Part 6 (2/2)

Now and again we pause to catch the throstle's mellow song, or to watch the easy movements of a pair of sparrow-hawks, as they wheel in slow, graceful gyrations through the air.

By-and-by we come to Cheriton; a tiny hamlet with a comely church, whose tall, ivy-clad tower rises from a wooded dell. In the churchyard stands an ancient cross smothered in creepers, and the stepping-block for those who rode to church in bygone days.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SIR ELIDUR DE STACKPOLE.]

In the north wall of the chancel, beneath a handsome, canopied recess of somewhat unusual character, lies the effigy of its reputed founder, Sir Elidur de Stackpole.

The figure has a grave and dignified appearance; it is clad in a suit of chain-and-plate mail, and has sword, s.h.i.+eld and large spurs. The worthy knight is represented with crossed legs, as having fought in the wars of the Crusades; at the time, no doubt, when Baldwyn and Gerald of Manorbere were inciting the people to that famous enterprise.

The base of this monument is divided into six panels, in each of which is a figure beneath a cusped and crocketed arch. These quaint little effigies show a curious variety of costume and expression, and are worth close examination. Upon the opposite, or southern, side of the chancel is the figure of a lady, apparently of Edwardian date. The head is covered with a square hood, and is supported by two kneeling angels.

This effigy is very well executed, and in an unusually good state of preservation.

In the adjacent chantry we notice the early seventeenth-century monument of 'Roger Lorte, late Lorde of the Mannor of Stackpoole.' This singular erection is enriched with the painted figures of Sir Roger, his lady, and their twelve children, and bears a pious inscription in the peculiar style of the period. Under the window of this chantry lies a disused altar stone bearing the following inscription, which we respectfully submit for antiquaries to exercise their wits upon: CAMU ORIS FILI FANNUC.

Hard beneath the church we plunge into a woodland path, and follow the meanderings of a prattling brook which hurries along, beneath the cool shade of overarching trees, to the lake-like river that skirts the broad demesne of Stackpole Court.

The variety and luxuriance of the forest trees that flourish in this sheltered locality, are all the more striking in a country where well-developed timber is, as a rule, conspicuous by its absence; for the rigorous gales that sweep across the more exposed uplands, give to the struggling vegetation that leeward slant which is a characteristic of many a Pembrokes.h.i.+re landscape.

Pleasant it is, turning from the glare of the dusty roadway, to saunter beneath these leafy aisles of smooth-stemmed beech and knotty oak, mountain-ash, ilex and Scotch fir; and to push our way through intertwining thickets of bramble, wild-rose and ivy, enmeshed by the clinging woodbine and traveller's joy; while all the time the mercury, in less-favoured spots, is climbing steadily towards the eighties.

Crossing a rustic bridge that spans the lake, we pause to watch the slim, brown trout darting in every direction beneath the water-lilies that adorn its placid surface; when, suddenly, a brace of dusky waterfowl, alarmed by our intrusion, dart off with an impetuous splash and trail away in rapid flight to the shelter of the ozier-beds.

[Ill.u.s.tration: STACKPOLE.]

Ere long the broad, gray front of Stackpole Court comes into view beyond a stretch of velvety greensward; the ma.s.sive porch being flanked by two small Spanish field-guns of antiquated pattern, bearing the t.i.tles 'La Destruidora' and 'La Tremenda.' The existing mansion was built by an ancestor of the present Lord Cawdor, upon the site of the baronial residence of that same Sir Elidur de Stackpole, whose tomb we have so lately seen at Cheriton.

The older house had experienced a chequered career. After weathering many troubles in mediaeval times, it was garrisoned by the King's troops during the Civil Wars: when its stout old walls offered such effective resistance to the Parliamentary cannon, that they did but little execution.

Stackpole is now the residence of the n.o.ble 'Thane of Cawdor,' whose ancestor acquired the estate by marriage with Miss Lort, the sole heiress to all these broad acres.

The mansion contains some interesting works of art and relics of antiquity, including a portrait by Romney of the famous Lady Hamilton; a fine painting of Admiral Sir George Campbell, G.C.B., who captured the French invaders at Fishguard in 1797: and a curious old map of the county, adorned with s.h.i.+elds and armorial devices.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HIRLAS HORN.]

That famous drinking-cup the 'Hirlas horn' was formerly to be seen at Stackpole, but has since been removed to Golden Grove, in Carmarthens.h.i.+re. This curious treasure is mounted in silver, and is supported upon an oval plinth by two silver quadrupeds, as shown in our sketch. The latter are probably the only remaining portions of the original horn, presented by Henry of Richmond to his faithful entertainer, Dafydd ap Ievan, while resting at the castle of Llwyn Dafydd, in Cardigans.h.i.+re, on his way to Bosworth Field.

Upon faring forth again, we are struck with admiration of the splendid groups of evergreen trees that adorn the vicinity of the mansion, and the trim, well-tended grounds that contrast so pleasantly with the wild luxuriance of the surrounding woodlands.

At the neighbouring farm we pick up a track diverging to the left, that leads us over a bridge spanning the lake-like estuary, affording a pretty peep of the mansion upon its bank. Thence our path winds across the breezy slopes of Stackpole Park, until we drop suddenly upon a tiny quay and cl.u.s.ter of cottages, stowed away beside the sea in the oddest corner imaginable, under the sheltering lee of the cliffs. Ensconced in this out-of-the-way nook, we s.n.a.t.c.h a well-earned _siesta_; and upon resuming our stroll we follow the coast-line, pa.s.sing near a cavern that goes by the name of Lort's Cave, and catching a glimpse of the secluded cove of Barrafundle, backed by a stretch of blue sea and the bold crags of Stackpole Head.

Retracing our steps to the farm we pa.s.s near a spot where, according to a fading tradition, a certain ghostly party of headless travellers were wont to arrive, about nightfall, in a spectral coach from Tenby; each pale shade, as 'tis said, bearing his head stowed snugly away under his arm!

Another half-hour sees us into Bosheston, the remotest village of this Ultima Thule. The place has a nautical air all its own; with a row of trim coastguards' cottages, whose strip of sandy garden ground is embellished with the figure-head of some 'tall Ammiral' of bygone days.

Atop of the hamlet stands the church, a primitive-looking old edifice, with a rude stone cross and broken stoup standing amidst the tombstones.

The route is now all plain sailing, for we have merely to 'follow our noses' along the sandy trackway; while the salt wind deals us many a l.u.s.ty buffet as we trudge seawards across the open, shelterless uplands.

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