A RAMBLE OVER PRECELLY HILLS, TO THE SOURCES OF THE CLEDDAU.
The broad grassy slopes of Fryn-y-Fawr, (or Vrenny Vawr, as they
pronounce it), a big isolated hill to the east of Crymmych-Arms, afford
a pleasant morning's stroll, with a widespreading outlook at the end of
it. The mountain road by which we approach the monticle follows the
course of the ancient trackway called Fordd-Fleming, which we presently
exchange for the open, heathery hillside; going as we please for the
tall green tumulus that marks the summit.
Save towards the west, where the higher Precelly range intercepts the
view, the prospect is wide and unrestricted, comprising nearly the whole
of Pembrokeshire, with its setting of silvery sea, and a vast stretch of
South Wales, including the peninsula of Gower; while the northern
horizon is bounded by the remote Northwallian hills, amongst which, if
the day be clear, the peak of Snowdon may possibly be distinguished.
Descending by the opposite end of the hill, we pass a small homestead,
whose name indicates that the source of the Nevern River is near at
hand.
Somewhere within the flanks of Fryn-y-Fawr, there lies hid (according to
the tradition of the countryside) a leaden casket packed full with
untold gold. The _genius loci_ that guards this mysterious treasure
takes the form of a violent tempest, which bursts, in thunder and
lightning, around the head of the man who is foolhardy enough to seek to
possess himself of the forbidden prize.
Returning to Crymmych-Arms, we settle up accounts with mine hostess--a
simple process in these parts, often arranged without the formality of a
'bill,'--and set forth anew upon our wanderings. The old trackway again
forms our route, leading us past the site of a rude monument called
Croes Mihangel, and thence across the heather-clad shoulders of Foel
Trigarn, the easternmost spur of Precelly, which, as its name implies,
is crowned with three cairns, surrounded by the stony ramparts of an
ancient British stronghold.
[Illustration: THE SKIRTS OF PRECELLY.]
The mountain vale opening out upon our left holds the springs of the
eastern Cleddau, a stream that, after forming for some miles the
county-boundary, passes below picturesque Llawhaden, and flows onwards
amidst the rich woodlands of Slebech and Picton Castle, to merge in the
broad, tidal waters of Milford Haven.
For the next few miles we enjoy a breezy tramp athwart the wild,
uncultivated shoulders of Precelly--'Parcilly the Proud,' to use old
Drayton's phrase. In his own quaint fashion, George Owen thus describes
these famous hills: 'The chiefest and principall mountaine of this shire
is Percellye, which is a long ridge or rancke of mountaines runninge
East and West; beginninge above Penkellyvore, where the first mounte of
highe land thereof is called Moel Eryr, and so passinge Eastward to
Comkerwyn (being the highest parte of yt), runneth East to Moel Trygarn
and to Llanvirnach.'
So far George Owen. Meanwhile we trudge onward across the springy turf,
avoiding here a stretch of dusky bogland feathered with white tufts of
cotton-grass, yonder a huge pile of weather-stained boulders, riven and
tossed asunder by the tempests of ten thousand winters. One of these
rugged cairns is known as King Arthur's Grave; another bears a Welsh
name signifying the 'rocks of the horsemen': indeed, every feature of
the landscape has its story or legend for the imaginative Cymro.
Rounding the head of a lonely glen, a rough but sufficiently easy ascent
lands us beside the cairn that marks the summit of Foel Cwm Cerwyn, the
loftiest peak of Precelly, and the highest ground in all broad
Pembrokeshire. 'This mountaine,' says George Owen, 'is so highe and
farre mountid into the ayre that, when the countrey about is faire and
cleere, the toppe thereof wilbe hidden in a cloude, which of the
inhabitantes is taken a sure signe of raigne to follow shortelie,
whereof grewe this proverbe:
'"When Percellye weareth a hatte,
All Penbrokeshire shall weete of that."'
Standing well apart, and removed from the mass of loftier South Welsh
hills, the view from Precelly top is both extensive and interesting.
Near hand, one's gaze wanders across a vast expanse of rather
monotonous, treeless landscape, until the attention is arrested by the
lake-like reaches of Milford Haven, spreading like crooked fingers far
into the heart of the land.
South and west the sea encompasses all, with Gower lying far away upon
the Bristol Channel, and perhaps a faint outline of the cliffs of Devon
verging the remote horizon. The isolated hills overlooking St. Davids
are easily identified, flanked by a broad stretch of St. Bride's Bay,
and its group of guardian islets. Strumble Head thrusts its tempest-torn
crags seawards into Cardigan Bay, whose coast-line trends away league
upon league with infinite gradation to where, softened by the humid,
brine-laden atmosphere,
'The gray, cloud-cradled mountains spread afar.'
Newport Bay, lying under the lee of Dinas Head, looks as though one
might cast a stone into its calm waters; and upon turning our gaze
inland, the eye loses itself amidst the many-folding hills, as they rise
in soft undulations to the dusky highlands of Glamorganshire.
We now push on along the crest of the moorland, striking once more into
the course of the so-called Flemings' Way. After the manner of most
early roads, this ancient trackway runs athwart the open highlands,
avoiding the hollow places; and although much of it has been obliterated
by the ploughshare, and the gradual advance of cultivation, its course
may still be traced in the less-frequented localities, as it wends its
way up country from the site of old Menapia towards the county-town of
Carmarthen.
An ancient warrant of Sir Nicholas Martin, referring to the use of this
old mountain road by the Flemish colony, observes: 'And well they might
make this unusual waie for their passage, for that, passinge alonge the
toppe of the highest hill, they might the better descrie the pryvie
ambushes of the Countrye people, which might in streightes and woodds
annoy them.'
At a place appropriately called the Pass of the Winds, we fall in with
the main road as it crosses the hills from Haverfordwest to Cardigan.
This we descend for a matter of half a mile, passing across a heathery
upland ycleped the Hill of the Unstrung-Bows, until we come to Tafarn
Bwlch, a humble wayside alehouse some thousand feet or so above
sea-level.
Looking out across a broad brown reach of moorland, the eye detects a
sort of rude stone causeway, curving amidst rush-grass and scattered
peat-hags. This is known as Bedd-yr-Avangc, or the Beaver's Grave; _à
propos_ of which it is worthy of note that Giraldus Cambrensis mentions
the beaver as abounding in his day on Teivyside, while more than one
venerable legend locates this amphibious quadruped in the _llyns_ and
streams throughout wild Wales.
Arrived at Tafarn Bwlch, we call for such cheer as the lowly inn can
supply; but the bill of fare proves somewhat scanty, for, in the words
of the great lexicographer, 'of provisions its negative catalogue is
very copious.' The goodwife, however, rises to the occasion, and regales
us with a repast such as appetites sharpened by lusty mountain air make
short enough work of. Then we burn incense to the drowsy god in a nook
of the chimney-place, where a peat-fire glows untended upon the ample
hearth.
Starting forth again like giants refreshed, we breast the stony ascent
that leads to the pass amidst a sharp squall of wind and rain, which
drags in a darkening veil athwart the lonesome landscape, blotting now
this, now that familiar landmark from the view.
From the head of the pass we descend into the vale of the infant
Syvynvy, rounding the broad green slopes of the Eagles' Hill, the
westernmost buttress of the Precelly range. At the crossways we bear to
the left, with the disused windmill of the slate quarries showing
conspicuously upon a neighbouring hill.
Pushing on towards Maenclochog, we pass near the defunct Rosebush
Station, on the line of the Maenclochog railway, which at present is
undergoing in leisurely fashion a process of reconstruction. Indeed, in
the matter of slowness, the builders of this line may fairly claim to
have 'broken the record,' for 'tis whispered that seventeen years' work
has added little more than four miles to the length of the railway!
Be that as it may, we now make our entry into the village of
Maenclochog, a bleak-looking place enough, where the storm-rent trees
beside the roadway attest the violence of the winter gales that sweep
across these bare, lofty uplands.
Towards the farther end of the village, at a widening of the ways,
stands the parish church, a structure of no great antiquity, dedicated
to St. Mary. The clergyman, who has ministered here for upwards of
thirty years, now courteously introduces us to the well-tended interior,
the most noteworthy feature of which is a plain old font, with a
singular cup-shaped recess upon its eastern face, the purpose of which
we are quite at a loss to conjecture.
St. Mary's Church has no tower, but at the western end rises a low
turret containing a musical peal of bells. It is a remarkable fact,
indeed, that throughout this mountain district church towers are
conspicuous by their absence; whereas, in the English country farther
south, the tall slender bell-tower usually forms one of the most
noticeable features of the parish church.
A marble cross used, we are informed, to adorn the chancel gable; but
this has long since been removed to the limbo of things forgotten.
In olden times, it was customary at Maenclochog to draw the water for
baptism from St. Mary's Well, a natural spring that rises just without
the village. Near to this well are some tumbled stones, that once
supported a large horizontal slab. Tradition tells that this stone, when
struck, gave forth a loud ringing sound, which did not cease until the
water from the holy well had been brought into the church. Hence the
name of Maenclochog, which, being interpreted, signifies the village of
the 'ringing rock.' It is much to be regretted that this curious object
was destroyed many years ago, because, forsooth, the sound thereof was
supposed to frighten passing horses!
At the foot of the village stands a large, rambling inn, backed by the
singularly artificial-looking rocks known as 'the Castle,' whence the
house takes its title. In a country where lodgings of any sort are so
few and far between, the wayfarer may do worse than pitch his camp for a
night in these unassuming quarters.
The way to Llandilo leads us through a hollow dingle, where a brawling
trout-stream rushes along beneath cool, shadowy beech woods: while every
here and there a glimpse of the purple hills adds variety to the scene.
Passing by Temple-Druid, the site of a now destroyed cromlech, we arrive
at Llandilo, where we search in vain for the church: for this
sparsely-peopled parish has been merged into that of Maenclochog, in
consequence of which the sacred edifice has been allowed to fall into
disrepair, and is now represented by a few crumbling walls smothered in
rank, untended ivy.
Crossing the stone stile that gives access to the churchyard, we espy
upon its southern side a slab of greenstone bearing, in rudely-chased
letters, the inscription: COIMAGNI FILI CAVETI. A similar stone near the
east end of the ruined chancel has also its superscription, which reads:
ANDAGELLI IACIT; with a fainter line, possibly FILI CNOI, below; and
over all a cross with tridented terminations.
But the pride of the place is 'St. Teilo's skull,' which is treasured at
the adjacent farmhouse. This curious relic was formerly held in high
esteem as a cure for all manner of sickness, water being drawn from the
saint's well, and drunk out of the skull. The virtue of the draught was
supposed to consist in its being administered by the eldest son of the
house of Melchior, then, as now, the hereditary custodian of St. Teilo's
skull. Onwards to Llangolman, the country is crumpled up into a
succession of hills and narrow, rocky dingles, whereby the numerous
streamlets that enliven this locality find an outlet from the foot-hills
of Precelly. In one of these dingles is St. Teilo's Well, a wayside
spring frequented by that saint in days of yore.
Llangolman Church, perched on its isolated monticle, presents a sorry
spectacle of desecration and decay; its windows battered and broken, its
roof open to the vault of heaven, while the rusty bell hangs cracked and
useless in the dilapidated turret.
As we approach Monachlogddu, the landscape assumes a thoroughly Welsh
appearance. A clear trout-stream, that comes rippling and dancing down
the glen from the dark brown ridge of the moorlands, is here put to turn
the wheel of a little flannel-mill. In response to our request, the
goodman describes in broken English the simple processes of manufacture,
and explains the movements of his archaic machinery. Then, after a
glance at the lowly parish church, dedicated to St. Dogmael, we bid
adieu to the village of the Black Monastery, and take to the road again.
The neighbouring village of Llanvirnach is said to derive its name from
the following circumstance. When the good St. Byrnach was making his
pilgrimage through this portion of the country, he could at first obtain
no better quarters than a cowshed; thus, as the story goes, arose the
name of Llanbeudy, the Church of the Cowhouse. The next day the saint
fared even worse, for, coming to Cilmaenllwyd, he was obliged, for lack
of better accommodation, to repose beneath the gray cromlech that gives
the place its name. The third night, however, St. Byrnach came to a
place where he was accorded a kindly welcome, and provided with a
comfortable night's lodging. Overcome with gratitude for this hospitable
reception, St. Byrnach declared the place should ever after bear his own
name; and hence it is called to this day Llanvirnach, or the Church of
St. Byrnach.
But to return to Maenclochog. Retracing our steps through the village,
we bear away to the left, and presently come to a roadside spring called
St. Byrnach's Well, a resort of that ubiquitous saint.
Our route now leads past Poll-tax Inn, and follows the course of the Via
Julia, that ancient highway by which the Roman legions traversed this
wild, uncivilized territory, from Maridunum, the present town of
Carmarthen, to their remotest settlement at Menapia, on the shores of
Whitesand Bay.
Diverging from the mountain road that marks the route of the Roman
highway, we turn aside into a cross-country lane, pass several cairns
and cromlechs, and presently come to Little Newcastle, a mean, unkempt
village, presenting few attractions for the wayfarer.
At Little Newcastle was born a certain Bartholomew Roberts, who, about a
century ago, made some noise in the world as a successful filibuster. In
company with his fellow-countryman Howel Davies, (as big a rascal as
himself), this notorious freebooter sailed the high seas arrayed in
priceless silks and jewels galore--as pretty a pair of desperadoes as
ever hoisted the skull-and-crossbones flag, or graced the yardarm of a
man-o'-war.
From Little Newcastle we make the best of our way to St. Dogwells, a
mite of a place tucked into an elbow of the stream, and overlooked upon
the north by a rock-strewn eminence called Castell Conyn. Through the
woods of Sealyham we pass on to Letterston; noting a curious piscina in
the church, and an effigy which long passed muster as that of St.
Leotard, its founder.
Beyond the old chapel at Ford, where the Roman highway crossed the
river, the road winds through the heart of the gorge amidst a wealth of
bracken and purple heather; the huge form of Trefgarn Rock towering high
aloft on our right. With the brawling Cleddau, half hidden by
copsewoods, tumbling along through the hollow of the glen, the whole
forms as romantic a bit of scenery as any to be found in the county.
At the adjacent village of Trefgarn, that great Welsh patriot and
freelance, the famous Owen Glyndwr, is said to have first seen the
light; an event that took place about the middle of the fourteenth
century. Certain strange phenomena that were observed at the time of his
birth, were turned to full account by this enterprising adventurer;
hence Shakespeare, in his play of Henry IV.,' puts into the mouth of
Glyndwr the proud words:
'At my birth
The front of heav'n was full of fiery shapes:
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were strangely clamorous in the frighted fields:
These signs have marked me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do show
I am not in the roll of common men.'
Alighting at Rudbaxton village, we step aside in order to visit the
parish church. Upon the south side of the chancel, a pair of flat
limestone arches open into what is known as the Howard Chapel, the
eastern wall of which supports a large, seventeenth-century monument,
commemorating various members of that honourable family.
[Illustration: THE HOWARD MONUMENT AT RUDBAXTON.]
The male and female figures beneath the arched recesses are represented
as nearly the full size of life, habited in the costume of the period,
and painted in a somewhat crude and barbaric manner. As may be seen in
our sketch, every figure save one bears a human skull in its hand, thus
recording in a suggestive way the decease of that individual. One
effigy alone is _minus_ this grim feature, as it represents the lady in
whose lifetime the monument was erected.
The panel beneath the central group bears the inscription, 'To the
memory of James Howard of this Parish, Esq. who lyeth before this
monument, and departed this life the 29th day of November Ano 1668, Aged
35 years. Also the memory of Joanna, the Wife of James Howard, who
erected this monument for her Deare friends and children, with the
intent to Joyne partner to this Monument, and left this life....'
The figure to the left represents George Howard, who died in 1665; those
upon the right being Thomas and Mary, son and daughter of the central
figures, who died, respectively, in 1682 and 1685. A sundial upon the
outer south wall of the Howard Chapel bears the initials J. H. and the
date 1665.
Descending a hollow lane, we cross a stream and pass near the scanty
ruins of Flether Hill, the ancient abode of the Haywards, whose
tombstones we have seen in the church. Then, leaving the pleasant
grounds of Withybush away upon our left, we presently strike the main
road again at a place called Crowsnest, and thus approach the town of
Haverfordwest by its long, transpontine suburb of Prendergast.
[Illustration: AT HAVERFORDWEST.]