormorants dart about athwart the
waves, or, perched upon some projecting ledge, pursue their morning
toilette with the utmost _insouciance_.
The eggs of these birds are of rather peculiar form. Very large at one
end and pointed at the other, their sides are curiously flattened; this
nice provision of Nature rendering them less liable to roll off the
narrow ledges of the rocks which are their resting-place.
Inexorable time forbids our rambling farther around the trend of the
sea-cliffs; so we reluctantly quit their breezy summits to hie away
inland past the lonely chapel of Flimston; keeping straight ahead
through sandy lanes glorified with hedges of golden gorse, and 'the
swete bramble floure' of good old Chaucer. Presently we come in sight of
the tall steeple of Warren Church on the rise of the hill before us.
A long mile westward from our present road lies Bullibur, where traces
of an ancient chapel have been brought to light at a spot to this day
known as the 'Church Ways.' Anent the erection of this little edifice,
the story runs that, as fast as ever the builders could raise their
stones from day to day, the Prince of Darkness came along and demolished
their handiwork during the night.
Be that as it may, we now press on to Warren; whose fine old church has
a massive tower and spire, of such lofty height as to form a notable
landmark to pilots far away at sea. The tunnel-vaulted nave and porch,
with a well-preserved cross in the churchyard, complete the tale of
Warren's _notabilia_.
With a final glance around the wide-extended landscape, encircled by a
blue stretch of the distant Channel, we shape our course over some
rising ground at a place called Cold Comfort--a tantalizing misnomer
this torrid afternoon. Our road then winds down the hill to a fresh,
clear stream, running through water-meadows where cattle stand knee-deep
in the cooling shallows; and so, crossing Stem Bridge, we enter the
confines of the ancient Honour of Pembroke.
Breasting the upward slope, we pass through numerous gates athwart the
little-frequented highway, which hereabouts calls for no particular
notice, being chiefly remarkable for the amazing and dazzling whiteness
of its coating of limestone dust, which, under the glare of the
afternoon sun, recalls the parched routes of distant Italy. This brings
into play our dark, smoked glasses and the weather-beaten sketching
umbrella, to the huge delectation of the small fry skylarking around the
wayside cottage gates.
[Illustration: ORIELTON.]
By-and-by the many-windowed front of Orielton appears amidst the rolling
woodlands that cluster around a pretty lakelet lying in the hollow of
the vale. There is an old saying that Orielton possesses as many windows
as the year has days, and as many doors as days in the month; but
finding the fable tally ill with the apparent size of the mansion, we
propound the conundrum to an old road-mender who explains that a large
part of the building was 'throwed down' years ago, when he was 'a bit of
a boy.'
At Hundleton two roads diverge near the village green, and, as 'all
roads lead to Rome,' either will do for Pembroke; so we steer as
straight a course as we can, the lane winding down beneath overarching
trees to a secluded nook where a stream meanders, under deep, ruddy
sandstone banks, to lose itself in a salt-water 'pill' that joins the
Pennar River.
Traversing the long, tedious street of Monkton, our lengthening shadows
point the way as we push on once more into Pembroke town; conjuring up,
after the long day's tramp, rare visions of the good cheer awaiting us
at the modest quarters where we come to anchor for the night.
[Illustration: AT RHÔSCROWTHER.]