Part 9 (1/2)

At the little foot-bridge spanning the stream, we halt to enjoy a pleasant retrospect of the time-honoured church, set amidst embowering trees, with a handful of lowly cottages scattered prettily around.

Thence we push on by a footpath across the upland meadows; climbing stone stiles, set in the turfy walls which do duty here as hedgerows.

Gradually we ascend to the wind-swept plateau at Newton; and if the ascent is easily won, it is none the less worth winning; for it affords an ample outlook over land and sea, with the village of Castle Martin upon the rise of the opposite hill.

Our track now becomes somewhat obscure, so we call in to inquire the way at the neighbouring blacksmith's shop; when a soot-begrimed son of Vulcan, casting aside his hammer, good-naturedly pioneers us along an intricate by-way, and points out the bearings for crossing the marshy valley. A wild enough place is this in winter-time, as our guide can testify; where the very hayricks have to be lashed secure to weather the fierce sou'-westers, which, under their steady impact, bend the trees into strange, distorted forms.

Descending the rough braeside, we now make for a conspicuous old ash-tree, and thenceforward thread our way amidst the d.y.k.es and marshy levels of Castle Martin Corse.

The tall steeple of Warren church, showing clear against the sky ahead, makes a serviceable landmark, until we strike the gra.s.sy track that leads across the marsh. Arrayed in sombre hues of russet red, rich browns and olive greens, the level strath is dotted with groups of horses and the black cattle for which the locality is famed, grazing knee-deep amidst waving sedges and lush green water-plants.

As we advance, the lapwings (those lovers of lonely, unfrequented places), wheel and circle overhead, uttering their peculiarly plaintive pipe as they scan the unwelcome intruders. And now a hollow lane receives us, and keeps us company until, after pa.s.sing a two-three humble tenements, we turn aside into the well-tended graveyard; and so to the parish church of St. Michael, which stands in a little elbow of the hill overlooking the scattered dwellings of the hamlet.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CASTLE MARTIN CHURCH.]

Castle Martin church has made so doughty a stand against the ravages of time that now, in its green old age, it presents an extremely picturesque appearance as we approach its weather-beaten portal. Before pa.s.sing within, let us pause awhile to scan the features of this characteristic old Pembrokes.h.i.+re church.

Prominent in our view rises the gray limestone tower, whose rugged, time-worn walls rise solidly to the corbelled battlements. These have louvred windows to the bell-chamber, and a quaint metal weather-vane atop; to right and left range the lichen-clad roofs and walls of the main structure; while a lofty and ma.s.sive porch stands boldly out, enclosing a rambling stairway that leads to the tower. The foreground is occupied by crumbling headstones, wreathed in ivy and decked with flowering creepers; and a shapely churchyard cross rises beside our pathway.

Nor does the interior of the church prove a whit less interesting. Here a group of graceful arches, with attached limestone shafts, gives access from the nave to the north aisle; whence a skew arch, having detached pillars with capitals, opens into the chancel. The latter is flanked by similar arches enclosing pretty, traceried windows.

The great south porch has a narrow doorway at some height in the side wall, giving access to a much-worn, straggling flight of steps.

Scrambling up these we find ourselves in the tower, which, after the manner of the country, is ma.s.sively constructed; having grim vaulted chambers with many openings, like pigeon-holes, pierced in the solid walls. Here are also the bells, erected by John Rudhale, A.D. 1809. The font, though plain, is well proportioned and of early date.

This curious old church is the head of the important parish and hundred of Castle Martin. The district is noted for its breed of black, long-horned cattle; and in bygone days could boast its own troop of gallant yeomanry, who shared with the Fishguard Fencibles the distinction of repelling the notorious French 'invasion' of Pembrokes.h.i.+re, a century ago.

Leaving the quiet village to the care of an aged crone and a group of children playing with a lame magpie, we get under way again, and make for the crossways on the ridge. At this point the Ordnance map raises expectations of something of a 'castle,' which proves, however, to be nothing more than a prehistoric earthwork with mounds of circular form.

Then onward again, pa.s.sing Moor Farm, where once stood a goodly mansion, of which scarce a stone has been spared. Now we keep a straight course towards Warren, with the skylarks making music overhead; while the voice of that 'interesting scamp,' the cuckoo, echoes from the woods down Brownslade way.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A WAYSIDE WELL.]

Shortly before reaching Warren village the country lane widens out, with a corner of sedgy greensward under the hedgerow. Here stands a curious old wayside well, domed over with a sort of rude canopy, whose mossy stones, fringed with hartstongue fern, are reflected in the clear water; indeed, from the frequent recurrence of springs and draw-wells, it would seem that St. Dec.u.ma.n.u.s, their patron, was held in high esteem in these parts.

At Warren we call a halt to refresh the 'inner man;' then lounge awhile in a shady nook, for a chat and a quiet pipe. Towards the cool of evening we bear away for distant Pembroke, by the road that leads past Orielton, where we are on familiar ground which has been touched upon in describing a previous route.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CASTLE MARTIN.]

CHAPTER VI.

CAREW, WITH ITS CROSS, CASTLE AND CHURCH. UPTON CASTLE AND CHAPEL.

PEMBROKE DOCK AND HAVERFORDWEST.

Setting forth by the morning train, we alight at Lamphey Station; whence we make our way to the grand old ruins of Carew Castle, as our _piece de resistance_ for to-day. Once free of Lamphey village, we soon find ourselves striding across the Ridgeway by Lamphey Park; whence we get a pretty retrospect, under some weather-beaten trees, of the pleasant vale we have quitted, with a more distant peep of the towers of Pembroke Castle. Here, too, we find a few traces of olden times in a group of gray, weather-stained farm-buildings; remnants, maybe, of Bishop Vaughan's famous grange.

At Rambler's Folly, on the crest of the ridge, we get the first glimpse of our destination, down in the valley below; with a background of open country rolling upward to the distant hills; while, by taking the trouble to cross over the road, we command the broad plain of the sea.

A shepherd with collie-dog at heel, driving his flock to pasture, now puts us in the way of a short-cut across the meadows. This woodland path is enlivened by a bevy of b.u.t.terflies that, like ourselves, are taking the morning air. Here floats a stately 'peac.o.c.k,' while yonder sprightly Atalanta, perched upon a spray of woodbine, displays her becoming _toilette_ of scarlet and glossy black, edged with daintiest lace.