TO FISHGUARD, NEWPORT, GOODWIC AND PENCAER.
Full five tedious leagues of monotonous cross-country road lie before us
to-day, as we leave St. Davids city northward bound for Fishguard. A
sturdy pedestrian may strike out a more interesting route by following
the coast road--the ancient Fordd Fleming--and diverging at convenient
points to explore the grand cliff scenery below Pen-beri, and the
microscopic havens of Trevine and Abercastell. At Longhouse, close to
the latter place, stands a remarkably fine cromlech, inferior only to
its more famous rival at Pentre Evan, near Newport.
[Illustration]
About half-way along the main road we cross a country lane that follows
the course of the old Fleming's Way; and half a mile farther on our
attention is called to an object not unlike a milestone, upon which is
rudely traced a cross within a circle: the irregular disc being about a
foot in diameter. This is known as Mesur-y-Dorth--the Measure of the
Loaf--from a tradition that St. David caused these figures to be made in
order to regulate the size of the loaf of bread in times of scarcity.
Presently we approach the village of Jordanston; and here it behoves the
belated traveller to 'keep his weather eye open,' for if tales be true,
the ghost of a headless horseman that haunts this locality may be
expected to put in an appearance.
A couple of miles or so to the northward rises the parish church of
Mathry, conspicuous upon its high hill-top. This church of the Holy
Martyrs once had a lofty steeple, that served as a useful guide to
mariners until blown down one stormy night, many a year ago. Mathry was
a place of some local importance in olden times, receiving a patent for
a market and fair from Edward III., while the greater tithes of this
extensive parish sufficed to endow the 'golden prebend' of St. Davids
Cathedral.
As we near our destination, the rugged hills of Pencaer rise
picturesquely beyond the sands of Goodwic, while Dinas head rears its
bold front above Cardigan Bay, with the delicate outline of the
Carnarvonshire mountains serrating the distant horizon.
The town of Fishguard hangs, as it were, upon the slope of a precipitous
hill overlooking the vale of the Gwaen, which here, as George Owen puts
it, 'falleth into the sea, making a faire Haven and goode Harborow for
shipps and Barks.' Its waterside suburb of Abergwaen, approached by one
of the steepest bits of coach road in the Principality, is mainly
frequented by fisher-folk and seafaring men engaged in the coasting
trade.
Encompassed by sheltering uplands, the narrow vale of the Gwaen has a
singularly mild and equable climate, which fosters a wealth of luxuriant
vegetation. In the course of a stroll through the beautiful grounds of
Glyn-y-Mel, we notice the eucalyptus and bamboo evidently making
themselves quite at home in this sunny nook, while heliotrope and
dracæna, camellia and laurestinus flourish out-of-doors the winter
through.
Usually the most easy-going of Sleepy Hollows, Fishguard town awoke one
fine morning towards the close of the last century to find itself become
suddenly famous. On February 21, 1797, three French frigates were
sighted off the Pembrokeshire coast bearing up towards Fishguard Bay,
where they presently came to anchor near Carreg Gwastad Point.
During the ensuing night the enemy came ashore to the number of about
1,500 men, regular troops and gaol-birds, under the leadership of one
Tate, a renegade Irish-American. Tate, with the chief of his
satellites, established himself at the neighbouring farmhouse of
Trehowel, while the main body of the 'invaders' encamped atop of an
isolated hill overlooking the village of Llanwnda. Thence the Frenchmen
dispersed about the countryside, scaring the inhabitants out of their
wits, and rummaging the farmhouses in search of potheen and plunder.
[Illustration: CLOCK AT BRESTGARN.]
In one of these exploits a drunken fellow entered a cottage at
Brestgarn, where a 'grandfather' clock happened to be standing in a
corner. Dismayed by the sounds issuing from the mysterious object, the
simpleton fired his gun at a venture, concluding the devil must be
lurking within. This clock is still to be seen at Brestgarn, with the
bullet-hole through the panel as may be noticed in our sketch.
Meanwhile the authorities bestirred themselves. Under the command of
Lord Cawdor, the Fishguard Fencibles and Castle Martin Yeomanry marched
out to Goodwic Sands, where the enemy, finding the game was up, laid
down their arms and surrendered _à discrétion_. Thus these doughty
regiments achieved the unique distinction of facing a foreign foe on the
soil of Britain itself. It is said that the goodwives of Pembrokeshire,
arrayed in their red woollen 'whittles,' countermarched and deployed
around a neighbouring hill, thus leading the invaders to suppose that a
regiment of gallant redcoats was preparing to oppose their advance.
The French prisoners were subsequently lodged in durance vile at a place
near Pembroke, whence some of them effected their escape in Lord
Cawdor's yacht, with the connivance of two Pembroke lasses--the old
story of _cherchez la femme_ once more. One of the French vessels having
been afterwards captured was re-christened the _Fisguard_, a name that
has only recently disappeared from the files of the Navy List.
Incredible as it may seem in these days, the news of this famous event
took a whole week to travel to the Metropolis, and it is said that the
anniversary of the French landing is still held in remembrance amongst
the old folk in the locality.
It is a pleasant stroll from Fishguard to the scene of these historic
events. Our way lies past the church, where, in a corner of the
graveyard, we notice a curiously-incised stone cross. The lane now winds
downhill, and we soon find ourselves pacing the smooth firm expanse of
Goodwic Sands, with the hamlet of that ilk clinging to a wooded hillside
before us.
Goodwic is picturesquely situated, overlooking a tiny haven and pier in
an elbow of the rock close under the hill. Its genial climate and safe
bathing shore make the place deservedly popular, and cause the handful
of lodging-houses to fill up rapidly during 'the season.'
Pushing on again, we now enter the district of Pencaer, and, guided by
the trusty Ordnance sheet, thread our way through narrow crooked lanes,
rounding the base of Carn Wnda, where the Frenchmen pitched their camp,
and passing on to the little out-of-the-way village of Llanwnda.
[Illustration: Llanwnda Church.]
The church stands in an isolated position overlooking a piece of rough
ground that does duty as village 'green,' a place scattered over with
gray tumbled stones that seem to group themselves into the lines of rude
hut-circles. Two or three low thatched cottages, that might pass for
Irish cabins, appear to have been 'dumped' down haphazard, and look old
enough to have seen Giraldus Cambrensis when he held the benefice here.
Built in a strong, simple manner well-suited to its exposed situation,
Llanwnda Church has some characteristic features. Above the western
gable rises a low double bell-cot, while a similar but smaller erection
for the sanctus bell divides nave from chancel roof. As we enter the
low-browed porch, we espy a cross of archaic type carved upon a stone
slab in the outer wall; and two similar crosses are to be seen upon the
exterior of the chancel gable.
The nave retains its dark, oaken timbered roof, having a rudely carved
head upon the eastern side of one of its ancient beams. The openings to
the rood-loft are now blocked up, but at the time of the French
incursion these apertures afforded a hiding-place to a servant-maid and
child, who peeped out in trepidation whilst a gang of ruffians played
havoc in the sacred edifice, setting fire to everything inflammable they
could lay hands upon.
[Illustration: THE CHALICE AT LLANWNDA.]
After some little persuasion Mary Reece, the sprightly nonagenarian
caretaker, is prevailed upon to produce the communion chalice for our
inspection. This little vessel has a history of its own, having been
stolen by a Frenchman, who endeavoured to dispose of it at Carmarthen,
trying to pass off the word Llanwnda engraved upon the cup as La Vendée,
a name of France. The chalice, which is much cracked and dented from the
rough handling it has undergone, bears upon the exterior the
inscription: POCULUM ECLESIE DE LLANWNDA.
Pushing on across country, we win our way after half an hour's rough
scrambling to Carreg Gwastad Point, a low, rocky, furze-clad headland
sloping down to a secluded creek, where the would-be French invaders
effected a landing.
A more out-of-the-way spot, or one more suited to embark on such an
enterprise, they could not well have chosen. The wild and
little-frequented coast-line of Pencaer stretches away on either hand
with scarce a vestige of a landing-place; while the scattered
peasant-folk, dwelling in isolated cottages and lone farmhouses, could
offer but an ineffectual resistance to the enemy.
We now extend our route to Trehowel, a large, rambling old farmstead
shaded by trees, where the French commander took up his unwelcome
billet. Thence we strike up the slope of Garn-vawr to the huge British
camp that crowns the summit, a wide prospect over land and sea rewarding
our exertions. Following the crest of the ridge, we enjoy a breezy tramp
across country, sundry fallen cromlechs and such-like relics lending an
old-world interest to the locality.
Anent the country of Pencaer there is a venerable tradition which runs
somewhat to the following effect: 'Once upon a time' there was a town in
Pencaer called Trêf Cwlhwc, or Cwlhwc's Town. This Cwlhwc appears to
have been a sort of Celtic Hercules, who roamed about his native country
in search of adventures. When grown to man's estate, Cwlhwc began to
entertain ideas of marrying and settling down; whereupon he was informed
by an oracle that no maid save the fair Olwen might become his wife.
Nothing daunted, the giant set forth in quest of his future bride, and
after searching for a year and a day found the beautiful Olwen seated
alone in her bower.
'She was arrayed,' says the old Welsh Mabinogion, 'in a vesture of
flame-coloured silk, a wreath of ruddy gold was about the damsel's neck,
set with pearl and coral. More yellow was her head than the blossoms of
the broom; her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave; her fingers
fairer than the opening buds of the water-lily, amid the small ripplings
of the fountain of the waters. No brighter eyes than hers were seen;
whiter was her bosom than the breast of the swan, more red her cheeks
than the rose of the mountain. Whoever saw her was filled with love,
and in her every footstep four white trefoils sprang wherever she trod,
and therefore she was named Olwen.'
The Royal Oak inn at Fishguard (see head of present chapter) formed the
British headquarters in the affair of '97. Trundling out of the town by
the Newport coach, we skirt the slopes of Carn Enoch, across whose
western flank extend the lines of prehistoric _maenhirs_ known as Parc y
Marw, the Field of the Dead. Away to our left rises the big bluff
headland that shelters the village of Dinas, whose pretty cottages peep
out from amidst bowery orchards upon a little secluded cove. A new
church has supplanted the old one, of which the western wall alone
remains, all else having been swept away by inroads of the sea.
Our route now leads around the rocky shores of Newport Bay, the rough
country lane affording some refreshing glimpses of narrow inlets, with
woodlands feathering down to the water's edge. As we advance, the dark
brow of Carn Englyn swings into view, with the houses of Newport
clustering about its lower slopes. Arrived at that pleasant country town
we beat up quarters for the night, intending to make it our head centre
while exploring that portion of the shire stretching from the foot-hills
of Precelly to the shores of Cardigan Bay.
[Illustration: A DERELICT.]