Part 12 (1/2)

Seawards the hamlet is begirt by ruddy sandstone cliffs of moderate height, the rocky strata being twisted into the most curious contortions, and pierced with caverns and crannies frequented by bathers and picnic parties. The firm dry sands, exposed at low tide, afford a pleasant seaside stroll to the more s.p.a.cious sh.o.r.es of Broad Haven.

After calling a halt for a sketch of Little Haven, we up sticks and away, pursuing a south-westerly course by a road that climbs high above the rock-bound coast. Far below us lies a picturesque cove, with a rude flight of steps, hewn from the rock, leading to a landing-place used by the fisher-folk.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ST. BRIDES.]

After pa.s.sing Talbenny Church, we approach St. Brides, and obtain the pretty _coup d'oeil_ represented in the accompanying sketch: the church and old-fas.h.i.+oned rectory-house nestling under the lee of some wind-tossed trees, while Lord Kensington's fine residence of St. Brides Hill shows clearly out against the dark woodlands that crest the western down. To the right is seen a glimpse of the tiny haven, famous in bygone times for its productive herring fishery. The little structure close beside the water occupies the site of an old fishermen's chapel, which, falling into ruins, was put to the degenerate uses of a salt-house. From that time forth, as the old story runs, the herrings deserted their accustomed haunts, and the fis.h.i.+ng trade dwindled away:

'When St. Bride's Chapel a salt-house was made, St. Bride's lost the herring trade.'

The parish church is interesting, and has a bright, well-cared-for look that is pleasant to see. Upon the floor of a small north transept lie four sadly defaced effigies. The largest of these is reputed to represent St. Bride, the patron saint of the church, a contemporary of St. David and St. Patrick. According to tradition, St. Bride sailed over with certain devout women from Ireland, and established a nunnery here.

A short distance south-east from the church rise the ivy-mantled ruins of some extensive buildings of unknown origin, overshadowed by dark trees and surrounded by lofty stone walls pierced with loopholes, while an arched gateway opens towards the west.

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

Upon leaving St. Brides, we strike directly inland by the Dale road.

This brings us in about a quarter of an hour to Orlandon, where the skeleton of a large old mansion rises grimly above a group of wayside cottages. In its palmy days Orlandon was the home of the Laugharnes, a family of some celebrity in their time, but now extinct in this locality.

According to a romantic story, the first member of this family who appeared in this district was s.h.i.+pwrecked and washed up more dead than alive on the seash.o.r.e not far away. Here he was found by the daughter and heiress of Sir John de St. Brides, who caused him to be carried to her father's house, where he was hospitably entertained.

Laugharne, of course, was soon over head and ears in love with his fair deliverer, and the lady being in nowise backward in response to his suit, they married and founded a family whose descendants resided for generations at Orlandon.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MULLOCK BRIDGE.]

Another mile brings us to Mullock Bridge, where a long causeway traverses a marshy backwater of the Haven. Anent this same bridge a quaint story is related concerning Sir Rhys ap Thomas of Carew. Having registered a vow before the King that Henry of Richmond should not ascend the throne save _over his body_, the crafty knight fulfilled his word by crouching beneath the arch of Mullock bridge while Henry rode across it.

A glance at the map suggests a short _detour_ to obtain a peep at Marloes. The sandy lane, meandering beside a streamlet, lands us right abreast of the church at the entrance to the village. The little edifice makes a pleasant picture, with a handful of low thatched cottages grouped around. Inside we find the small pointed chancel arch with projecting wings, characteristic of the churches in this locality.

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

There are some curious features here, notably an old bronze sanctus bell, and a modern baptistery sunk in a corner of the floor, to meet the predilections of the Welsh churchman, who does not apparently consider the ceremony of baptism complete unless he can 'goo throw the watter.'

Dwelling apart from the busier haunts of men, the good folk of this remote parish have kept pretty much to themselves, and have acquired the reputation of being a simple-minded, superst.i.tious race--'Marloes gulls,' as the saying is. In order to save the long Sat.u.r.day's tramp to Haverford market, a Marloes man hit upon the ingenious device of walking _half_ the distance on Friday, then returning home he would complete the _rest of the walk_ the next day!

In the 'good old times,' if tales be true, these Marloes people were notorious wreckers. On dark tempestuous nights they would hitch a lanthorn to a horse's tail, and drive the animal around the seaward cliffs; then woe betide the hapless mariner who should set his course by this Fata Morgana! There is a story of the parson who, when the news of a wreck got abroad in church one Sunday morning, broke off his discourse and exclaimed, 'Wait a moment, my brethren, and give your pastor a fair start!'

[Ill.u.s.tration: MARLOES SANDS.]

Another mile of crooked, crankling lanes takes us to the brow of the sea cliffs, whence we obtain a bird's-eye panorama of the broad sweep of Marloes sands. Ruddy sandstone rocks pitched at a steep angle encompa.s.s the bay, and peep grimly out from beneath the smooth, firm sands.

Gateholm rises close in sh.o.r.e, an island at low tide only; the broad ma.s.s of Skokholm stretches out to sea, while the horizon line is broken by the lonely islet of Gra.s.sholm, a favourite haunt of sea birds, and scene of a notorious 'ma.s.sacre of the innocents' by a party of yachtsmen, some few years ago.

The frequent recurrence of these _holms_ and other place-names of Scandinavian origin, points unmistakeably to the presence of those old sea rovers around the Pembrokes.h.i.+re coast, in the days of 'auld langsyne.'

Making our way to the farm called Little Marloes, we push on through heathy byways, approaching the coast again at West Dale Bay. Now we catch a glimpse of Dale Castle, with the village of that ilk nestling under the lee of a dark wood, and harvest-fields crowning the sunny hillside, while a silvery stretch of the Haven lies in the background.

Dale Castle appears to have been a place of some importance from very early times, though of its history we have but meagre records. In the year 1293 Robertus de Vale granted a charter for a weekly market at his manor-house of Vale, and here Sir Rhys ap Thomas entertained his future King after his landing at Mill Bay upon the adjacent coast.

This village of Dale is still a comely-looking spot, where the pleasant country residences of the gentlefolk rub shoulders with a sprinkling of homely cottages; yet withal the village has a certain air about it as of a place that has known better days. For Dale, it seems, was once a nouris.h.i.+ng seaport, the abode of substantial sea captains and well-to-do merchant traders; while, if tales be true, the village folk drove a flouris.h.i.+ng business in the contraband goods run in by the 'free trade'

fraternity. In those days good Welsh ale was brewed at Dale by a family bearing the singular name of Runawae, who exported it in large quant.i.ties to Liverpool: hence Dale Street in that city is said to derive its t.i.tle from this place.