TO ANGLE, RHÔSCROWTHER, AND THE CASTLE MARTIN COUNTRY.
To-day we extend our rambles, by a westerly course, through the remote
and little-visited peninsula that encompasses the 'lardg and spatious
Harborough' of Milford Haven, upon its southern flank.
There is an Eastern saying that 'men grow blind in gazing at the sun,
and never see the beauty of the stars.' Throughout the locality in
question we shall not be dazzled by grand or striking scenery; yet we
may happen unawares upon many a nook of pleasant verdure amidst its
rolling sandstone hills; and quiet corners, full of an indescribable
charm, in the world-forgetting villages (undiscovered by the
guide-books) that nestle in its remote, sequestered vales.
Getting away 'bright and early' from Pembroke streets, while the smoke
of newly-kindled fires still hangs softly around the old house-tops of
the town, the keen, crisp air of the half-awakened day sends us spinning
along at a pace that makes short work of the tedious highway.
At a bend of the road we digress into a hollow seductive lane that
meanders, in nonchalant fashion, around the head of a tidal inlet;
thence our by-way beguiles us, by moss-grown stepping-stones, across a
tinkling rill that wantons in rippling eddies amidst big red sandstone
boulders, where ivy and hartstongue fern have made their home. Onwards
we pursue this secluded lane, under the cool shade of an overhanging
coppice; here the deep, ruddy soil is shot with purple hues, from the
blue sky mirrored in each shallow puddle left by last night's rain.
In every shadowy nook wreaths of fairy gossamer glisten, like frosted
silver, amidst the emerald green of the hedgerow. The merry pipe of
linnet and piefinch sounds cheerily forth as we pass along; while that
quaint little fellow, the nuthatch, utters his unmistakeable note
(resembling the ring of skates on the ice), as he flits from tree to
tree. Working his way head-downwards, in his own peculiar fashion, he
searches trunk and branches for his favourite fare; striking with his
long, sturdy beak, and steadying himself by the purchase of his
outspread tail.
Now and again we catch a glimpse of a smart goldfinch, and presently
discover his pretty nest, with eggs lying warm and cosy; while sober
little wrens flit briskly in and out under the bushes. Even the
nightingale, though a _rara avis_ in these parts, has, this phenomenal
season, been heard in the woods near Cresselly. The following tradition
explains how these little songsters came to shun the county of Pembroke.
It appears that St. David, 'being seriously occupyed in the night tyme
in his diverse orizons, was soe troubled with the swete tuninges of the
Nightingall as that he praied unto th' Almightie that, from that tyme
forward, there might never a Nightingall sing within his Dioces; and
this was the cause of confininge of the bird out of this countrey. Thus
much,' remarks the chronicler, 'to recreat the reader's spirettes.'
Presently as we rise the hill a broad, land-locked bay opens out to the
briny Haven at Pennar Mouth. In the words of that quaint chronicler,
George Owen: 'This is the creke that cometh upp to Pembroke towne. It is
the largest and greatest creke of al Milforde, and passeth upp into the
land a three Myle and more; and at the upper End it parteth itself in
two Branches, and compasseth about the Towne and castle of Pembroke;
serving the said Towne for a moate, or strong Ditch, on every side
thereof. A Bark of 40 or 50 Tonnes may enter this Creke att low water,
and ride at Ankher att Crowpoole, but noe further without helpe of ye
Tyde. The Crow is a shallow, or shelf, a pretty way within the entrance
of Pennar; on itt groweth the best Oysters of Milforde. It is a big and
sweete Oyster,' saith he, 'and poore folk gather them without dredging.'
Far away upon the glassy waters of the Haven, a handful of vessels lie
at anchor off Hobb's Point, where the old coach-road runs down to the
ferry. All this is soon lost to view as we descend to a tree-shaded
dingle, aglow with foxgloves, campion and yellow _fleur-de-lys_. Anon
our path winds upwards across an open hillside, amidst acres of glowing
gorse; passing a few lonely thatched cottages, with donkeys browsing
leisurely about their open doors.
At a place called Wallaston Cross five lanes converge, necessitating a
consultation with the trusty Ordnance map. The choice falls upon an
upland road, running along the brow of a hill, that raises us just high
enough to peep across the Haven to Milford town, and the towers of
distant Pembroke; over which we catch a glimpse of the Precelly hills,
lying far away upon the northern horizon.
Down in a sequestered dell, overlooking the estuary, nestles the little
church of Pwllcroghan; its low tower and dumpy spire scarce out-topping
a grove of tempest-torn trees.
Long ago this lowly edifice was restored by Ralph de Beneger, a former
Rector, whose counterfeit presentment reposes in his church beneath a
canopy bearing the inscription: 'Hic jacet Radulphus Beneger, hujus
ecclesiæ Rector.' In 1648 a skirmish took place in Pwllcroghan
churchyard, between the Royalist and Parliamentary troops; when it is
recorded that 'the malignants, as was their custom, displayed on their
hats the legend, "We long to see our King."'
Trudging steadily onwards, we pass near Hênllan House, formerly a
possession of the Whites of Tenby; a place which still keeps its old
Welsh name amidst all its Saxon neighbours. That rascally vagrant the
cuckoo now pipes up from a neighbouring coppice, and 'tells his name to
all the hills' in monotonous iteration; while lovely Silver-washed
Fritillaries and sky-blue butterflies flit to and fro beside the
hedgerow.
At a crook of the lane we turn through a gate, and follow the
'fore-draught' down to Eastington farmhouse, where the good-natured
farmer and his better-half provide bed and board for the coming night; a
vast convenience in this unfrequented district, which offers no
accommodation of a higher type than the ordinary hedge alehouse.
After despatching a modest repast, in which the staff of life forms the
backbone of our fare, we resume our devious ramble. An unmistakeable
footpath leads past the ruins of a deserted water-mill to the shore of
Angle Bay, whose calm blue waters, spreading broadly into the land,
mirror a cloudless sky of unrivalled purity. Skirting an ancient
moss-grown wall which, for some inscrutable reason, encloses a tract of
apparently valueless marshland, we roam across the shingly beach towards
a group of isolated buildings. Pale yellow sea-poppies, taking heart of
grace to brave the lusty breezes, beautify the waste places with their
delicate flowers; and groups of cattle, standing knee-deep in the
shallows, add a touch of life to the pleasant, tranquil scene.
Our route now lies around the rocky shore, an opportune field-path
skirting the low cliffs, and affording lovely ever-changing views over
the sunny landscape and the land-locked Haven. The warm south wind,
sweet from clover fields, is fraught with the roar of the ocean, driving
full into Freshwater Bay a mile away beyond the sandy burrows; but here
under the lee of the hill, scarce a breath of air stirs the ripening
barley. Suddenly a brace of partridges blusters away from the sun-baked
ploughfield, where the ruddy eye of the 'pimpernel' peeps from every
furrow.
Ensconced beneath a gnarled old hawthorn hedge wreathed in fragrant
woodbine, we indulge in a quiet pipe; watching the rabbits as they
scuttle to and fro under the sandy bank, and the dainty blue dragonflies
hovering over the meadowsweet and ragged Robin, that deck the oozy
course of the streamlet at our feet. The deep tones of a steamer's syren
float across the water, followed by the report of a heavy gun from a
fortress guarding the Haven; for the summer manoeuvres are now in full
swing, and we can see the white-peaked tents of the Connaught Rangers
behind Angle Point.
The gracefully curving shore is fringed with a broad stretch of
seaweed, of every hue from golden brown to bottle green, whence the
pungent odour of ozone is borne upon the sun-warmed air.
Glancing back across the bay, we catch a glimpse of the old farmhouse
that is to be our local habitation for to-night; near which the tower of
Rhôscrowther Church rises amidst its solitary grove of trees.
A long mile further we enter the village of Angle (or Nangle, as it is
sometimes called), a place that in ancient deeds is styled 'in Angulo,'
doubtless from its situation in a _corner_ of the land.
The long village street with its one-storied cottages, many of them
coloured yellow, pink or blue, and all embowered in luxuriant climbing
plants, has a pleasant, cheery look; and as we advance a ruined tower
comes into view, rising above some marshy meadows beside the stream.
This is all that remains of the castle of Angle, once the abode of the
Sherbornes, an ancient family in the land, who were formerly lords of
Angle. At no great distance from the church are some remains of a
handsome structure of uncertain antiquity. Nothing is known about the
history of these ruins; but they have supplied a peg whereon to hang a
local legend, somewhat to the following effect: 'Once upon a time,'
three sisters and co-heiresses, finding they could not pull together
under the same roof, agreed to build each of them a dwelling for
herself. The first is said to have erected the castle; the second, the
curious old house above mentioned; and the third, a mansion just without
the village, where a house named Hall now stands.
Turning through a wicket-gate, we pass by an old stone cross and enter
the church, over which, alas! has swept the moloch of modern
restoration, obliterating much of its original character. In one corner,
however, we espy a queer little organ of primitive type, with unenclosed
pipes and keyboard, not unlike the spinet of earlier days. This has been
recently evicted in favour of a brand-new instrument designed by the
present vicar, who is skilled in the art and mystery of organ-building.
Angle Church was one of the numerous benefices held by that famous Welsh
chronicler, Giraldus Cambrensis.
[Illustration: SEAMENS CHAPEL AT ANGLE.]
In a corner of the churchyard, overlooking the tidal inlet, rises a
picturesque little chapel frequented in olden times by the seafaring
folk, when embarking upon or returning from their ventures on the vasty
deep. Externally all is obscured beneath a mantle of glossy green ivy,
save where a traceried window or low-arched doorway peeps from under the
shadowy foliage. Ascending a few steps to the interior, we find
ourselves in a small, oblong chamber covered with a pointed stone vault;
at the east end stands a plain, stone altar, surmounted by an elegant
little traceried window, whose modern painted glass portrays Scriptural
scenes appropriate to the purpose of the chapel.
A small piscina, and the recumbent figure of some unknown ecclesiastic
under an arched recess, adorn this nutshell of a church. Beneath it is a
crypt of similar dimensions, entered through a doorway at the eastern
end, and lighted by small quatrefoil openings pierced through the
thickness of the walls.
[Illustration: Ruined Castle at Angle]
We now turn our attention to the castle ruins, which are reached by
passing the school-house and crossing a small grass-plot, adorned with
a simple monument to some local benefactor. Little else remains besides
a tall, ivy-clad peel-tower, whose massive limestone walls abut upon the
shallow stream that meanders to the bay. These solid walls are
honeycombed with archways and passages; while a good, stone-newel
stairway corkscrews up to the outermost battlements, above which rises a
circular chimney-shaft. Each of the four stories had its own fireplace,
window recesses and other conveniences; and the lower chamber is stoutly
vaulted with stone. Altogether, the place appears to have been built in
such a self-contained fashion as to be capable of resisting attack, or
even sustaining a siege.
Close at hand stands a low, rambling, yellow-washed house, having every
sign of age about it. Many years ago this was the Castle Inn. The
interior shows dark, open-raftered ceilings, where mighty hams and
flitches of bacon ripen the year round; broad-beamed oaken chairs flank
a solid table standing upon the rough, flagged floor; while dogs, cats,
hens and chickens roam sociably everywhere. A carved stone head, peeping
out from amidst the honeysuckle that clambers over the porch, is _said_
to represent Giraldus Cambrensis himself, a statement that must be
accepted with the proverbial 'grain of salt.'
The rough outbuildings at the rear also bear traces of antiquity; and in
an adjacent meadow stands one of those curious old pigeon-houses, which
formed a customary adjunct to the mediæval castle or manor-house. The
thick stone walls of this pigeon-house are built in a circular form,
surmounted by a high conical roof much the worse (except from a
picturesque point of view) for several centuries of neglect and hard
weather; the interior is pierced with many tiers of pigeon-holes, each
with a ledge for the bird to rest upon, while an 'eye' in the crown of
the roof served its feathered inmates as a doorway. The original arched
entrance has been broken away to form a larger opening, and the whole
structure appears to be coëval with the neighbouring castle. This
pigeon-house appears in our sketch of Angle Castle.
Invigorated by a crisp sea-breeze that drives the fleecy clouds before
it, we put our best foot foremost, and stretch away along a rough
cart-lane between banks of prickly furze and stunted hawthorn hedges.
These give place, after passing a solitary farmstead, to the open,
wind-swept down, aglow with amber-tinted gorse, and carpeted with dry,
crisp turf and tussocks of flowering thrift.
Half a mile across this bracing moorland lands us at the old ruined
Blockhouse, built, as George Owen informs us, in the days of Henry VIII.
'for to ympeach the entrance into the Haven.' Hence we look out across
the open seaway, that forms a worthy approach to the noble estuary of
Milford Haven.
From this sea-girt eyrie we command a spacious outlook over land and
sea. Standing beside the gray, lichen-clad ruins of the old
watch-tower, our gaze wanders across a sparkling expanse of open sea
that rolls, in waves of clearest aquamarine and sapphire blue, towards
the land-locked shelter of the Haven; and breaks into crests of snowy
foam where St. Anne's Head stands out and takes the brunt of old Ocean's
fury. The ruddy, sandstone rocks rise in picturesque confusion from the
surging breakers, which eddy around a tiny islet accessible only at low
tide; whose forefront, planted in the ocean, is barbed with a grim array
of jagged ledges and pierced with dark, yawning crevices.
Beyond West Angle Bay the mainland rounds away eastwards, with a
fort-crowned islet protecting the inner reaches of the famous estuary.
It is to be hoped that the unrivalled advantages of Milford Haven will
ere long be turned to better account. With its noble fairway,
untrammelled by shoal or bar, and deep, land-locked reaches where the
whole British Navy might safely ride at anchor, Milford Haven has no
compeer along our western seaboard. Given a better system of railway
communication, and proper facilities in the way of docks and wharves,
Milford should, in days to come, stand _facile princeps_ as a seaport
for the magnificent vessels engaged in the great and ever-increasing
traffic of the Atlantic 'ferry.'
But, meanwhile, time is stealing a march upon us, and the lengthening
shadows warn us to depart; so, casting a last glance across the sunlit
sea, flecked with white 'mares'-tails' and dotted with brown-sailed
trawlers, we retrace our track over the breezy headland. At every step
we inhale the healthful smell of wave-washed seaweed, and tread
underfoot the flowers that gem the rough, uneven ground--thrift,
trefoil, blue sheep's bit and a minute, starlike flower whose name we do
not know.
Pushing on through the quiet street of Angle, we diverge up a steep,
shady lane in search of Bangeston House; which proves to be nothing more
than the gaunt, dismantled walls of a vast group of buildings,
apparently of early eighteenth-century date, mantled in ivy and
overshadowed by sombre trees. The ruins cover a large extent of ground,
and appear to have been regarded by the neighbours as a convenient
quarry for building materials. Bangeston was, as its name implies, the
ancestral home of the Benegers, a family of much consequence in olden
times who possessed broad acres hereabouts, but whose very name has long
since become extinct.
Curious tales of the former occupants of Bangeston still linger amongst
the cottagers. A certain Lord Lyon, the Garter King-at-Arms of his time,
is said to have dwelt here many years ago; and an ancient graybeard whom
we meet volunteers the information that, 'It was a gret plaäce in they
times, and I've a-heared tell as there was quare doings when Lord Lyon
lived in th' ould marnsion. It was him as drove with a coach and horses,
one dirty night, and went right over the clift (they do say), down by
Freshwater way, and was never seed again.'
Much edified by the yarns of Old Mortality, we now retrace our steps to
Eastington Farm; musing meanwhile over these fast-fading fables, and
meeting a few belated peasant-folk trudging home through the gray of the
gloaming.
[Illustration: JESTYNTON.]
Eastington, or more properly Jestynton, is traditionally reputed to have
been, in days long before the Conquest, the abode of Jestyn, grandson of
Howel Ddâ, Prince of South Wales. A descendant of his, whose
unpronounceable name we refrain from recording, was married to Sir
Stephen Perrot, the first Norman of that name to settle in this county;
who by this alliance acquired vast possessions and influence throughout
all the countryside.
This quaint old homestead of Eastington, under whose hospitable roof we
spend the night, is honeycombed with curious nooks and corners, that
lure us on to endless scrambles amidst dark, crooked passages, and
crumbling stairways. The long south front, with its homely porch and
small-paned windows, is flanked at its western end by a massive mediæval
structure whose rough, lichen-clad walls are pierced with narrow,
deep-set windows, and topped by ruinous battlements; all looking so
hoary and ancient, one is disposed to fancy this may be a remnant of the
royal residence of that old Welsh Prince whose name it bears.
By a rude, steep flight of grass-grown steps we mount to a clumsy door,
that swings noisily on its crazy hinges as we push our way into the
interior. We now find ourselves in a large and lofty chamber, whose
solid, concrete floor is prettily marked out with lines traced in simple
geometrical patterns. Rudely-arched windows admit light at either end,
one of them having cusped openings; while a ruined fireplace yawns in
the centre of the opposite wall.
A small vaulted cell opens from one end of this room; and a narrow
stair, winding through the thickness of the wall, ascends to the
battlemented roof, which has a gangway all around and is pierced with
loopholes for defence. The dark, vaulted basement of this ancient fabric
forms a capital cool dairy, where mine hostess shows us with pardonable
pride her clean, earthenware pans brimful of the freshest of fresh milk
and cream.
Anon ensues a quiet chat over the evening pipe; the mellowing flitches
forming a canopy overhead as we lounge in the cavernous chimney-corner.
At last we retire to our lowly chamber, to be serenaded far into the
night by the boom of heavy guns, waging mimic warfare by land and sea;
while the glare of electric search-lights turns night into noontide, in
a highly distracting fashion.
Next morning the heavens are already as brass above our heads when,
turning our backs on Jestynton, we strike into the meadow-path that
leads down to Rhôscrowther village. Ensconced in a secluded dell remote
from the busy haunts of men, this quiet hamlet has a look of rest and
fair contentment; yet the place must have been of no little importance
in bygone times, for there is reason to believe that the Bishop of St.
Davids had one of his seven palaces in this parish.
Down in a hollow beside the stream stands the ancient parish church,
dedicated to St. Decumanus, patron of springs and wells, who in olden
times was held in high esteem for the cures effected at the bubbling
rill hard by.
This venerable church remains pretty much in its original condition, and
presents a picturesque array of roofs and gables, clustering beneath its
tall gray tower. The gable of the nave is crowned by a pretty bell-cot,
which probably did duty prior to the erection of the tower. The latter
is a stout old structure with 'battered' or sloping walls, having both
an inner and an outer roof of stone, and looking as though built with a
view to defence.
The north porch is unusually spacious. Its broad gable end is adorned
with the arms of the Daws of Bangeston, and the badge of the Whites of
Hentland, a notable family in bygone days, whose chapel is in the north
transept. Alongside the arched doorway of the porch is a square-headed
opening, supposed to have been used as an alms window, through which, in
those easy-going times, the priest handed out the dole of bread, money
or what not to his _protégés_.
Our attention is next attracted by a diminutive figure surmounting the
arch of the inner entrance. Upon closer inspection this archaic image
appears to be seated, with the right hand raised in the attitude of
benediction. It was rescued, we understand, many years ago from the
iconoclastic restorers who were then working their will on Angle Church;
and was placed in its present position by the Rector of this parish.
Upon entering into the sacred edifice, its picturesque proportions
excite our admiration. Notwithstanding its modest dimensions the short
transepts, curious angle passages and chancel with its pretty aisle,
give a quaint, varied look to the low interior.
[Illustration: AT RHÔSCROWTHER.]
The north wall of the chancel is adorned with a handsome, crocketed
canopy, which terminates in a triplet of queer, sculptured faces
symbolical of the Holy Trinity. This monument partly hides an ancient
niche or aumbry, where the wafer was probably kept in pre-Reformation
times. The adjacent south aisle has two canopied recesses; under one of
which reposes the handsome, though somewhat damaged, effigy of a lady,
with a wimple over her chin such as is worn to this day in the northern
part of the county. The wall above is pierced with a small piscina arch;
and the chamber is lighted by windows of very good Pembrokeshire type.
This aisle is known as the Jestynton Chapel, from the mansion of that
ilk to which it still appertains; and there is a tradition that Jestyn,
Prince of South Wales, built the church; placing it conveniently near to
his own residence, though remote from the rest of the parish.
Many other interesting features will reward a diligent search; and the
visitor who is curious in such matters will notice that the chancel arch
has evidently been cut through from the earlier nave. The south doorway,
abandoned in favour of the more sheltered north porch, affords a
convenient niche for the font: while odd corners here and there conceal
old tombstones, inscribed with quaint epitaphs or half-obliterated
armorial scutcheons.
In passing through the churchyard, we examine a dilapidated cross,
remarkable for a circular hole in the base supposed to have been used as
a receptacle for contributions to the priest from his flock. Near the
adjacent stile stands an ancient, upright stone inscribed with curious,
illegible characters.
At the little foot-bridge spanning the stream, we halt to enjoy a
pleasant retrospect of the time-honoured church, set amidst embowering
trees, with a handful of lowly cottages scattered prettily around.
Thence we push on by a footpath across the upland meadows; climbing
stone stiles, set in the turfy walls which do duty here as hedgerows.
Gradually we ascend to the wind-swept plateau at Newton; and if the
ascent is easily won, it is none the less worth winning; for it affords
an ample outlook over land and sea, with the village of Castle Martin
upon the rise of the opposite hill.
Our track now becomes somewhat obscure, so we call in to inquire the way
at the neighbouring blacksmith's shop; when a soot-begrimed son of
Vulcan, casting aside his hammer, good-naturedly pioneers us along an
intricate by-way, and points out the bearings for crossing the marshy
valley. A wild enough place is this in winter-time, as our guide can
testify; where the very hayricks have to be lashed secure to weather the
fierce sou'-westers, which, under their steady impact, bend the trees
into strange, distorted forms.
Descending the rough braeside, we now make for a conspicuous old
ash-tree, and thenceforward thread our way amidst the dykes and marshy
levels of Castle Martin Corse.
The tall steeple of Warren church, showing clear against the sky ahead,
makes a serviceable landmark, until we strike the grassy track that
leads across the marsh. Arrayed in sombre hues of russet red, rich
browns and olive greens, the level strath is dotted with groups of
horses and the black cattle for which the locality is famed, grazing
knee-deep amidst waving sedges and lush green water-plants.
As we advance, the lapwings (those lovers of lonely, unfrequented
places), wheel and circle overhead, uttering their peculiarly plaintive
pipe as they scan the unwelcome intruders. And now a hollow lane
receives us, and keeps us company until, after passing a two-three
humble tenements, we turn aside into the well-tended graveyard; and so
to the parish church of St. Michael, which stands in a little elbow of
the hill overlooking the scattered dwellings of the hamlet.
[Illustration: CASTLE MARTIN CHURCH.]
Castle Martin church has made so doughty a stand against the ravages of
time that now, in its green old age, it presents an extremely
picturesque appearance as we approach its weather-beaten portal. Before
passing within, let us pause awhile to scan the features of this
characteristic old Pembrokeshire church.
Prominent in our view rises the gray limestone tower, whose rugged,
time-worn walls rise solidly to the corbelled battlements. These have
louvred windows to the bell-chamber, and a quaint metal weather-vane
atop; to right and left range the lichen-clad roofs and walls of the
main structure; while a lofty and massive porch stands boldly out,
enclosing a rambling stairway that leads to the tower. The foreground
is occupied by crumbling headstones, wreathed in ivy and decked with
flowering creepers; and a shapely churchyard cross rises beside our
pathway.
Nor does the interior of the church prove a whit less interesting. Here
a group of graceful arches, with attached limestone shafts, gives access
from the nave to the north aisle; whence a skew arch, having detached
pillars with capitals, opens into the chancel. The latter is flanked by
similar arches enclosing pretty, traceried windows.
The great south porch has a narrow doorway at some height in the side
wall, giving access to a much-worn, straggling flight of steps.
Scrambling up these we find ourselves in the tower, which, after the
manner of the country, is massively constructed; having grim vaulted
chambers with many openings, like pigeon-holes, pierced in the solid
walls. Here are also the bells, erected by John Rudhale, A.D. 1809. The
font, though plain, is well proportioned and of early date.
This curious old church is the head of the important parish and hundred
of Castle Martin. The district is noted for its breed of black,
long-horned cattle; and in bygone days could boast its own troop of
gallant yeomanry, who shared with the Fishguard Fencibles the
distinction of repelling the notorious French 'invasion' of
Pembrokeshire, a century ago.
Leaving the quiet village to the care of an aged crone and a group of
children playing with a lame magpie, we get under way again, and make
for the crossways on the ridge. At this point the Ordnance map raises
expectations of something of a 'castle,' which proves, however, to be
nothing more than a prehistoric earthwork with mounds of circular form.
Then onward again, passing Moor Farm, where once stood a goodly mansion,
of which scarce a stone has been spared. Now we keep a straight course
towards Warren, with the skylarks making music overhead; while the voice
of that 'interesting scamp,' the cuckoo, echoes from the woods down
Brownslade way.
[Illustration: A WAYSIDE WELL.]
Shortly before reaching Warren village the country lane widens out, with
a corner of sedgy greensward under the hedgerow. Here stands a curious
old wayside well, domed over with a sort of rude canopy, whose mossy
stones, fringed with hartstongue fern, are reflected in the clear water;
indeed, from the frequent recurrence of springs and draw-wells, it would
seem that St. Decumanus, their patron, was held in high esteem in these
parts.
At Warren we call a halt to refresh the 'inner man;' then lounge awhile
in a shady nook, for a chat and a quiet pipe. Towards the cool of
evening we bear away for distant Pembroke, by the road that leads past
Orielton, where we are on familiar ground which has been touched upon in
describing a previous route.
[Illustration: CASTLE MARTIN.]