Part 7 (2/2)

Onward we plod, until erelong the incessant clang and clamour of the myriad sea-fowl that, time out of mind, have made their home amidst these wild and inaccessible sea-cliffs, tell of our approach to the far-famed Stack Rocks.

Standing upon a rocky vantage-point, we have the two lofty, isolated rocks, or 'stacks,' full in view; rising from the surging ocean that rolls in foaming eddies around their feet. Countless sea-birds wheel with harsh, discordant cries around their weathered sides; where every available ledge and cranny of the rocks is peopled with a mult.i.tude of feathered bipeds, huddled together close as herrings in a barrel.

Here, cheek-by-jowl in sociable good-fellows.h.i.+p, cl.u.s.ter clumsy guillemots (or'eligugs,' as they call them locally), razorbills, and ridiculous-looking puffins in clerical black and white; while kittiwakes, sea-pies and dark-green cormorants dart about athwart the waves, or, perched upon some projecting ledge, pursue their morning toilette with the utmost _insouciance_.

The eggs of these birds are of rather peculiar form. Very large at one end and pointed at the other, their sides are curiously flattened; this nice provision of Nature rendering them less liable to roll off the narrow ledges of the rocks which are their resting-place.

Inexorable time forbids our rambling farther around the trend of the sea-cliffs; so we reluctantly quit their breezy summits to hie away inland past the lonely chapel of Flimston; keeping straight ahead through sandy lanes glorified with hedges of golden gorse, and 'the swete bramble floure' of good old Chaucer. Presently we come in sight of the tall steeple of Warren Church on the rise of the hill before us.

A long mile westward from our present road lies Bullibur, where traces of an ancient chapel have been brought to light at a spot to this day known as the 'Church Ways.' Anent the erection of this little edifice, the story runs that, as fast as ever the builders could raise their stones from day to day, the Prince of Darkness came along and demolished their handiwork during the night.

Be that as it may, we now press on to Warren; whose fine old church has a ma.s.sive tower and spire, of such lofty height as to form a notable landmark to pilots far away at sea. The tunnel-vaulted nave and porch, with a well-preserved cross in the churchyard, complete the tale of Warren's _notabilia_.

With a final glance around the wide-extended landscape, encircled by a blue stretch of the distant Channel, we shape our course over some rising ground at a place called Cold Comfort--a tantalizing misnomer this torrid afternoon. Our road then winds down the hill to a fresh, clear stream, running through water-meadows where cattle stand knee-deep in the cooling shallows; and so, crossing Stem Bridge, we enter the confines of the ancient Honour of Pembroke.

Breasting the upward slope, we pa.s.s through numerous gates athwart the little-frequented highway, which hereabouts calls for no particular notice, being chiefly remarkable for the amazing and dazzling whiteness of its coating of limestone dust, which, under the glare of the afternoon sun, recalls the parched routes of distant Italy. This brings into play our dark, smoked gla.s.ses and the weather-beaten sketching umbrella, to the huge delectation of the small fry skylarking around the wayside cottage gates.

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

By-and-by the many-windowed front of Orielton appears amidst the rolling woodlands that cl.u.s.ter around a pretty lakelet lying in the hollow of the vale. There is an old saying that Orielton possesses as many windows as the year has days, and as many doors as days in the month; but finding the fable tally ill with the apparent size of the mansion, we propound the conundrum to an old road-mender who explains that a large part of the building was 'throwed down' years ago, when he was 'a bit of a boy.'

At Hundleton two roads diverge near the village green, and, as 'all roads lead to Rome,' either will do for Pembroke; so we steer as straight a course as we can, the lane winding down beneath overarching trees to a secluded nook where a stream meanders, under deep, ruddy sandstone banks, to lose itself in a salt-water 'pill' that joins the Pennar River.

Traversing the long, tedious street of Monkton, our lengthening shadows point the way as we push on once more into Pembroke town; conjuring up, after the long day's tramp, rare visions of the good cheer awaiting us at the modest quarters where we come to anchor for the night.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT RHoSCROWTHER.]

CHAPTER V.

TO ANGLE, RHoSCROWTHER, AND THE CASTLE MARTIN COUNTRY.

To-day we extend our rambles, by a westerly course, through the remote and little-visited peninsula that encompa.s.ses the 'lardg and spatious Harborough' of Milford Haven, upon its southern flank.

There is an Eastern saying that 'men grow blind in gazing at the sun, and never see the beauty of the stars.' Throughout the locality in question we shall not be dazzled by grand or striking scenery; yet we may happen unawares upon many a nook of pleasant verdure amidst its rolling sandstone hills; and quiet corners, full of an indescribable charm, in the world-forgetting villages (undiscovered by the guide-books) that nestle in its remote, sequestered vales.

Getting away 'bright and early' from Pembroke streets, while the smoke of newly-kindled fires still hangs softly around the old house-tops of the town, the keen, crisp air of the half-awakened day sends us spinning along at a pace that makes short work of the tedious highway.

At a bend of the road we digress into a hollow seductive lane that meanders, in nonchalant fas.h.i.+on, around the head of a tidal inlet; thence our by-way beguiles us, by moss-grown stepping-stones, across a tinkling rill that wantons in rippling eddies amidst big red sandstone boulders, where ivy and hartstongue fern have made their home. Onwards we pursue this secluded lane, under the cool shade of an overhanging coppice; here the deep, ruddy soil is shot with purple hues, from the blue sky mirrored in each shallow puddle left by last night's rain.

In every shadowy nook wreaths of fairy gossamer glisten, like frosted silver, amidst the emerald green of the hedgerow. The merry pipe of linnet and piefinch sounds cheerily forth as we pa.s.s along; while that quaint little fellow, the nuthatch, utters his unmistakeable note (resembling the ring of skates on the ice), as he flits from tree to tree. Working his way head-downwards, in his own peculiar fas.h.i.+on, he searches trunk and branches for his favourite fare; striking with his long, st.u.r.dy beak, and steadying himself by the purchase of his outspread tail.

Now and again we catch a glimpse of a smart goldfinch, and presently discover his pretty nest, with eggs lying warm and cosy; while sober little wrens flit briskly in and out under the bushes. Even the nightingale, though a _rara avis_ in these parts, has, this phenomenal season, been heard in the woods near Cresselly. The following tradition explains how these little songsters came to shun the county of Pembroke.

It appears that St. David, 'being seriously occupyed in the night tyme in his diverse orizons, was soe troubled with the swete tuninges of the Nightingall as that he praied unto th' Almightie that, from that tyme forward, there might never a Nightingall sing within his Dioces; and this was the cause of confininge of the bird out of this countrey. Thus much,' remarks the chronicler, 'to recreat the reader's spirettes.'

Presently as we rise the hill a broad, land-locked bay opens out to the briny Haven at Pennar Mouth. In the words of that quaint chronicler, George Owen: 'This is the creke that cometh upp to Pembroke towne. It is the largest and greatest creke of al Milforde, and pa.s.seth upp into the land a three Myle and more; and at the upper End it parteth itself in two Branches, and compa.s.seth about the Towne and castle of Pembroke; serving the said Towne for a moate, or strong Ditch, on every side thereof. A Bark of 40 or 50 Tonnes may enter this Creke att low water, and ride at Ankher att Crowpoole, but noe further without helpe of ye Tyde. The Crow is a shallow, or shelf, a pretty way within the entrance of Pennar; on itt groweth the best Oysters of Milforde. It is a big and sweete Oyster,' saith he, 'and poore folk gather them without dredging.'

Far away upon the gla.s.sy waters of the Haven, a handful of vessels lie at anchor off Hobb's Point, where the old coach-road runs down to the ferry. All this is soon lost to view as we descend to a tree-shaded dingle, aglow with foxgloves, campion and yellow _fleur-de-lys_. Anon our path winds upwards across an open hillside, amidst acres of glowing gorse; pa.s.sing a few lonely thatched cottages, with donkeys browsing leisurely about their open doors.

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