Part 8 (1/2)
At a place called Wallaston Cross five lanes converge, necessitating a consultation with the trusty Ordnance map. The choice falls upon an upland road, running along the brow of a hill, that raises us just high enough to peep across the Haven to Milford town, and the towers of distant Pembroke; over which we catch a glimpse of the Precelly hills, lying far away upon the northern horizon.
Down in a sequestered dell, overlooking the estuary, nestles the little church of Pwllcroghan; its low tower and dumpy spire scarce out-topping a grove of tempest-torn trees.
Long ago this lowly edifice was restored by Ralph de Beneger, a former Rector, whose counterfeit presentment reposes in his church beneath a canopy bearing the inscription: 'Hic jacet Radulphus Beneger, hujus ecclesiae Rector.' In 1648 a skirmish took place in Pwllcroghan churchyard, between the Royalist and Parliamentary troops; when it is recorded that 'the malignants, as was their custom, displayed on their hats the legend, ”We long to see our King.”'
Trudging steadily onwards, we pa.s.s near Henllan House, formerly a possession of the Whites of Tenby; a place which still keeps its old Welsh name amidst all its Saxon neighbours. That rascally vagrant the cuckoo now pipes up from a neighbouring coppice, and 'tells his name to all the hills' in monotonous iteration; while lovely Silver-washed Fritillaries and sky-blue b.u.t.terflies flit to and fro beside the hedgerow.
At a crook of the lane we turn through a gate, and follow the 'fore-draught' down to Eastington farmhouse, where the good-natured farmer and his better-half provide bed and board for the coming night; a vast convenience in this unfrequented district, which offers no accommodation of a higher type than the ordinary hedge alehouse.
After despatching a modest repast, in which the staff of life forms the backbone of our fare, we resume our devious ramble. An unmistakeable footpath leads past the ruins of a deserted water-mill to the sh.o.r.e of Angle Bay, whose calm blue waters, spreading broadly into the land, mirror a cloudless sky of unrivalled purity. Skirting an ancient moss-grown wall which, for some inscrutable reason, encloses a tract of apparently valueless marshland, we roam across the s.h.i.+ngly beach towards a group of isolated buildings. Pale yellow sea-poppies, taking heart of grace to brave the l.u.s.ty breezes, beautify the waste places with their delicate flowers; and groups of cattle, standing knee-deep in the shallows, add a touch of life to the pleasant, tranquil scene.
Our route now lies around the rocky sh.o.r.e, an opportune field-path skirting the low cliffs, and affording lovely ever-changing views over the sunny landscape and the land-locked Haven. The warm south wind, sweet from clover fields, is fraught with the roar of the ocean, driving full into Freshwater Bay a mile away beyond the sandy burrows; but here under the lee of the hill, scarce a breath of air stirs the ripening barley. Suddenly a brace of partridges bl.u.s.ters away from the sun-baked ploughfield, where the ruddy eye of the 'pimpernel' peeps from every furrow.
Ensconced beneath a gnarled old hawthorn hedge wreathed in fragrant woodbine, we indulge in a quiet pipe; watching the rabbits as they scuttle to and fro under the sandy bank, and the dainty blue dragonflies hovering over the meadowsweet and ragged Robin, that deck the oozy course of the streamlet at our feet. The deep tones of a steamer's syren float across the water, followed by the report of a heavy gun from a fortress guarding the Haven; for the summer manoeuvres are now in full swing, and we can see the white-peaked tents of the Connaught Rangers behind Angle Point.
The gracefully curving sh.o.r.e is fringed with a broad stretch of seaweed, of every hue from golden brown to bottle green, whence the pungent odour of ozone is borne upon the sun-warmed air.
Glancing back across the bay, we catch a glimpse of the old farmhouse that is to be our local habitation for to-night; near which the tower of Rhoscrowther Church rises amidst its solitary grove of trees.
A long mile further we enter the village of Angle (or Nangle, as it is sometimes called), a place that in ancient deeds is styled 'in Angulo,'
doubtless from its situation in a _corner_ of the land.
The long village street with its one-storied cottages, many of them coloured yellow, pink or blue, and all embowered in luxuriant climbing plants, has a pleasant, cheery look; and as we advance a ruined tower comes into view, rising above some marshy meadows beside the stream.
This is all that remains of the castle of Angle, once the abode of the Sherbornes, an ancient family in the land, who were formerly lords of Angle. At no great distance from the church are some remains of a handsome structure of uncertain antiquity. Nothing is known about the history of these ruins; but they have supplied a peg whereon to hang a local legend, somewhat to the following effect: 'Once upon a time,'
three sisters and co-heiresses, finding they could not pull together under the same roof, agreed to build each of them a dwelling for herself. The first is said to have erected the castle; the second, the curious old house above mentioned; and the third, a mansion just without the village, where a house named Hall now stands.
Turning through a wicket-gate, we pa.s.s by an old stone cross and enter the church, over which, alas! has swept the moloch of modern restoration, obliterating much of its original character. In one corner, however, we espy a queer little organ of primitive type, with unenclosed pipes and keyboard, not unlike the spinet of earlier days. This has been recently evicted in favour of a brand-new instrument designed by the present vicar, who is skilled in the art and mystery of organ-building.
Angle Church was one of the numerous benefices held by that famous Welsh chronicler, Giraldus Cambrensis.
[Ill.u.s.tration: SEAMENS CHAPEL AT ANGLE.]
In a corner of the churchyard, overlooking the tidal inlet, rises a picturesque little chapel frequented in olden times by the seafaring folk, when embarking upon or returning from their ventures on the vasty deep. Externally all is obscured beneath a mantle of glossy green ivy, save where a traceried window or low-arched doorway peeps from under the shadowy foliage. Ascending a few steps to the interior, we find ourselves in a small, oblong chamber covered with a pointed stone vault; at the east end stands a plain, stone altar, surmounted by an elegant little traceried window, whose modern painted gla.s.s portrays Scriptural scenes appropriate to the purpose of the chapel.
A small piscina, and the rec.u.mbent figure of some unknown ecclesiastic under an arched recess, adorn this nutsh.e.l.l of a church. Beneath it is a crypt of similar dimensions, entered through a doorway at the eastern end, and lighted by small quatrefoil openings pierced through the thickness of the walls.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Ruined Castle at Angle]
We now turn our attention to the castle ruins, which are reached by pa.s.sing the school-house and crossing a small gra.s.s-plot, adorned with a simple monument to some local benefactor. Little else remains besides a tall, ivy-clad peel-tower, whose ma.s.sive limestone walls abut upon the shallow stream that meanders to the bay. These solid walls are honeycombed with archways and pa.s.sages; while a good, stone-newel stairway corkscrews up to the outermost battlements, above which rises a circular chimney-shaft. Each of the four stories had its own fireplace, window recesses and other conveniences; and the lower chamber is stoutly vaulted with stone. Altogether, the place appears to have been built in such a self-contained fas.h.i.+on as to be capable of resisting attack, or even sustaining a siege.
Close at hand stands a low, rambling, yellow-washed house, having every sign of age about it. Many years ago this was the Castle Inn. The interior shows dark, open-raftered ceilings, where mighty hams and flitches of bacon ripen the year round; broad-beamed oaken chairs flank a solid table standing upon the rough, flagged floor; while dogs, cats, hens and chickens roam sociably everywhere. A carved stone head, peeping out from amidst the honeysuckle that clambers over the porch, is _said_ to represent Giraldus Cambrensis himself, a statement that must be accepted with the proverbial 'grain of salt.'
The rough outbuildings at the rear also bear traces of antiquity; and in an adjacent meadow stands one of those curious old pigeon-houses, which formed a customary adjunct to the mediaeval castle or manor-house. The thick stone walls of this pigeon-house are built in a circular form, surmounted by a high conical roof much the worse (except from a picturesque point of view) for several centuries of neglect and hard weather; the interior is pierced with many tiers of pigeon-holes, each with a ledge for the bird to rest upon, while an 'eye' in the crown of the roof served its feathered inmates as a doorway. The original arched entrance has been broken away to form a larger opening, and the whole structure appears to be coeval with the neighbouring castle. This pigeon-house appears in our sketch of Angle Castle.
Invigorated by a crisp sea-breeze that drives the fleecy clouds before it, we put our best foot foremost, and stretch away along a rough cart-lane between banks of p.r.i.c.kly furze and stunted hawthorn hedges.
These give place, after pa.s.sing a solitary farmstead, to the open, wind-swept down, aglow with amber-tinted gorse, and carpeted with dry, crisp turf and tussocks of flowering thrift.
Half a mile across this bracing moorland lands us at the old ruined Blockhouse, built, as George Owen informs us, in the days of Henry VIII.
'for to ympeach the entrance into the Haven.' Hence we look out across the open seaway, that forms a worthy approach to the n.o.ble estuary of Milford Haven.