Part 12 (2/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: DALE CASTLE AND MILFORD HAVEN.]

We approach the village by a footpath, and pa.s.s betwixt the castle and the church. The fuchsias, hydrangeas, myrtle and laurustinas that brighten this little G.o.d's acre tell of a genial climate; yet some of the headstones bear grim records of s.h.i.+pwrecked mariners, who lost their lives upon the iron-bound coast that shelters this favoured spot. Dale Church has a tall, unrestored tower, and possesses a slender silver chalice inscribed with the words 'Poculum Ecclesiae de Dale, 1577.' A sketch of this cup will be found at the head of the present chapter.

The lane now runs below the luxuriant groves of Dale Hill, and then skirts the sh.o.r.es of the sheltered inlet called Dale Road. 'Dale Rode,'

says George Owen, 'is a goodlye Baye and a fayre rode of great receipte; one of the best Rodes and Bayes of al Milforde and best defended from al windes, the East and South East excepted. In al this Rode there is good landing at al times.' Close beside the water stands a humble alehouse called the Brig, which bears evident traces of its smuggler patrons, being literally honeycombed with cellars and secret cupboards for the storage of their booty. Even now the walls still reek with moisture, from the salt stored away in inaccessible corners during those piping times when that commodity was worth a couple of guineas the hundredweight.

We now direct our steps towards St. Anne's Head, in order to visit Mill Bay, the traditional landing-place of Henry of Richmond. 'Here in Pembrokes.h.i.+re,' says old George Owen, 'happened his landinge and first footeinge when he came to enoie the Crowne and to confounde the parricide and bluddie tyrante Ri:iii. Here founde he the heartes and hands first of all this lande readye to ayde and a.s.sist him.' The saying goes that as he rushed up the steep bank at the head of his troop Henry, being scant of breath, exclaimed, 'This is Brunt!' a name that has clung to the neighbouring farm ever since.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'THIS IS BRUNT.']

After a flying visit to the lighthouses, we retrace our steps to Dale village, and, following a track around the head of the tideway, push on without a halt to Hoaton. Here we find the huge old anchor shown in our sketch, and the question naturally arises, How did the anchor get there?

A vague tradition still lingers in the locality to the effect that, centuries ago, a big foreign man-o'-war was driven out of her course and wrecked upon the sh.o.r.es of St. Bride's Bay. Hence it has been conjectured that this anchor may be a veritable relic of that 'wonderful great and strong' Spanish Armada, whose unwieldy galleons were cast ash.o.r.e and dashed to pieces upon our western coasts, three hundred years ago.

Be that as it may, some years back the anchor, which had previously lain by the wayside, was dragged into the position where it now stands; the neighbours lending ready aid in response to offers of ale _ad lib_.

Fifty men with a team of horses were hard put-to to move it, for though much of the metal has rusted and flaked away, the shank is 20 feet long and nearly 30 inches thick, while the head of the anchor measures some 14 feet around, and the ring is large enough for a man to pa.s.s through.

Truly that old Spanish galleon must have been a veritable Leviathan to require such an anchor as this!

From Hoaton we make our way across country to Haverfordwest, and traversing a district broken up into 'meane hills and dales,' we approach the town by way of the Portfield, and proceed to 'outspan' at a certain snug hostelry not a hundred miles from St. Mary's broad steeple.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A RELIC OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.]

CHAPTER VIII.

WESTWARD HO! TO ST. DAVIDS. THE CITY AND ENVIRONS.

'These high wild hills and rough uneven ways, draw out our miles and make them wearisome.' Thus, league after league, the sorry team drags the battered old ramshackle coach up interminable ascents, or plunges in headlong career down rough, breakneck steeps, _en route_ for that Ultima Thule of our wanderings, the ancient city of St. Davids. Sixteen miles and seventeen hills (so the story goes) lie between Haverfordwest and our destination. The route bears in a north-westerly direction, through monotonous country relieved by occasional glimpses of the strange, rugged rocks of Trefgarn, or a peep of more distant Precelly.

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

About half-way out rises the lofty isolated tower of Roch Castle, a border stronghold dominating the march-lands that for centuries formed the frontier of this 'Little England beyond Wales.' Built by Adam de Rupe in the thirteenth century, the tall, picturesque old tower forms a conspicuous object for miles around, while at its feet a group of whitewashed cottages cl.u.s.ter around the lowly parish church of St. Mary de Rupe.

Crossing the bridge that spans the Newgale Brook, we enter the ancient Welsh province of Dewisland. Presently our venerable quadrupeds are crawling at a snail's pace down a slanting hillside not quite so steep as a house-roof, with the village of Lower Solva squeezed into a crevice beneath our very feet.

The situation of this pretty hamlet recalls the Devons.h.i.+re combe that enfolds with such inimitable grace the village of Clovelly. Groups of bowery cottages cl.u.s.ter around the head of a land-locked haven, which, small as it is, bears no inconsiderable traffic in coal, lime and general produce from the Bristol Channel ports, for distribution throughout the western parts of Pembrokes.h.i.+re.

The rocky, weed-strewn sh.o.r.es shelving up to low, gra.s.sy hills overarched by the soft blue sky; a stranded coasting vessel, with weather-stained canvas and rust-eaten anchor, beside a handful of rough fishermen's cottages, present all that an artist could desire to compose a charming picture.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SOLVA HARBOUR. FROM AN OLD PRINT.]

From the crest of the hill near Upper Solva a wide view of the sea opens out, with a brace of rocky islets off the coast; while far ahead the high lands of Ramsey Isle, Carn Llidi and Pen Beri, raise their graceful undulations above remote Octopitarum, and the wind-swept sandhills that mark the site of legendary Menapia.

Coasting along through a rolling treeless country parallel with the course of the Via Julia (the Roman road from Carmarthen), which accompanies us henceforth to the end of our journey, we mount the gentle ascent that leads to the time-honoured 'city,' of which, however, little is seen until we are 'right there,' as our Transatlantic cousins say.

Dismounting at the Grove Hotel, we fare forth for our first view of time-honoured Ty Dewi, the city of St. Davids. Strolling leisurely along the quiet gra.s.s-grown 'street' of the village-city, we pause now and again to make way for a herd of cattle, or to watch a flock of geese, stubbing, with sinewy necks outstretched, in a damp and weed-grown corner. Presently the roadway widens out, and here stands an ancient stone cross, which, rising from a flight of time-worn steps, marks the central point of this most diminutive of cities.

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