NEWPORT, NEVERN, AND TEIVYSIDE.
We now enter upon that portion of Pembrokeshire distinguished from
earliest times by the name of Kemaes, a district that was constituted a
Lordship Marcher by the Norman invaders of Wales.
The first conqueror established himself in a strong castle at Newport,
which formed the _Caput Baroniæ_, or chief place of the district. Here
the Lord Marcher of Kemaes held his court in almost regal state,
exercising practically unlimited control over the lives and property of
his newly-conquered vassals. After the manner of the times, the Lord of
Kemaes was empowered to deal summarily with felons, for whom a gaol was
provided within the castle precincts, where a gibbet stood on a mound
called by the natives Cnwc y Crogwydd, or Gallows Tump.
Amongst the privileges peculiar to this lordship was the patronage of
the British Bards, and the disposal of a much-prized silver harp, which
was treasured in the ancient abbey of St. Dogmaels, near Cardigan.
Standing upon a gentle declivity overlooking the town and bay, Newport
Castle owes its origin to William, son of Martin de Turribus, the
conqueror of Kemaes. The date of its erection appears to have been about
the close of the eleventh century, but the castle was probably altered
or enlarged by subsequent rulers.
In Queen Elizabeth's time that curious antiquary George Owen paid a
visit to Newport Castle, in which he noticed 'faire and lardg Roomes';
moreover, he tells us the place 'was moatid with a clear Springe of
swete running Water, out of whiche, after it had pleasured the Eye in
that capacitie, by a sluice it was let foorth to drive the myll, called
the Castle myll, adjoininge the sayd moate.'
Of this lordly structure the entrance archway, flanked by two noble
crenellated towers, are the best preserved features; but extensive ruins
of walls and circular bastions, encompassed by the half-obliterated
moat, may still be traced upon its western side.
Nestling beneath the castle, on the outskirts of the town, stands the
handsome parish church of St. Byrnach. The original edifice is said to
have been erected by the builder of Newport Castle, but the present
Decorated structure has superseded a building of later date that was the
very epitome of ugliness. Within the church stands a very early font,
probably the original one of Norman times. Of the finely wrought and
gilded rood-screen it is said once to have possessed, not a vestige has
been preserved.
St. Byrnach, the patron saint of Newport Church, was an Irishman by
birth, and a contemporary of St. David. He appears to have been held in
high esteem throughout all this district, where many of the parish
churches are dedicated to his name. This holy man is supposed to have
led the life of a hermit, dividing his time between Buarth Byrnach, or
Byrnach's Fold, on the singular mountain called Carnedd Meibion Owen,
and the rocky recesses of Carn Englyn, the Angel's Peak, above Newport
town, a hill that derives its name from a tradition that St. Byrnach was
nourished by angels during his lonely sojourn there.
But _revenons à nos moutons_. Newport was anciently a borough town,
having obtained its charter of incorporation as early as A.D. 1215. The
town also received the grant of a market from Sir Nicholas FitzMartin,
Lord of Kemaes, in the year 1278. This ancient document is still extant.
Henceforth Newport continued to grow and prosper, and in the sixteenth
century carried on extensive woollen manufactures. Upon the outbreak of
the 'sweating sickness,' the place suffered severely; its market was
discontinued, and many of the inhabitants fled to the more salubrious
air of Fishguard.
Though its privileges have been much curtailed in modern times, the town
has still _nominally_ a municipal body, though the latter has neither
revenues to dispose of, nor functions to perform. Of recent years,
however, Newport has shown signs of re-awakening prosperity: and when
the long-talked-of railway line becomes a _fait accompli_, this pleasant
little market town will doubtless enter upon a new lease of life and
activity.
At Parrog, where the Nevern stream embouches upon Newport Bay, we find a
watering-place in its infancy. Parrog is an attractive spot in a quiet
sort of way, and draws a fair sprinkling of holiday-makers from up the
country during the long days of summer. A few comfortable if
unpretentious lodging-houses offer decent accommodation, and cater in a
manner that leaves little to be desired where criticism is disarmed by
lusty appetites, bred of long hours spent in the brine-laden air. The
neighbourhood, too, is pleasantly diversified, and contains many
secluded nooks affording charming rural rambles.
But to return to Newport. At the farther end of the town, after passing
the Llwyngwair Arms, we turn down a lane in the direction of the river,
and in a couple of hundred paces descry a cromlech standing amidst an
adjacent meadow. Though smaller than many others in the county, this
cromlech is in a good state of preservation, and, as may be seen in the
sketch at the end of the chapter, possesses an uncommonly massive
capstone.
Retracing our steps to the highroad, we then jog pleasantly along
beneath the welcome shade of an avenue of trees. Just beyond Pont
Clydach, we enter the grounds of Llwyngwair by a meadow path that winds
amidst delightful groves, where oak, beech, and ash shelter a wealth of
tangled undergrowth.
Crossing a couple of fat grazing meadows, decked with hemlock and
fragrant meadowsweet, we find ourselves on the brink of the Nevern
Brook, a genuine Welsh streamlet that rushes briskly onward in deep
brown pools and broken, shingly reaches--
'With here and there a lusty trout.
And here and there a grayling.'
This Nevern stream rises far away on the slopes of Fryn-y-Fawr, whence,
after pursuing a picturesque course below Pencelly forest, it finds its
way by many a 'crankling nook' to Nevern, where it is spanned by a
graceful old stone bridge, whose buttresses are shrouded in luxuriant
ivy.
Over this same bridge we presently take our way, passing the lowly
village school-house, whence the sing-song iteration of young voices
salutes our ears through wide-open windows. In another minute we find
ourselves at the churchyard wicket, where we pause awhile to look about
us and take our bearings.
The village of Nevern is situated in the richly-wooded glen of the Dûad,
or Nevern Brook, and is surrounded by some of the most charming scenery
in the county. The luxuriant groves of Llwyngwair afford shelter from
the strong sea winds, while the purple shoulders of Precelly sweep
upward in graceful folds to the lofty southern horizon. The picturesque
peak of Carn Englyn forms a prominent feature in the landscape; and,
separated from it by the deep, narrow vale of the Clydach, rises Carnedd
Meibion Owen, a rocky monticle that reminds one strongly of the Dartmoor
Tors.
Time was, 'tis said, when this village of Nevern took precedence of its
rival neighbour Newport. In those early days Nevern was a borough town,
having its own portreeve with courts of government, and eighteen
'burgages' to manage its affairs. Above the townlet rose the protecting
walls of Llanhyvor Castle, a fortalice long regarded, so to speak, as a
precious gem in the diadem of every South Wallian prince. A steep grassy
knoll alone marks the site where this important castle stood.
But it is time to look at Nevern Church. Dedicated to St. Byrnach, this
ancient structure presents, with its gray walls peeping amidst masses of
dark foliage, a picturesque and venerable appearance. The western tower,
though of no great height, is of vast breadth and substance, extending
to the full width of the church, and having a projecting stair-turret
upon its northern side. In this tower hangs a peal of six very musical
bells.
[Illustration: TREWERN CHAPEL & BYRNACHS CROSS. NEVERN.]
Approaching the south porch, we pass beneath a dense avenue of ancient
yews, which even at noontide cast a gloomy shade around. Though lacking
aisles, the church has shallow transepts, that on the north being called
the Glasdwr Chapel, while the south transept is appropriated to the use
of Trewern, an old mansion in the vicinity. This Trewern Chapel has a
solidly groined stone ceiling and elegantly proportioned windows, with a
projecting turret for the stairway, leading to an upper chamber, as
depicted in the adjoining sketch.
Upon either side the chancel is a sort of shallow bay, lighted by a
narrow pointed window, a characteristic feature of Pembrokeshire
churches. The sacred edifice is provided with a pair of silver chalices
dated respectively 1696 and 1733, the gifts of former parishioners.
Near the south-east angle of the Trewern Chapel rises the ancient Celtic
cross that figures conspicuously in our sketch. This curious monument
goes by the name of St. Byrnach's Stone. It stands upwards of 10 feet in
height, and is overlaid with the interlacing ornament peculiar to these
structures. So boldly and deeply are the patterns incised, as to be
little the worse for ten centuries of wind and weather, the hoary
lichens that cling to the rugged surface of the monolith serving but to
enhance its venerable aspect.
Anent this ancient stone, there is a quaint tradition which tells how,
in olden times, the cuckoo was wont to first sound his note in this
locality on the day of the patron saint, April 7.
'I might well here omit,' says George Owen, 'an old report as yet fresh
of this odious bird, that in the old world the parish priest of this
church would not begin Mass until the bird--called the citizen's
ambassador--had first appeared, and began her note on a stone called St.
Byrnach's Stone, being curiously wrought with sundry sort of knots,
standing upright in the churchyard of this parish; and one year staying
very long, and the priest and the people expecting her accustomed coming
(for I account this bird of the feminine gender), came at last, lighting
on the said stone--her accustomed preaching-place--and being scarce able
once to sound the note, presently fell dead.'
It is somewhat reassuring to be told by the same authority that 'this
vulgar tale, although it concerns in some sort church matters, you may
either believe or not without peril of damnation.'
Quitting the pleasant precincts of the church, we pursue a crooked lane
that skirts the green mounds of the 'castell,' and, turning thence past
a solitary thatched cottage, make our way along a hollow tree-shaded
pathway. Keeping a sharp look-out upon every side, we presently espy the
object of our search, the form of a cross, half obliterated by ivy
sprays and tufts of rushy grass, being seen rudely graven upon the high
sandstone bank by the lane side; while a sort of hollow kneeling-place
can be distinguished in the rock at the bottom of the cross.
[Illustration: PILGRIM'S CROSS AT NEVERN.]
For we are now upon the line of an ancient pilgrims' way, whose course
is marked by well-worn tracks in the soft red sandy rock; and this
solitary cross calls up visions of the mediæval wayfarer pausing upon
his journey to St. David's Shrine, to invoke before Croes Byrnach the
benediction of that influential saint. We are at some pains (owing to
the exuberant undergrowth) to obtain a sketch of this interesting
object, for, so far as we are aware, no other cross like this is to be
found throughout the length and breadth of Wales.
In an out-of-the-way locality about two miles north of Nevern stands a
farmhouse called Trellyfan, _anglicè_ Toadstown. The origin of this
singular name is explained by the following story, narrated by no less
an authority than the famous Giraldus Cambrensis.
One day in the course of his travels Giraldus fell in with an
exceedingly tall young man, who, owing to the length of his limbs, was
known as Sitsyllt of the Long Legs. The career of this ill-starred
individual was cut short in a strange and tragic manner, the unhappy
Sitsyllt being worried to death by _toads_, in spite of the fact that
his friends had very considerately hung him up in a sack, to save him
from the molestations of these malignant reptiles!
[Illustration: THE TOAD OF TRELLYFAN.]
As a memento of this incident, the marble effigy of a toad was built
into a chimney-piece at Trellyfan, where it was treasured for many
generations. The toad was afterwards cut away and removed from its place
in the farmhouse, but eventually came into the possession of its present
owner, a resident at Haverfordwest, by whose courtesy we are enabled to
give a sketch of this venerable relic. The toad in question is carved in
a dark-green veined marble, about as large as the palm of a woman's
hand, and is reputed to be the work of an Italian artist.
Retracing our steps to Nevern, we call a halt at the Trewern Arms, a
modest hostelry so near the stream that its waters play a pleasant
accompaniment during the course of our homely meal. Then, with energies
recruited, we plunge into a shadowy woodland path that leads to
Pont-y-Baldwyn, a bridge that spans the rippling stream at a point
where, according to tradition, Archbishop Baldwyn preached the crusade
in company with Giraldus Cambrensis. From Pont-y-Baldwyn we follow a
farm road that leads us to Hênllys, a place memorable in Pembrokeshire
annals as the birthplace of that industrious chronicler and local
antiquary, George Owen of Hênllys. Of his curious and fascinating work
entitled 'The Description of Penbrokshire,' we have largely availed
ourselves throughout these present pages. George Owen appears to have
come of a stout old country stock. His father is said to have died a
centenarian, after begetting a family of some twenty children. Both
George Owen and his father before him held the ancient and honourable
office of Lord of Kemaes.
Taking leave of this historical spot, we now drop into a hollow bowery
lane that hugs the course of the Dûad Stream, and passes through the
rough intricate country known as Pencelly Forest, where in olden times
the lord of the manor claimed right of pannage for hogs, with the wild
honey and sparhawks found in the forest. Our route now leads near
Court, where Martin de Turribus, the conqueror of Kemaes, had a lordly
dwelling, which, according to George Owen, 'seemeth to have been a house
both of account and strengthe.'
A short half-hour later we find ourselves pacing the single 'street' of
Eglwys-Erw, a picturesque village said to derive its name from the
church having been built upon a plot of land measuring an acre. Fenton,
on the other hand, attributes the origin of the name to a certain St.
Erw, whose chapel, containing the tomb of the patron saint, used to
stand in a corner of the churchyard. In olden times the peasant folk
were averse to being buried in this chapel, owing to the prevalent
superstition that their bodies were liable to be mysteriously ejected at
dead of night, because, forsooth, St. Erw would brook no bedfellow!
Passing on between the neat, whitewashed cottages, we come to Sergeants'
Inn, whose bow-windowed front stands near the upper end of the village.
The somewhat unusual title of this hostelry is derived from the fact
that, in earlier days, it was customary for the gentlemen of the Bar
when 'on circuit' to foregather here; and the building next the inn is
still called the Sessions House. At Sergeants' Inn is to be seen a small
chest-lid, incised with the rather enigmatical legend: I.H.S, PRESTAT
EZZE PROMETHEVS QUAM EPIMETHEUM, 1603.
Eglwys-Erw Church is soon disposed of; for it has been completely
modernized, and bereft of any noteworthy features it may formerly have
contained.
We now approach the confines of the parish of Eglwys-wen, or
Whitechurch; a parish where adders are commonly reputed to be, like
snakes in Iceland, absolutely unknown.
There is a curious tradition anent the yokels of Whitechurch parish.
Says our trusty friend George Owen, 'In ancient times in this parish the
Meanest and simplest Sort of people, yea the plain ploughmen, were
Skillful at chess play; they never being dwelling out of their Parish,
but unlitterate, and brought up at the plough and Harrow altogether.'
One would be curious to learn how it came to pass that these simple
folk, dwelling in this remote Welsh parish, acquired such an
unlooked-for reputation.
But the day is waxing old, and it is still a far cry to our night's
bivouac at Newport. So, putting the best foot foremost, we speed along
the highroad for a couple of miles or so, until, near a huge old
earthwork ycleped Castell Mawr, we diverge to the left, cross a pretty
streamlet, and get a direction from a passer-by to the famous cromlech
at Pentre-Evan.
[Illustration: PENTRE EVAN.]
Standing in an open field, on the northern slope of the strange-looking
hill called Carnedd Meibion Owen, this wonderful structure is
undoubtedly the finest cromlech to be found in the Principality.
The gigantic capstone that forms the roof measures some 16 feet in
length, by half as much across; its longer axis lying, roughly speaking,
north and south. Beneath it stand four upright stones, tall enough to
permit of a horseman passing beneath the cromlech. A closer inspection
shows that two only of these standing stones support the weight of the
capstone; and their upper ends, being shaped like a narrow wedge, appear
pointed when seen from the position whence our sketch was taken.
This noble relic of the prehistoric past has, under the Ancient
Monuments Protection Act, been enclosed within a tall iron fence, which,
if not exactly a pleasing feature in itself, will doubtless preserve the
cromlech from further abuse and injury.
Soft white mists are stealing athwart the vale of Nevern, and clinging
around the skirts of the lower foot-hills, as we wend our way back to
quarters at Newport town. Glancing in the direction whence we have come,
the cloud-wreaths gathered around the shoulders of Precelly glow crimson
under the rays of the declining sun, as he sinks into the pallid sea
away beyond Dinas Head; and by the time we arrive at our _rendezvous_,
Darkness has spread her wings o'er the dusky landscape.
* * * * *
The next morning sees us early under way, and well on the road to
Kilgerran, ere the sun has climbed high enough to make matters
unpleasantly warm for the wayfarer. Beyond Nevern we pass near the
lonely deserted chapel of Bayvil, and, after a long spell of steady
collar-work, get some fine vistas of varied landscape near the old
grass-grown barrows called Crugau Kemaes.
At the crossways farther on we are a matter of 500 feet above the sea,
with Monington village on our left, and the church and ruined castle of
Llantood away to the right. Then, as we near Kilgerran, we notice an old
boundary-stone under the hedgerow, bearing a few half-obliterated lines
anathematizing him who should venture to remove this landmark, the
original purpose of which has probably long since been forgotten.
Passing under a railway arch, we soon descry Kilgerran Church, standing
on the brink of a narrow ravine that opens towards the Teivy. St.
Llawddog, from whom this church inherits its euphonious patronymic,
appears to have been a saint of some local celebrity, for his name crops
up at more than one place in the immediate neighbourhood.
With the exception of its gray old tower, Kilgerran Church has been
entirely rebuilt, and calls for no particular notice. In the graveyard
stands a venerable monolith, much older than the church itself. The
weathered surface of the stone is scored with those Ogham characters,
so fascinating to the antiquarian mind; these hieroglyphics have been
deciphered as follows: TRENGUSSI FILI HIC JACIT. Unfortunately, a large
portion of the _maenhir_ is sunk below the level of the ground, thus
rendering a thorough examination of its surface impracticable.
To eyes fresh from the beauties of Nevern, the long, rambling street of
Kilgerran offers anything but an inviting appearance, being flanked by
meagre unkempt dwellings, with but one or two cottages of more antique
mould in the older portion of the village.
Despite the humble, not to say squalid, aspect of the place, there was a
time when Kilgerran held a position of no small consequence. A borough
town, governed by portreeve, aldermen and burgesses, its 'court-leet'
and 'view of frankpledge' held their annual meetings at Kilgerran; while
many another time-honoured privilege bore witness to a state of things
that has long since passed away.
In those piping times, it was customary for each newly-elected burgess
to prove his fitness for office by draining _at one draught_ a horn of
strong Welsh ale; the Corporation horn used on such occasions holding
fully a pint and a half of liquor!
We now make our way to the castle ruins, which occupy the brow of a
lofty cliff overhanging the deep gorge of the Teivy. The existing
remains of Kilgerran Castle consist of two massive round towers,
separating the outer from the inner bailey, with considerable fragments
of the gate-house.
The entire fabric is plain, and very massively constructed, showing
little or no trace of ornamentation; the few doorways and windows that
remain being arched in a primitive fashion, without the use of the
customary keystone. A rough stone wall encircles the precipitous scarp
next the river, a portion of which fell down suddenly many years ago,
having been undermined by the excavations of the quarry-men.
Kilgerran Castle appears to have been founded at a very remote period,
though the existing structure is probably not older than the beginning
of the thirteenth century. In Powell's 'History of Cambria,' we read
how, Henry I. having granted to Strongbow the lands of Cadwgan ap
Blethyn, the great Earl' builded a faire castel at a place callyd
Dyngeraint, where Roger Montgomerie had begonne a castel before tyme.'
Its subsequent history is unimportant, and Kilgerran Castle has at last
succumbed to the shocks of time and the more devastating hand of man,
who appears to have regarded its ancient walls in the light of a
convenient quarry.
Looking out across the deep vale of Teivy, we can see the mansion of
Coedmore amidst its ensheltering woodlands. It is said that, in olden
times, a fishing-net was stretched athwart the river just below the
mansion, a line being attached to the net and connected to a bell, which
rang in the house to give notice to the inmates when a catch of salmon
had been effected.
The clear, unsullied waters of the Teivy, have ever been a favourite
haunt of the king of fishes. Giraldus Cambrensis asserts that 'The noble
river Teivy abounds, more than any river of Wales, with the finest
Salmons; and it has a productive fishery near Kilgerran.'
[Illustration: A TEIVYSIDE CORACLE.]
That curious craft the ancient British coracle is a familiar object to
all dwellers on Teivyside, where from days immemorial it has been
employed by the fisher folk in the pursuit of their time-honoured
calling.
The coracle, or _corwg_ as it is called in Wales, is somewhat of an oval
shape, but is raised high and flattened at the bows. The framework
consists of split rods forming a sort of basket-work, over which tarred
canvas is stretched, though in olden times cowhide was used for this
purpose; hence the ancient coracle weighed considerably more than the
modern one, and this explains the old Welsh adage, _Llwyth gwr ci Gorwg_
(A man's load is his coracle). The seat is a stout ash-plank, and
through it a loop or sling is twisted by which the owner carries his
coracle upon his back, the wooden rails with which the seat is provided
acting as a basket to carry the fish. The method of carrying the little
craft is shown in the sketch at head of the present chapter.
Notwithstanding its great breadth of beam, it is by no means easy for a
novice to propel the coracle by means of its single paddle; indeed, his
efforts are likely to be brought to an untimely end by a plunge in the
cold, clear depths of the Teivy.
[Illustration: KILGERRAN FERRY.]
After this digression, we will now take a stroll by Teivyside;
descending from the village by a steep pathway beside some humble
cottages and heaps of quarry refuse. As a result of certain ancient
privileges, the townsfolk have gradually converted this portion of the
left bank of the Teivy into a succession of slate quarries, whose ragged
talus of _débris_ encumbers the water's edge; a sorry substitute for the
luxuriant groves that greet the eye wherever Nature has been allowed
fair play.
Pursuing this rough track for about a furlong, we turn to the
right-about, and obtain a fine view of the castle lording it above a
pretty reach of the river; and thence pursue a path that hugs the brink
of the stream. After passing the last and deepest of the slate-mines,
which has been carried far below the river-bed, we enjoy a still more
charming glimpse of the grand old ruins enfolded amongst richly wooded
hills, all mirrored in an unruffled sheet of water at a point where the
ferry-boat lies moored, beside the grassy bank.
[Illustration: KILGERRAN CASTLE FROM THE TEIVY.]
Thenceforward our footpath meanders amidst the magnificent groves of
oak, beech and ash, that adorn the estate of Castle Malgwyn; their
graceful forms reflected in the still, dark reaches of the placid Teivy,
which hereabouts affords some of the finest river scenery to be found in
all wild Wales.
[Illustration: LLECHRHYD BRIDGE.]
Onwards to Llechrhyd Bridge, whose ivy-mantled arches, backed by the
lodge and woodlands of the park, form a 'likely' subject for the
artist's pencil.
[Illustration: CASTLE MALGWYN.]
The village, with its snug waterside inn beloved of anglers, has a very
seductive air about it; but we must not linger here, for these
transpontine lands lie without the bounds of Pembrokeshire, and are
therefore _taboo_ to us. So, striking away in the direction of the
south, we traverse the spacious demesne of Castle Malgwyn, getting a
peep of the mansion set amidst dark, umbrageous woodlands; our approach
causing the startled bunnies to skirmish away helter-skelter into the
bracken coverts as we pass.
The return route to Kilgerran lies through a pleasant vale, with young
oak-coppices upon the one hand, and a marshy reed-grown watercourse upon
the other.
* * * * *
Setting forth by a different route upon the morrow's morn, a row
downstream from Kilgerran introduces us to some charmingly diversified
reaches of the swift-flowing Teivy. After passing below the wooded
slopes of Coedmore, our little craft threads the rocky channel as it
twists, now this way, now that, through the broken undulating country,
affording ever some fresh variation of the lovely changing landscape, to
which the castle ruins form an imposing centre.
Presently we emerge upon broad tidal flats, where groups of cattle are
browsing amidst the lush sedgy herbage. Shooting under Cardigan Bridge,
we open out that final reach of the river where, in the words of George
Owen, 'Teivy saluteth St. Dogmells, as it passeth to the sea.'
About a mile distant from the county-town of Cardigan, but on the
Pembrokeshire side of the river, stands the before-mentioned village of
St. Dogmaels. The little place is perched upon a rather steep declivity,
its comely dwellings clambering up the slope, so that, from the top of
the village, one's eye follows the course of the Teivy to the
foam-fringed shores of Cardigan Bay, and the headland called Pen-Kemaes.
Here the cottage gardens are gay with heliotrope, fuchsias and
hydrangea, which brave the winter out in the more sheltered corners;
while the full-rigged flagstaffs that rise amidst the garden plots
bespeak the nautical proclivities of the residents.
This village derives its name from the ancient Welsh monastery of St.
Dogmaels, which stood about a mile away at a place still bearing the
name of Yr Hên Mynachlog (the Old Monastery). Of this venerable
structure, founded by Robert de Turribus, but scanty traces now remain,
in the shape of a few ivy-mantled walls pierced with Gothic arches,
whose crumbling stones retain the ball-flower ornamentation of the
Decorated period. The neighbouring parish church has, alas! been swept
and garnished by iconoclastic hands, which have ruthlessly bereft the
fabric of every feature of interest.
Our investigations completed, we betake ourselves to the Cardigan
terminus, and travel thence over the branch line of the Great Western
Railway as far as Crymmych-Arms Station. Beyond Kilgerran the line
traverses some pretty furze-clad dingles, and, as we approach our
destination, mounts in short, sharp curves towards the high ground that
forms the watershed of northern Pembrokeshire.
From the summit level, some 700 feet above the sea, we command a noble
prospect of the Precelly range, and the more remote hills about Newport
Bay and Fishguard; the effect being heightened by the sunset glow, while
a brilliant rainbow spans the purple clouds that brood over the loftier
crests of the distant mountains.
At Crymmych we avail ourselves of such accommodation as the wayside inn
affords, intending to start away bright and early upon the morrow's
explorations.
[Illustration: CROMLECH AT NEWPORT.]