Part 2 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PRIORY CALDY ISLAND]

Striking across the open fields, with the tall white lighthouse for our guide, we turn aside to visit an old farmstead that contains the scanty ruins of Caldey Priory. This venerable foundation owes its origin to Robert, son of Martin de Turribus, and was annexed as a cell to the abbey of St. Dogmaels, near Cardigan.

A wise old saw which observes 'There is nothing new but what has been forgotten,' may find a verification amidst such neglected nooks as these; whose long-forgotten relics of a bygone age greet the wayfarer with all the charm of novelty.

Above the adjacent farmyard premises rises the quaint little weather-beaten tower of the old priory chapel; its slender spire leaning perilously awry, its stonework fast crumbling to decay. From the summit of the tower hangs the crazy bell, with rusty chain and silent clapper.

One daintily-fas.h.i.+oned window is roughly blocked with brickwork, another gives entrance to a pigeon-cot.

Within the adjoining house we are shown a fine old vaulted kitchen, with deep-browed windows, and rude stone settle along the wall. Thence we penetrate to a cool, dark chamber exhibiting traces of a gracefully proportioned window enclosed by a pointed arch, long since blocked up.

Retracing our steps beneath hedges of flowering fuchsia, we return by breezy, fern-clad commons and well-tilled fields to the landing-place; where an amphibious-looking individual is laying out lobster-pots among the weed-strewn rocks.

Caldey has ever been famed for the excellence of its oyster fisheries; not to speak of the crabs and lobsters caught around its rocky sh.o.r.es, which are commended by an Elizabethan writer who appears to have been an authority on such matters. 'The Lapster,' says this enthusiast, 'sett whole on the table, yieldeth Exercise, Sustenance and Contemplation; exercise in cracking his legs and Clawes, sustenance by eating the Meate thereof, and contemplation by beholding the curious Work of his complete Armour, both in hue and workmans.h.i.+p.'

'And the Crabbe,' continues the same writer, 'doth sensiblye feele the Course of the Moone; fillinge and emptyeing yt selfe with the encrease and decrease thereof, and therefore ys saied to be best at the full Moone.'

Once more afloat, we are speedily wafted past the cave-pierced cliffs of St. Margaret's Isle, and across the placid waters of Caldey Sound.

Running beneath the fortress-crowned St. Catherine's Rock, we round the Castle Hill and disembark in Tenby's sheltered haven.

Though our rambles about its old streets have by no means exhausted the curious nooks of Tenby, yet we have all broad Pembrokes.h.i.+re lying as it were at our doors, and waiting only for an 'open sesame' to disclose its most interesting features. By far the larger number of these lie within a measurable distance of Tenby, whence access is easily obtained to them by road, rail, or boat. Moreover, by taking counsel with the local time-table, the visitor may fare forth upon his way at a conscionable hour of the morning and be back again at Tenby ere nightfall supervenes.

The curious old chest figured at the foot of this chapter formed the ancient treasury of Tenby. It is enriched with sixteenth-century German ironwork of very quaint design--witness the ladies pulling the elephants' 'noses,'--and has seven bolts and two padlocks. The keys of these latter were held by the two town bailiffs, while the Mayor was responsible for those of the main lock and of the tiller inside. After having been sold as old iron some five-and-thirty years ago, this interesting relic was rescued by a Tenby resident, through whose courtesy we are enabled to show the accompanying sketch.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE ANCIENT TREASURY OF TENBY.]

CHAPTER II.

ROUND ABOUT THE RIDGEWAY.

'The year's at the spring And day's at the dawn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: G.o.d's in the heaven-- All's right with the world!'

R. B.

One fine May morning, after a night of soft, seasonable rain, we are up betimes and away into the green borderland that encompa.s.ses Tenby town upon its western side. Low, hazy clouds drift athwart the landscape, with glints of sunlight touching it into life here and there; a gentle breeze rustling the trees and bowing the growing crops before it.

A cottager, smoking a morning pipe on the bench before his door, gives us the _sele_ of the day as we pa.s.s, and would fain spin a yarn about the 'c.r.a.ps' and the drought; but, turning a deaf ear to his lucubrations, we go our ways rejoicing, and ere long find ourselves skirting a lush green tract of marshland, whose dark levels are gay with yellow flags, marsh marigolds and feathery 'ragged Robin.'

Diverging to the right and plunging into a grove of aged ash-trees, we soon emerge upon an open glade where stand the crumbling walls of an ancient house called Scotsborough. This was the ancestral home of the family of Ap Rhys, who repose in Tenby Church beneath the monument we have already visited; and a ramble amidst the intricate pa.s.sages and loopholed chambers of the ruined mansion, with their huge chimneys and cavernous ovens, shews that it was erected at a time when a man's house still continued to do duty, at a pinch, as his castle. Having explored this picturesque old pile, we hark back once more to the road. Trudging along a hollow, shady lane past a pretty mill, we now strike into a secluded pathway which drops steeply down beside a prattling rill, beneath overarching trees whose interlacing branches fret the greensward with a mantle of shadowy verdure.

Overhead the fleecy clouds are swept by the breeze into graceful forms suggestive of sea-birds' wings; while the sunny air is musical with the song of birds and the distant bleating of sheep, and sweet with the scent of chestnut and elder bloom. A newly-fledged Burnet b.u.t.terfly tries his smart speckled wings; whilst a pa.s.sing 'Blue' out-rivals the hue of the dainty speedwell in the hedgerow; which peeps from amidst a tangle of pus.h.i.+ng young bracken, hooded 'lords and ladies,' bluebells and wild geranium.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GUMFRESTON CHURCH.]

Here in this secluded nook, 'the world forgetting, by the world forgot,'

nestles the venerable church of Gumfreston; its ivy-mantled tower scarce rivalling the lofty trees which screen it from the outer world.

Approached by footpaths only, a rustic wicket gives access to the churchyard; crossing which we enter the lowly edifice by an arched doorway that opens into a roomy old porch of primitive construction, completely overgrown with ivy. This was in all probability the original church, and is entirely built of stone; the roof, after the manner of the older churches of the district, being fas.h.i.+oned into a simple kind of vault. Upon either side is a rude stone bench; and a stoup, or font, of archaic design is built into the wall.