TO ST. BRIDES, MARLOES AND THE DALE COUNTRY.
The irregular island-girt peninsula lying between Milford Haven and St.
Bride's Bay presents but few attractions for the ordinary tourist, to
whom, indeed, this portion of Pembrokeshire is practically a _terra
incognita_. Nevertheless, the locality has its own characteristic
features, which the appreciative traveller will probably enjoy none the
less for having to discover them for himself, unaided by the
guide-books.
Availing ourselves of one of the numerous vehicles that ply during
summer-time between Haverfordwest and the sea-coast, we escape a tedious
tramp of some seven miles or more.
About half-way out our attention is called to a plain, rough stone close
by the wayside. This is known as Hang-stone Davey, from the fact that a
noted sheep-stealer of that ilk, halting to rest upon the stone with his
ill-gotten booty slung around his neck, fell asleep and was strangled by
the weight of his burden.
Presently the blue sea opens out ahead, and the lane makes a sudden turn
over against a lonely country church. As we approach it, the little
edifice presents such a curious medley of gables and turrets, as to
tempt us to closer inspection.
[Illustration: WALTON WEST CHURCH.]
Walton-West church has been carefully and wisely restored of recent
years, and not before it was needed, for it is on record that in the
'good old times' two boys were kept at work on rainy Sundays, sweeping
the water that flowed in at the porch into a pit formed in a disused
pew. Eventually matters were brought to a climax by the snow falling
through a rent in the roof, and lodging upon the bald head of an ancient
worshipper! As usual, the tower, which appears never to have been
completed, is the oldest remaining portion of the fabric; indeed, it has
been considered as pre-Norman, a stone having, as we are informed, been
found in the wall bearing the date A.D. 993. A small effigy, apparently
of the Elizabethan period, built into the interior of the tower, is
usually supposed to represent the patron saint of the church. Upon the
north side of the chancel stands a well-proportioned chapel that
formerly appertained to the family of Lort-Philipps.
[Illustration: WALWYN'S CASTLE.]
In an out-of-the-way spot, about a mile to the southward, lies the
secluded hamlet of Walwyn's Castle. The distance is nearly doubled by
the crooked lanes, but a pleasant field-path saves a longer _détour_.
From the brow of the hill we have three churches full in view, in
diminishing perspective--Walwyn's Castle, down in the valley: Robeston,
farther away; and Steynton, conspicuous upon a distant hill.
[Illustration: SUMMER SHOWERS LITTLE HAVEN.]
The church of Walwyn's Castle stands upon a gentle eminence that slopes
to a hollow, wooded dingle overhanging a streamlet, whose waters meander
away to a creek of the ubiquitous Haven.
The salient feature of the edifice is its tall, slender tower, and
narrow stair-turret rising to the embattled roof. Upon the southern side
the land falls away steeply, and the brow of the bank is scored with the
grassy mounds of the ancient camp or castle, whence the place derives
its curious name.
In an old black-letter chronicle of the sixteenth century it is
recorded, 'In the Province of Wales which is callyd Roose, the sepulchre
of Walwyne was found. He reigned in that parte of Britain which is
callyd Walwythia. The Tombe was found in the days of William the
Conqueror, King of England, upon the sea side, and contayned in length
fourteen foote.'
A local variation of this time-honoured fable avers that Walwyn was
buried on the site of the above-mentioned camp, and a sort of arched
aperture, now fallen in and well-nigh obliterated, was formerly pointed
out as the burial-place of this very 'lofty' hero.
[Illustration: LITTLE HAVEN.]
Returning now to Walton, we descend a short but extremely steep bit of
road to the village of Little Haven. A few fishermen's cottages, a
homely inn and a handful of lodging-houses clambering up the rearward
hill, form the sum total of this most diminutive of watering-places.
[Illustration: LOW TIDE AT LITTLE HAVEN.]
Seawards the hamlet is begirt by ruddy sandstone cliffs of moderate
height, the rocky strata being twisted into the most curious
contortions, and pierced with caverns and crannies frequented by bathers
and picnic parties. The firm dry sands, exposed at low tide, afford a
pleasant seaside stroll to the more spacious shores of Broad Haven.
After calling a halt for a sketch of Little Haven, we up sticks and
away, pursuing a south-westerly course by a road that climbs high above
the rock-bound coast. Far below us lies a picturesque cove, with a rude
flight of steps, hewn from the rock, leading to a landing-place used by
the fisher-folk.
[Illustration: ST. BRIDES.]
After passing Talbenny Church, we approach St. Brides, and obtain the
pretty _coup d'oeil_ represented in the accompanying sketch: the
church and old-fashioned rectory-house nestling under the lee of some
wind-tossed trees, while Lord Kensington's fine residence of St. Brides
Hill shows clearly out against the dark woodlands that crest the western
down. To the right is seen a glimpse of the tiny haven, famous in bygone
times for its productive herring fishery. The little structure close
beside the water occupies the site of an old fishermen's chapel, which,
falling into ruins, was put to the degenerate uses of a salt-house. From
that time forth, as the old story runs, the herrings deserted their
accustomed haunts, and the fishing trade dwindled away:
'When St. Bride's Chapel a salt-house was made,
St. Bride's lost the herring trade.'
The parish church is interesting, and has a bright, well-cared-for look
that is pleasant to see. Upon the floor of a small north transept lie
four sadly defaced effigies. The largest of these is reputed to
represent St. Bride, the patron saint of the church, a contemporary of
St. David and St. Patrick. According to tradition, St. Bride sailed over
with certain devout women from Ireland, and established a nunnery here.
A short distance south-east from the church rise the ivy-mantled ruins
of some extensive buildings of unknown origin, overshadowed by dark
trees and surrounded by lofty stone walls pierced with loopholes, while
an arched gateway opens towards the west.
[Illustration: ORLANDON.]
Upon leaving St. Brides, we strike directly inland by the Dale road.
This brings us in about a quarter of an hour to Orlandon, where the
skeleton of a large old mansion rises grimly above a group of wayside
cottages. In its palmy days Orlandon was the home of the Laugharnes, a
family of some celebrity in their time, but now extinct in this
locality.
According to a romantic story, the first member of this family who
appeared in this district was shipwrecked and washed up more dead than
alive on the seashore not far away. Here he was found by the daughter
and heiress of Sir John de St. Brides, who caused him to be carried to
her father's house, where he was hospitably entertained.
Laugharne, of course, was soon over head and ears in love with his fair
deliverer, and the lady being in nowise backward in response to his
suit, they married and founded a family whose descendants resided for
generations at Orlandon.
[Illustration: MULLOCK BRIDGE.]
Another mile brings us to Mullock Bridge, where a long causeway
traverses a marshy backwater of the Haven. Anent this same bridge a
quaint story is related concerning Sir Rhys ap Thomas of Carew. Having
registered a vow before the King that Henry of Richmond should not
ascend the throne save _over his body_, the crafty knight fulfilled his
word by crouching beneath the arch of Mullock bridge while Henry rode
across it.
A glance at the map suggests a short _détour_ to obtain a peep at
Marloes. The sandy lane, meandering beside a streamlet, lands us right
abreast of the church at the entrance to the village. The little edifice
makes a pleasant picture, with a handful of low thatched cottages
grouped around. Inside we find the small pointed chancel arch with
projecting wings, characteristic of the churches in this locality.
[Illustration: MARLOES.]
There are some curious features here, notably an old bronze sanctus
bell, and a modern baptistery sunk in a corner of the floor, to meet the
predilections of the Welsh churchman, who does not apparently consider
the ceremony of baptism complete unless he can 'goo throw the watter.'
Dwelling apart from the busier haunts of men, the good folk of this
remote parish have kept pretty much to themselves, and have acquired the
reputation of being a simple-minded, superstitious race--'Marloes
gulls,' as the saying is. In order to save the long Saturday's tramp to
Haverford market, a Marloes man hit upon the ingenious device of walking
_half_ the distance on Friday, then returning home he would complete the
_rest of the walk_ the next day!
In the 'good old times,' if tales be true, these Marloes people were
notorious wreckers. On dark tempestuous nights they would hitch a
lanthorn to a horse's tail, and drive the animal around the seaward
cliffs; then woe betide the hapless mariner who should set his course by
this Fata Morgana! There is a story of the parson who, when the news of
a wreck got abroad in church one Sunday morning, broke off his discourse
and exclaimed, 'Wait a moment, my brethren, and give your pastor a fair
start!'
[Illustration: MARLOES SANDS.]
Another mile of crooked, crankling lanes takes us to the brow of the sea
cliffs, whence we obtain a bird's-eye panorama of the broad sweep of
Marloes sands. Ruddy sandstone rocks pitched at a steep angle encompass
the bay, and peep grimly out from beneath the smooth, firm sands.
Gateholm rises close in shore, an island at low tide only; the broad
mass of Skokholm stretches out to sea, while the horizon line is broken
by the lonely islet of Grassholm, a favourite haunt of sea birds, and
scene of a notorious 'massacre of the innocents' by a party of
yachtsmen, some few years ago.
The frequent recurrence of these _holms_ and other place-names of
Scandinavian origin, points unmistakeably to the presence of those old
sea rovers around the Pembrokeshire coast, in the days of 'auld
langsyne.'
Making our way to the farm called Little Marloes, we push on through
heathy byways, approaching the coast again at West Dale Bay. Now we
catch a glimpse of Dale Castle, with the village of that ilk nestling
under the lee of a dark wood, and harvest-fields crowning the sunny
hillside, while a silvery stretch of the Haven lies in the background.
Dale Castle appears to have been a place of some importance from very
early times, though of its history we have but meagre records. In the
year 1293 Robertus de Vale granted a charter for a weekly market at his
manor-house of Vale, and here Sir Rhys ap Thomas entertained his future
King after his landing at Mill Bay upon the adjacent coast.
This village of Dale is still a comely-looking spot, where the pleasant
country residences of the gentlefolk rub shoulders with a sprinkling of
homely cottages; yet withal the village has a certain air about it as of
a place that has known better days. For Dale, it seems, was once a
nourishing seaport, the abode of substantial sea captains and well-to-do
merchant traders; while, if tales be true, the village folk drove a
flourishing business in the contraband goods run in by the 'free trade'
fraternity. In those days good Welsh ale was brewed at Dale by a family
bearing the singular name of Runawae, who exported it in large
quantities to Liverpool: hence Dale Street in that city is said to
derive its title from this place.
[Illustration: DALE CASTLE AND MILFORD HAVEN.]
We approach the village by a footpath, and pass betwixt the castle and
the church. The fuchsias, hydrangeas, myrtle and laurustinas that
brighten this little God's acre tell of a genial climate; yet some of
the headstones bear grim records of shipwrecked mariners, who lost their
lives upon the iron-bound coast that shelters this favoured spot. Dale
Church has a tall, unrestored tower, and possesses a slender silver
chalice inscribed with the words 'Poculum Ecclesiæ de Dale, 1577.' A
sketch of this cup will be found at the head of the present chapter.
The lane now runs below the luxuriant groves of Dale Hill, and then
skirts the shores of the sheltered inlet called Dale Road. 'Dale Rode,'
says George Owen, 'is a goodlye Baye and a fayre rode of great receipte;
one of the best Rodes and Bayes of al Milforde and best defended from al
windes, the East and South East excepted. In al this Rode there is good
landing at al times.' Close beside the water stands a humble alehouse
called the Brig, which bears evident traces of its smuggler patrons,
being literally honeycombed with cellars and secret cupboards for the
storage of their booty. Even now the walls still reek with moisture,
from the salt stored away in inaccessible corners during those piping
times when that commodity was worth a couple of guineas the
hundredweight.
We now direct our steps towards St. Anne's Head, in order to visit Mill
Bay, the traditional landing-place of Henry of Richmond. 'Here in
Pembrokeshire,' says old George Owen, 'happened his landinge and first
footeinge when he came to enoie the Crowne and to confounde the
parricide and bluddie tyrante Ri:iii. Here founde he the heartes and
hands first of all this lande readye to ayde and assist him.' The saying
goes that as he rushed up the steep bank at the head of his troop Henry,
being scant of breath, exclaimed, 'This is Brunt!' a name that has clung
to the neighbouring farm ever since.
[Illustration: 'THIS IS BRUNT.']
After a flying visit to the lighthouses, we retrace our steps to Dale
village, and, following a track around the head of the tideway, push on
without a halt to Hoaton. Here we find the huge old anchor shown in our
sketch, and the question naturally arises, How did the anchor get there?
A vague tradition still lingers in the locality to the effect that,
centuries ago, a big foreign man-o'-war was driven out of her course and
wrecked upon the shores of St. Bride's Bay. Hence it has been
conjectured that this anchor may be a veritable relic of that 'wonderful
great and strong' Spanish Armada, whose unwieldy galleons were cast
ashore and dashed to pieces upon our western coasts, three hundred years
ago.
Be that as it may, some years back the anchor, which had previously lain
by the wayside, was dragged into the position where it now stands; the
neighbours lending ready aid in response to offers of ale _ad lib_.
Fifty men with a team of horses were hard put-to to move it, for though
much of the metal has rusted and flaked away, the shank is 20 feet long
and nearly 30 inches thick, while the head of the anchor measures some
14 feet around, and the ring is large enough for a man to pass through.
Truly that old Spanish galleon must have been a veritable Leviathan to
require such an anchor as this!
From Hoaton we make our way across country to Haverfordwest, and
traversing a district broken up into 'meane hills and dales,' we
approach the town by way of the Portfield, and proceed to 'outspan' at a
certain snug hostelry not a hundred miles from St. Mary's broad steeple.
[Illustration: A RELIC OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.]