Chapter V: Part 5

The road from Carmarthen to Tenby lies at first through rather dull country, but after a time passes between extremely pretty wooded hills. Presently we catch sight of the sea shining at the end of a deep valley, and after this a delightful run on a downward gradient carries us within sight of Tenby, the most charming of watering-places. Now, it is not altogether an artificial classification if we divide the civilised world into two parties: those who delight in watering-places and those who flee from them. For this taste or distaste is really, more or less, an indication of temperament, and at the end of half an hour one could usually guess correctly in which of the two classes to place a new acquaintance. But I really defy any one to dislike Tenby. There is something endearing about it. From the roadside the cliffs drop steeply to the sands below--very yellow sands sweeping in long curves to the edge of a brilliantly green sea, while beyond them the long headlands stretch one behind the other, mere blurs of purple or misty blue. On the right the remnant of the castle stands upon a rock, and below it there juts into the sea a picturesque little pier, entirely for use, and innocent of pavilion or bandstand. Here the innumerable trawlers take shelter, till in the early morning they unfurl their crimson or brown sails, and one by one glide out into the bay--a brave sight, and one that calls to mind the early name of this place, Dynbych-y-Pysgod, the Little Town of Fish.

There is something almost incongruous in the thought of the many sieges that this quiet, sunny town has suffered. From very early days it played an active part in the history of this strange English corner of Wales, and if its walls and gateways are still standing to add to its beauty, this is not for want of use, but because their uses were so constant that they were kept in good order. Of the castle, indeed, little enough remains: a ruined tower, an archway, and a fragment of wall are all that is left on the rock that juts out so picturesquely into the green sea.

But if the shrewd blows of several centuries have left us little of Tenby Castle, it is far otherwise with the splendid walls and towers of Manorbier, which stand close above the sea a few miles further along the same coast. To see Manorbier at its best one should approach it from the road called the Ridgeway, and this route, too, has the advantage of commanding, here and there, some very lovely views of the coast, of Lydstep and Caldey Island. It is well to know that on Sunday no strangers are admitted within the gate of Manorbier.

It stands, as Leland says, betwixt two “hillettes, between the wich the Severn Se gulfith in”--a fine setting for its battlemented walls and towers, the “turrets and bulwarks” of which Giraldus proudly speaks. That most delightful chronicler declares this to be the pleasantest spot in Wales, and then half apologises for his enthusiasm over this “his native soil, his genial territory.” We may forgive him for his love of the place, even if we think he goes a little too far, for this Gerald de Berri the Norman, who oddly enough has been known to all who have come after him as Giraldus the Welshman, was born here at Manorbier; and down there on the shore are the sands where he played as a child, building, we are told, not castles, but always churches and abbeys.

Strange enough this belligerent-looking building seems to have no history. It has, apparently, led an entirely domestic life. We hear of mills and ponds, of parks and dovecots in connection with it, but of siege and bloodshed not a word. The great, grim walls and bastions, however, must have added greatly to the peace and comfort of the Norman barons who lived behind them, and they certainly add very much to our pleasure.

Climbing again to the Ridgeway we turn to the left, with a view to seeing Lamphey, Pembroke, and the Stack Rocks before, following in the footsteps of many a pilgrim, we visit the shrine of St. David.

Lamphey Palace was for several centuries one of the dwellings of the Bishop of St. David’s; and a good deal of it was built by Bishop Gower, whose “mason’s mark,” so to speak, is the arcaded parapet so conspicuous here and at his cathedral city. Bishop Gower seems to have been the benefactor of this see, as Bishop Barlow was its evil genius. It was owing to the latter that Lamphey passed to the Crown, and thence to the house of Devereux; and so it came to pass that in this sequestered corner Robert, Earl of Essex, passed the early years of a life that was destined to be anything but sheltered, and played his childish games with no thought of a capricious queen or of Tower Hill. And with him, no doubt, played his sister Penelope, whom the pen of Sir Philip Sidney has made more familiar to us as “Stella.”

From Lamphey two miles of level road will take us to Pembroke, and to the castle that is perhaps the most impressive in all this land of relics, where the castles are so strangely thick upon the ground. The great walls rise upon a rock whose base is lapped by the waters of Milford Haven; in the centre stands the mighty double keep, and round it is a ring of bastions; on the town side is the entrance-gate, flanked by massive towers. There is something peculiarly imposing about this gateway, whose implacable strength seems all the more uncompromising from its being unsoftened by ivy and very little discoloured by time, though its fine effect is, of course, cruelly marred by the lawn-tennis nets that seem so often to be regarded as pleasing and appropriate additions to mediæval castles. Pembroke, unlike Manorbier, is full of history; there has been no lack of sieges here. Even before the building of this castle there were stirring doings round this rock: fierce attacks and wily stratagems, not unmixed, some say, with romance. There was a “slender fortress” here, built by Arnulph de Montgomery of stakes and turf--a poor defence one would have thought, but apparently sufficient to bear a good deal under the guardianship of that “worthy and discreet” constable, Gerald de Windsor, grandfather of our Giraldus. He showed his discretion on one occasion, when the stakes and turf were besieged by the Welsh, and his garrison was extremely short of food, by cutting up the last few beasts that remained to them, and throwing the pieces to the enemy. In our day this would be described, not as discretion, but as “bluff,” and it was as successful as that quality so often is. It is said by some that it was this same Gerald who built the existing castle, but there seems to be a good deal of uncertainty on the subject; and even more uncertainty as to which castle it was from which Gerald’s wife Nest, who was less discreet, apparently, than her husband, was carried off by a Welsh prince, not without encouragement from the lady. But when one hears that the discreet Gerald escaped on this occasion by creeping down a drain-pipe, one feels that there was some excuse after all for Nest. But these are mere traditions. What is very certain is that one of the stern entrance-towers was the birthplace of Henry VII., who lived here with his mother through the early years of his life, and after his exile in Brittany landed only a few miles away at Dale, where he won the Welsh at once to his cause by unfurling the Red Dragon of Uther. When Leland was here he was shown the room in which Henry was born, and in it “a chymmeney new made with the armes and badges of King Henri the VII.”; but this fireplace must have vanished long ago, for even the local guide-books do not profess to know the room of Henry’s birth.

There was a memorable siege of Pembroke in the Civil War--memorable not only because of its importance, but because the leaders of the Royalist garrison were renegade Roundheads. Cromwell’s guns were lying useless in the sand, for the ship that carried them had run aground; but undismayed he determined to starve the garrison out. “Here is a very desperate enemy,” he wrote to Fairfax, “who being put out of all hope of mercy, are resolved to endure to the uttermost extremity, being very many of them gentlemen of quality and thoroughly resolved.” They yielded at last, and “Drunken Colonel Payer,” as Carlyle calls the renegade, “full of brandy and Presbyterian texts of Scripture,” being indeed out of all hope of mercy, was shot at Covent Garden. Beyond hope of mercy, too, was the traitor who, by betraying the source of the castle’s water-supply to Cromwell, was the cause of the surrender. Cromwell, with characteristic promptitude, cut the drain-pipes and hanged his informant on the spot; and not many years ago some workmen found the broken pipes, and close beside them some human bones.

About eight miles beyond Pembroke are the Stack Rocks. The road is hilly and the gates across it are exasperatingly numerous; but these are but small discomforts, and the reward is very great. It is almost suddenly that one finds oneself on the very edge of the stupendous cliffs that form the southern coast of Pembrokeshire--an edge that is almost mathematically a right angle, so sheer is the drop, so level is the plateau above. This stern, impregnable coast has the impressiveness that extreme simplicity on a large scale always has: it has the directness of Early Norman architecture. There is not an unnecessary line, so to speak, not the least attempt at ornament; and the effect is to take away one’s breath. A few yards from the cliff are the great pillars known as the Stack Rocks, obviously separated from the mainland by the patient efforts of the sea and air--examples of the survival of the fittest. Their tall, gaunt outlines, and the sea-gulls that circle round them, add much to this strange scene; but our real reward for opening all those gates lies, not in the actual Stack Rocks themselves, but in the long curves of the coast-line, the massive cliffs, the green, transparent sea that swirls about their base.

It is necessary to pass through Pembroke on the return journey, but we must leave it by the Carmarthen road, since to reach Haverfordwest we have to avoid all the long ramifications of Milford Haven. Soon we turn sharply to the left and enter the tiny village of Carew, where, close beside the roadway, stands one of the finest Celtic crosses in Wales, richly carved with one of those interlaced designs that the Welsh in very early days copied from the Irish. And not very far away is another of those splendid castles that were, to a Norman baron in Wales, among the bare necessities of life--the half Norman, half Tudor castle of Carew, or Caer-wy (the Fort on the Water), whence the pronunciation _Carey_. The east front, the entrance-gate and bastions are, I believe, the work of Gerard de Windsor, constable of Pembroke, and are plainly Edwardian in character; but the north front, with its famous mullioned windows, was added by Sir Rhys ap Thomas, the energetic supporter of Henry VII., whose tomb we saw at Carmarthen; while the eastern side, with the great banqueting-hall and the lovely arch that leads to it, was contributed by Sir John Perrot, of Elizabethan days. This Sir John Perrot was one of the worst of the Irish Lords Deputy, but it was not on this account, very certainly, that he was suddenly called away from his building operations at Carew and bestowed in the Tower of London. The builders, delivered from his vigilant eye, did their work so perfunctorily that it is now in a more dilapidated condition than the sturdy defences of the Norman part of the castle.[12] But perhaps the old splendour of Carew is represented and recalled best of all by the beautiful rooms on the northern side, whose thresholds have been trodden by so many mailed feet, so many dainty silken shoes; for the hospitalities of Carew, at all events in the days of Sir Rhys ap Thomas, were carried out on a large scale. Henry of Richmond, not yet Henry of England, was entertained here on his way to Bosworth, and mounted the stairs to the room that displays his arms upon a shield, only a little time before he mounted the steps of the throne. This last event was celebrated here in a magnificent pageant, a medley of feasts and tournaments and sermons, at which a thousand guests filled these weed-grown rooms with all the glitter and colour of an age that loved fine clothes. Sir Rhys himself figured on the occasion in “a fine gilt armour,” and was attended by “two hundred tall men in blewe coats.” The banqueting-hall on the east side was not then in existence, but there was nevertheless “a goodlie spaciouse roome richlie hanged with clothe of arras and tapestrie” in which “the bettermost sort” were entertained, a cross table being laid at one end for the King who was so many miles away. And yet, in spite of these rash distinctions among the guests, we are assured by the chronicler that “one thing is noteworthy, that for the space of five dayes among a thousand people there was not one quarrell, crosse word, or unkind looke that happened betweene them.” It seems almost unnecessary that the bishop, before they parted, should have “bestowed a sermon upon them.”

Fifteen miles of a hilly road lie between Carew and Haverfordwest, a town that was important enough in Edward IV.’s day to be made a separate county. It was the chief town and stronghold of the Flemish colony, and the dominating position of the castle bears witness to its former usefulness; while its present mission as a gaol does nothing to detract from its grim appearance.

It was outside the embattled walls of Haverfordwest that Glyndwr first met his French allies, who had landed in Milford Haven from their hundred and forty ships. There were four or five thousand of them, very gay in their apparel, very rich in their accoutrements, and here before the hill of Haverfordwest they must have been an encouraging sight for a man whose luck was beginning to turn. But this stern castle withstood them, none the less, and though they burnt the town, they were obliged to retire. In the Civil War the Royalist garrison adopted a simple plan for saving themselves from the discomforts of a siege. Hearing that the enemy was approaching, it seemed to them that the best way to avoid unpleasantness would be to leave the place vacant, which they did with all possible despatch.

There are a good many things that we may think of in this town: those “people brave and robust,” as Giraldus calls the Flemings whom Henry I. established here; poor Richard II., who gave them their charter; Edward IV., who gave them a high sheriff; the sieges of centuries; the gay French army; but I, when I climb the steep streets of Haverfordwest, long most of all to know the spot on which the Crusades were preached to “a people well versed in commerce and woollen manufactories.” “It appeared wonderful and miraculous,” says the historian, with no consciousness that he is saying anything humorous, “that although the archdeacon addressed them both in the Latin and French tongues, those persons who understood neither of those languages were equally affected, and flocked in great numbers to the cross.”

In the days when people journeyed to St. David’s for the good of their souls it was considered that two pilgrimages to that shrine secured as many spiritual advantages as one pilgrimage to Rome. It seems hard that those who now approach St. David’s by train should not derive some solid benefit of this kind, for the penance must really be very great, since Haverfordwest is the nearest station, and the road between the two places is known as “sixteen miles and seventeen hills.” One passes these sad pilgrims, packed very closely in hired wagonettes behind still sadder horses, and one hopes that good may accrue to their souls, since surely this must be very bad for their bodies. Even bicyclists, our brethren of the road, must find these seventeen hills no easy task. The pilgrimage to St. David’s is pre-eminently one for motorists.

The surface, on the whole, is good, and near the coast the scenery is fine. As the sea comes into sight on our left the rather dull, flat landscape to the right is enlivened by the curiously sudden crag on which stand the remains of Roche Castle, the birthplace of Lucy Walters, the Duke of Monmouth’s mother. After a time the road dips suddenly to the shore at Newgale, where the sands stretch for two miles between low headlands, and where long ago the sea once receded and showed the blackened stumps of a huge submerged forest. Between this and St. David’s are “divers other little creekittes,” says Leland, who has a passion for diminutives of an original kind; and of them all none is so charming as little Solva where the narrow creek runs up far into the land, and a picturesque village climbs the hill, and the “fischerbotes” take refuge now as they did in the sixteenth century, and probably long before it.

A few minutes later appear the outskirts of the strangely squalid village that is the cathedral city of St. David’s. The straggling, ugly street gives little promise of reward for our pilgrimage. Then suddenly we are at the edge of a hill, and we look down into the little dell that holds, perhaps, as much beauty and history and legend as any spot of its size in our country: the cathedral itself, very plain and built of a strange purple stone; close beside it the ruins of St. Mary’s College, founded by John of Gaunt and his wife; and beyond it the far greater ruins of Bishop Gower’s very beautiful palace, with its great rose-window and the arcaded parapet that characterises the bishop’s buildings. And to the seeing eye this little hollow contains far more than these mere stones: it is filled with countless memories of saints, and those who were anything but saints; it is crossed by a long procession of pilgrims; William I., who came to worship before St. David’s shrine and in some sort apologise, as it were, for conquering the country--an apology that was rather premature; Edward I. and his faithful Eleanor, on the same errand, with more reason; William Rufus, with little interest in saints or shrines; Henry II., “habited like a pilgrim, and leaning on a staff,” and met at the gate by a long and solemn procession. Of all these, Edward was the only one who worshipped in this very building, for it is the fourth that has stood on this spot and was raised just after Henry II.’s visit. Much restoration has given it the look of a new building, as seen from the outside. Perhaps this is why, as one passes through the doorway, one is inclined to hold one’s breath from sheer surprise; for St. David’s Cathedral is “all glorious within,” and there is nothing outside to prepare one for the Norman arches with their varied and rich ornament, for the splendour of the fifteenth-century roof, and of the rood-screen that Gower built and is buried in. For nearly two hundred years the nave was covered with whitewash, and indeed it has narrowly escaped worse things at the hands of evil men, for Bishop Barlow, of whom we heard at Lamphey, and heard nothing good, was minded to strip the roof of its lead, and was only stopped in this enterprise by Henry VIII. It was this same bishop who stripped the roof of Gower’s palace and so led to its decay; and being, it seems, a veritable _esprit fort_, he not only was the first Protestant bishop who took advantage of the permission to marry, but he also took advantage of the dissolution of nunneries and married an abbess. Their five daughters, it is said, all married bishops. Barlow positively hated St. David’s. Why, he asked, should money be spent on these ruinous buildings “to nourish clattering conventicles of barbarous rural persons”? Why not move the see to Carmarthen, since St. David’s was “in such a desolate angle, and in so rare a frequented place, except of vagabond pilgrims”? The Saint himself was merely “an antique gargle of idolatry.” In short, the lead of the roof was the only valuable thing here.

Now Henry VIII., as we well know, had little enough respect for the shrines of the saints or for the beauties of architecture, but he had a great respect for the bones of his own grandfather--and these lay here. So Barlow had to hold his hand; and we, as we stand in the presbytery of the cathedral beside Edmund Tudor’s tomb, must remember all we owe to it. Nor is his the only notable tomb in this place; for here is the simple shrine before which so many kings, such countless pilgrims, have knelt, and there is the recumbent figure that some say is the Lord Rhys, the son of the brave Gwenllian, the greatest of the princes of South Wales, of whom it was said that “his prowesse passed his manners, his wytte passed his prowesse, his fayre speeche passed his wytte, his good thewes passed his fayre speeche.” Of the grave of Giraldus we must not be too sure, for though it is pointed out to us there has been much discussion with regard to it. Yet somewhere in this cathedral his dust lies we know.

Just beyond St. David’s is the sea. And here too we must go, and, if possible, see the sun setting behind that western horizon where the hills of Holy Ireland are said to be sometimes visible. St. Patrick saw them, says the legend, as he sat on this shore, and vowed to give his life to the conversion of that land. He kept his vow; but William Rufus, who stood here with very different intentions, was less successful. As he looked across the sea to Ireland, he said, “I will summon hither all the ships of my realm, and with them make a bridge to attack that country.” His words were reported to Murchard, Prince of Leinster, who, says the story, paused awhile, and answered, “Did the King add to this mighty threat, If God please?” and being informed that he had made no mention of God in his speech, he replied, “I fear not his coming.”

The legend that connects St. Patrick with this shore is extremely circumstantial, but whether it has the least foundation in truth I do not know. In the Rosy Valley, says the story, he built a college, where he taught both boys and girls, and trained missionaries who afterwards became Irish saints. One of the girls was Nôn, the mother of St. David, and it was near Porth Clais that that saint was born. And when he was old enough the boy too became a pupil of St. Patrick; and so, when his college days at Llantwit were over, and he was made “Archbishop of Legions,” because “his life was a perfect example of that goodness which by his doctrine he taught,” he moved the see from Caerleon to Menevia for love of his master St. Patrick. In this way was fulfilled the prophesy of Merlin: “Menevia shall put on the pall of the City of Legions”; and from that time forward Menevia has been called after its first and most famous bishop, St. David.

From this strange, remote land of dreams and legends and memories of early saints the transition to the world of modern progress is rather sudden; for only fifteen miles lie between the shrine of St. David and the new turbine steamers of Fishguard. We shall do well to choose the upper road, which runs for the most part through a bare, inhospitable land that is far more suggestive of the remoteness of the village-city than the most dramatic mountain pass could be. Here and there we have a fine glimpse of the coast, and there is a sudden softening in the scenery as we draw near Goodwick. Here, at one side of the pretty bay of Fishguard, are all the evidences of the new route to Ireland--the station, the hotel, and the steamers at the quay, while across the bay, beyond the long beach, the upper town of Fishguard appears above the headland. Here, at Fishguard, the French landed in 1797. Then, as they looked at those heights above the town, their hearts misgave them, for the hills were ominously streaked and patched with scarlet. It became plain to them that a very large force--a far larger force than they were prepared to meet--was waiting to descend upon them. And so it happened that their general, without loss of time, repaired to the Royal Oak Inn, where he signed his capitulation to Lord Cawdor. I do not know when, if ever, he found out that the masses of scarlet figures on the hills were not soldiers, but the enterprising matrons and maids of all the county round, who had come out in the red cloaks that were then part of the national dress, to see what was going forward.

The lower town of Fishguard lies in a cleft between two steep hills, and its pretty little harbour has all the picturesqueness that quays and boats and rippling green water can give. The further hill of the two, which we must climb, is of a most amazing gradient--computed in contour-books as averaging 1 in 7, but certainly 1 in 5 in places. From the high ground to which it leads us, lying between Fishguard and Newport, there are glimpses from time to time of fine coast scenery, and beyond Newport the road lies through very pretty country, under the conspicuous peak of Carningly. In the churchyard at Nevern there is a beautiful Celtic cross, the cross of St. Brynach, an Irish contemporary of St. David. From this point the road gradually rises to a considerable height, and then runs down a long hill to Cardigan.

Cardigan, once “the lock and key of all Wales,” gives us no hint of its former greatness. It appears an uninteresting little town till one realises that it is the Aberteifi whose castle was taken and retaken, burnt, and shattered, and built again, through all the stormiest years of Welsh history; captured by the men of the north from the men of the south; defended by both against the Anglo-Normans; attacked by the Flemings; at one time the court of Llewelyn, the greatest of the northern princes; and at another the court of Lord Rhys, the greatest of the southern princes. Here lived Griffith, the father of Rhys, “the light and the strength and the gentleness of the men of the south,” whose brave wife, Gwenllian, was killed by Maurice de Londres; and here he and Gwenllian’s brother, the great Owen Gwynedd, avenged her, when Cardigan bridge broke under the retreating Normans, and “the salt green wave of Teivy was clogged” with the bodies of the slain. And here the Lord Rhys held his famous revels, which included one of those mediæval Tournaments of Song with which Wagner has made us so familiar. The invitations were sent out in good time--a year and a day before the event--and many hundreds of English and Normans were bidden from “all Britain, Ireland, and the islands adjacent.” The historian goes on to tell us how “Rhys caused all the bards or poets throughout all Wales to come thither; and for a better diversion to the company he provided chairs to be set in the hall, in which the bards being seated, they were to answer each other in rhyme, and those that acquitted themselves most handsomely and overcame the rest, were promised great rewards and rich presents.” And the men of Gwynedd won the prize for poetry, but the men of the south were victorious in music.

Such in the old days was Cardigan, where the tourist may pause for a mid-day chop or buy a picture postcard.

Two miles above Cardigan, on a crag beside the Teify, are the ruined towers of Cilgerran, which have been very little concerned with history, though they have stood here since the days of Henry I. Their striking position above the wooded banks of the river, however, will repay us for a detour of a mile or two, and we can rejoin the main road at the beautiful bridge of Llechryd. Here, where the prevailing note of the landscape is peace, the gentle Teify, whose purling waters have so often run red, was once actually dammed--as on another occasion at Cardigan--by the bodies of the slain, when the princes of the south met the invading princes of Powys and overthrew them.

From Llechryd we follow the Teify past Newcastle Emlyn; and thence, if we like, we may cross the moors to Lampeter; or, better still, we may go straight on through the Henllan woods to Llandyssil, a lovely little place where fishermen delight to dwell, and where in consequence there is a really charming little hotel. And if, as may well happen, there is no room for us there, we can after all go on our way to Lampeter, for there also there is quite a nice hotel, though of course it lacks the charm of the country garden and the rushing Teify. The moorland road between Llandyssil and Lampeter is in its way unique, for on both sides of it the hills are covered with a thick, short growth of gorse, a carpet of gold spread almost smoothly for miles.

At Lampeter there is nothing to detain us but the important business of consulting maps. For here is the parting of the ways. If our object is merely to reach the English border, our best way perhaps is to aim at Builth. To do this we must strike across the hills through lovely scenery; past Pumpsaint, where George Borrow awoke to hear the murmuring of the Cothi; through Llandovery, where we have been before on the way to Carmarthen; and thence over a really fine pass to Llanwrtyd Wells. If, on the other hand, we are aiming at North Wales our obvious course is to strike across to Aberaeron, and thence follow the coast to Aberystwith and Barmouth. And if--and this is the course I strongly recommend--we intend to complete the circle, and end our little tour by running down the Wye Valley, then too we should make for Aberystwith, and, turning thence eastward, join the infant Wye on the slopes of Plynlimmon.

THE VALLEY OF THE WYE

Those who have stout hearts and stout boots may, I believe, discover the actual source of the Wye among the rushes of Plynlimmon. Five miles of hard walking over rather dull downs will procure them the satisfaction of seeing the first gleams of the thin silver thread that is destined to grow into the most beautiful river of England. Most of us, however, will be content to meet the Wye for the first time when it is five miles old, so to speak, at the point where it touches the high-road from Aberystwith to Newtown. Even here it is a tiny stream, rushing lightheartedly down the hill over the rocks, unsobered as yet by the dignified reflections of Hereford and Tintern and Chepstow Castle.

These slopes of Plynlimmon are not particularly inspiring, except when regarded as the cradle of the Wye, and of that greater river whose tributary she is, the Severn. It is true that the standard of Wales, with its red dragon, once floated victoriously on the side of this hill, and the short grass has been dyed with the blood of the Flemings, who mustered here to chastise that stout rebel, Owen Glyndwr, and were thoroughly chastised by him instead. But in themselves the heights of Plynlimmon are a little uninteresting. Short grass and rushes are all that grow upon them, and though their rounded outlines have a dignity of their own, the lack of colour makes them rather desolate. It is not till the Wye has passed Llangurig that it begins to earn its fame.

Curiously enough, the Wye’s fame seems to depend mainly on its lower reaches. Nine people out of ten regard it as rising, so to speak, in Hereford; the Upper Wye is unknown to them and considered of no account. Yet to those who know it the Upper Wye, with its rugged hills and its wealth of colours, has a stronger charm even than the wooded loveliness of Symond’s Yat or of Tintern.

At Llangurig--which is a wind-swept village with a nice little inn and a reputation for good fishing--the river and the road that follows it turn sharply to the right, and begin to descend by a very gentle gradient towards Rhayader. The landscape changes gradually. The hills lose their bleak desolation only to become cultivated and commonplace: then the fields yield to moorlands and the rounded curves to bold and jagged rocks; and at last, near the spot where the river Marteg adds its waters to the Wye and the railway joins the road, the great hills rise on each side so precipitously that the way lies almost through a defile. The hilltops are bare and grey, but by the banks of the river is a belt of trees; and as the valley widens the slopes are no longer bare but are glorious in purple and gold, in heather and gorse. And where the flaming sides of the Elan Valley converge with the valley of the Wye stands the tiny town of Rhayader.

This is, I think, the gem of the Wye. It is well, therefore, if possible, to stay here for a day or two; and fortunately there is a nice little hotel to stay in. There are hills near and far, and on every hill are all the colours of the rainbow, and with the passing of every cloud the colours move and change. Close at hand are slopes of bracken topped by rugged crags; far away the hills of the Elan Valley are blue and amethyst. The river rushes through the town, giving to it its name of Rhayader Gwy, the Falls of the Wye, though the falls are not what they once were, I believe, before the bridge was built. Of course there is a castle-mound, for no Welsh town of a respectable age is complete without one. The castle itself has disappeared. The days of its life, indeed, appear to have been few and evil. It was built by “the Lord Rhys,” the mightiest of all the princes of the south, but so strenuous was the life of his day that he was obliged to rebuild it a few years later. Afterwards he was for a short time imprisoned by his own sons, and it was while he was in this undignified position that his castle of Rhayader was seized by his enemies. But these dim memories have lately been eclipsed. Those who visit Rhayader to-day think little of the valorous and potent prince of ancient Wales; they think almost exclusively of the Birmingham Waterworks. We may forgive them for this, for the Birmingham Waterworks are more romantic than one would expect--romantic not merely as all great engineering works must be, with the romance of enterprise and achievement, but also romantically beautiful. One may drive for miles beside the lakes that wind into the heart of the mountains, and would have so natural an air if it were not for their mighty dams of Caban, and Pen-y-Garreg, and Craig Goch. It is a drive worth taking, for the road is good, the mountains tower above it with real grandeur, and the waters have pathos as well as beauty. The legend of buried houses and churches is common to many lakes; but in the case of the lakes of Cwm Elan it is no legend, but a fact, that their waters flow over the ground where generations of men have lived and worked, have ploughed their fields and said their prayers. The affairs of most of them are forgotten as completely as their houses are buried, but there is one memory here that no waters can hide--whether of Cwm Elan or of the chilly Serpentine or of the blue Mediterranean--the memory of Percy and Harriet Shelley. They lived here once, young and happy, and would have thought it a wild prophecy indeed if it had been foretold to them that not only they themselves, but even their quiet homestead among the green fields, would be destroyed by water.

From Rhayader to Newbridge the road still closely follows the river, which, as we watch it mile by mile, gradually becomes wider and calmer. For the first few miles the banks are wild enough, and very beautiful; then suddenly the river is hidden from us by the deep shades and countless stems of Doldowlod Woods, where James Watt once lived; and by the time we dart out into the sunlight again we are nearing Newbridge. On this road there is nothing to limit our speed except the law, for from end to end of the Wye the surface is good, and there are no hills that deserve the name. At Newbridge we leave the river for a few miles, but join it again near Builth, and cross it to enter that town.

Builth is unattractive. It professes to be a Spa, but I never heard of any one who drank the waters; and it is hardly likely to become popular, since all the charms of Llanwrtyd Wells are but thirteen miles away on the one side, and all the fashion of Llandrindod only seven miles away on the other. Llanwrtyd is a delightful little place, with a good hotel and lovely surroundings, unspoilt as yet by popularity; while Llandrindod, as every one knows, is beloved by so many that it is no longer very lovable. Builth has little to offer in rivalry of these, and indeed makes small show of hospitality, maintaining in this matter the character it earned long ago, when it refused to admit its fugitive prince, the last Llewelyn. It is only a little way from here to the dell whither he struggled through the snow from this his treacherous town, only to find fresh treachery, and to die through its means. His dust lies, they say, at the spot called Cefn-y-Bedd, or the Bank of the Grave; and here in quite recent times a monument of stone has been set up. It stands close to the wayside on the road from Builth to Llanwrtyd.

This, however, is not our road, which follows the Wye very closely for a time; through Erwood, where from the top of a slight rise we have a wide and beautiful view; past Llyswen and the “Three Cocks,” one of the most famous of fishing inns, and through Glasbury to Hay. We are now in a broad and fertile valley; the hills are wooded; the river is growing slow and stately in its demeanour. The whole aspect of the country has changed, for at Hay we shall leave all the wildness of Wales behind us, and shall enter the quiet, homely county of Hereford.

“I cam _in crepusculo_ to the Hay,” says Leland, and he chose his time wisely.

Hay, or La Haie, as it was originally called, was once the meeting-ground of all those turbulent mediæval passions that flourished so exceedingly on the border. For this reason it is full of ghosts. From this, the Welsh side, it has rather an undistinguished air, but when first seen by twilight from the English side, with the Black Mountains lowering behind it, and the remains of its grim castle dominating it, little Hay seizes the imagination. For those who approach it thus _in crepusculo_, like Leland, the past for ever lives in its commonplace streets more insistently than the present; lives above all in its castle--“the which sumetime hath bene right stately”--the castle with the long, picturesque flight of steps, and the longer and still more picturesque history. Through that great doorway many feet have passed that never came out, for those that entered the castle of Hay did it at their peril. The greater part of the building as it now stands is of Tudor date, but the entrance has by some means survived since King John’s time, and this in spite of difficulties: for the place was plundered during the Border Wars, destroyed by the Welsh themselves in self-defence, rebuilt by Henry III., captured by Llewelyn, retaken by Prince Edward, captured once more by Llewelyn’s grandson, and finally suffered the general fate of Welsh castles. “Now being almost totally decay’d,” says Camden, “it complains of the outrages of that profligate Rebel, Owen Glyn Dowrdwy, who in his March through these Countries consumed it with fire.”

This last disaster may account for the entirely modern appearance of the houses; but there is nothing, no slate roof, no shop-window full of cheap blouses, that can make one forget the haunting presence of those that walk unseen in Hay--the undying ghosts of a hundred battles, murders, and sudden deaths.

Soon after leaving Hay we pass the remains of Clifford Castle. Here was born Jane de Clifford, destined to be so fair that men would call her the Rose of the World; and here no doubt she played her childish games on the banks of the Wye, with no disturbing visions of that harder game which she was to play later on and finally to lose. The story of the avenging poison-cup is untrue, we are told: it was in the nunnery of Godstow that Fair Rosamund died, and was buried beneath the cruellest epitaph, surely, that was ever graven on a tomb.

Two miles beyond Clifford is the toll-bridge of Whitney, and this we cross with a pretty view of the river on each side of us. Our way lies through Letton, past the turn to Monnington--which claims to be the burial-place of Owen Glyndwr--and through Bridge Sollars to Hereford. The landscape all the way is characteristic of the country: a scene of quiet fields and gentle river, of thatched cottages and gay gardens. It is not exciting, but it is extremely pleasant. Characteristic as it is, however, it does not represent Herefordshire at its best. The hills above Ledbury, the hop-gardens round Leominster, the woods and the wide views near Richard’s Castle, are all more distinctive and more beautiful than this part of the Wye Valley. Indeed, if we were not at this moment pledged to follow the Wye we should do well to drive from Hay to Hereford by way of the Golden Valley, though the journey is considerably longer and the road by no means so good. This valley was originally named by the British, from the river that runs through it, the Valley of the Dore, or of the Water, for _water_ is in Welsh _dwr_. The Normans, jumping to conclusions, translated this into _Val d’Or_, and so it became the Golden Valley; “which name,” says Camden, “It may well be thought to deserve, for its golden, rich, and pleasant fertility.”

But it is improbable that either the fertility of the “Gilden Vale” or the remains of Abbeydore Monastery will tempt a motorist to leave the splendid road that will lead him into Hereford by Letton, and Bridge Sollars, and the White Cross that was set up in the fourteenth century when the plague was raging in Hereford, to mark the spot where the infection ceased, and where, in consequence, it was safe to hold a market. Here, on the left, lies the suburb of Widemarsh and beyond it the Racecourse, where the promising youth who was afterwards Edward I. showed at an early age that genius for extremely practical jokes that he used at the expense of the Welsh later on. He was the prisoner of Simon de Montfort on this occasion, and was taking a ride with a certain number of attendants. He guilelessly suggested that his guards should ride races among themselves, while he amused himself by looking on; then, when their horses were tired, he upon his fresh one galloped off to Dinmore Hill, where the Mortimers of Wigmore were waiting for him. This incident took place in Widemarsh; and in Widemarsh too is a relic that is worth seeking out before we drive into the heart of the town--the preaching-cross of the Dominicans, which, with the ruins of a thirteenth-century monastery, stands among the cabbages of the Coningsby Hospital. The latter is an Elizabethan foundation, and with the red coats of its pensioners is in itself a picturesque object in a town that is not very rich in visible memorials of its great history. We may look in vain for the castle that was, according to Leland, the largest and strongest in all England; the castle that was repaired by King Harold and was once so splendid with its ten wall-towers and great keep; where Ranulph of Normandy stayed, and Tostig, and King John, where John of Gaunt was governor, were Simon de Montfort imprisoned Prince Edward after the Battle of Lewes, where Isabella proclaimed her son Edward III. Protector of England, and where Owen Tudor was a prisoner. As it suffered no less than three sieges during the Civil War, and when they were over its remains were sold for £85, we need not be surprised that the castle is now represented by a public garden, where the youthful citizens of Hereford may play leap-frog over the spot where kings have feasted and made history. And not only has the castle disappeared, but even of the old houses there are very few remaining, as may be judged by the name of the fine one that stands in the principal street of the town. In Chester, Worcester, or Shrewsbury, “The Old House” would not be a very distinguishing name!

The chief point of interest in Hereford is, of course, the Cathedral, with its long and somewhat confusing history. An endless number of people have had a hand in the building of it, apparently, from the days when Offa of Mercia enriched the shrine of his murdered guest, Ethelbert of East Anglia, till the quite recent and rather unfortunate day when the west front was finished. The consequence of this diversity of builders is that Hereford Cathedral, with its austere Norman south transept, its Early English Lady-Chapel, its Decorated south choir-transept, and its Perpendicular cloister, is a complete Guide of Architecture.

It was as the shrine of St. Ethelbert that it first became important. There is a good deal of disagreement on the subject of Ethelbert’s death. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, for instance, says _tout court_ that in 792 Offa commanded the head of King Ethelbert to be cut off; whereas Matthew of Westminster gives quite a different version of the affair, completely exonerating Offa, “that most noble and most illustrious and most high-born king.” It was Offa’s queen, Quendritha, he says, who caused a peculiarly comfortable armchair to be placed in the bedroom of her visitor the King of East Anglia, and beneath it “a deep hole to be dug”--with very unpleasant consequences for the visitor. When the horrified Offa heard of Ethelbert’s fate he shut himself up and refused food. “But,” adds Matthew, “although he was quite innocent of all participation in the King’s death, he nevertheless sent a powerful expedition and annexed the Kingdom of the East Angles to his own dominions.”

The murdered guest, whoever his murderer, was first buried at the spot still called St. Ethelbert’s Well, and afterwards in Hereford Cathedral, to its great enrichment.

There are several roads from Hereford to Ross, none of which follow the river closely. The most commonly used--being the least hilly--is by Bridstow and Much Birch. Between this road and the Wye are still to be seen traces of the College of Llanfrother, founded by Dubritius, that great Archbishop of Caerleon who preached so movingly at King Arthur’s coronation and then resigned his see to the still greater St. David. On the other side of the Wye is a shorter, but after the first five or six miles a more hilly route, with some fine backward views and some glimpses of the river. The surface of this road is all that can be desired, and the hills are by no means formidable; but as one approaches Ross the country is rather uninteresting.

Ross itself may be regarded as a monument to one John Kyrle.

“Rise, honest muse, and sing the Man of Ross! [cries Pope]
Whose causeway paves the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
‘The _Man of Ross_,’ each lisping babe replies.”

The lisping babe, however, is making a mistake, for the Man of Ross only taught the spire to rise forty-seven feet; and, moreover, it has been destroyed by lightning and rebuilt since his day (which was a very long day, lasting from 1637 to 1724). “A small exaggeration you must allow me as a poet,” said Pope. But the fame of John Kyrle does not depend upon the spire alone, for he did much to improve the town, and did it, too, on a very small income. “He was a very humble, good-natured man ... of little or no literature,” an eighteenth-century diarist says of him. “His estate was £500 per ann., and no more, with which he did wonders.” It was not, however, by means of this modest estate alone that he won his lasting fame as a philanthropist, but also by untiring energy and skill in the art of beggary, and the judicious use of other men’s money. In the case of the church bell it was his own money that he used, and his own silver goblet also. While the bell was in process of casting he drank to Church and King, and then flung the goblet into the molten metal--that after serving for the sacred toast it might be for ever consecrated to sacred uses. This incident adds a touch of the picturesque to the sterling qualities of the benevolent old gentleman to whom Ross owes its public walks, and the _Prospect_ that quaint Gilpin of the eighteenth century described as “an amusing view.” Ross repays him by keeping his name green. It also--not entirely without difficulty--keeps green the two elm-suckers that long ago forced their way beneath the wall of the church and rose (being elms of Ross) in the pew of John Kyrle. They have been dead for some time, but they are still draped carefully with foliage to keep up the illusion. The church itself is fairly old, and has some interesting monuments, including an ugly one tardily raised to the memory of the Man of Ross.

In the town the most cherished relics are, of course, Kyrle’s house and the carved monogram he is supposed to have placed on the outer wall of the Market Hall. The letters “F.C.” are interlaced with a heart, and are said to represent the words, “_Faithful to Charles in heart_,” for Kyrle was devoted to the Stuarts. Charles I. himself slept once in this town, and other kings have visited it, but none has distinguished himself here save George IV. The Mayor of Ross sallied forth to meet him, as mayors use, wreathed in smiles and primed with speeches. By way of response to all this loyalty and eloquence, however, “the first gentleman in Europe” merely pulled down the blinds of the carriage! History does not record the mayor’s next proceeding. The position strikes one as difficult.

Close to Ross and on our way to Monmouth is Wilton, which is reached by a beautiful and ancient bridge of six arches, whence there is a good view of Ross, clustered prettily on its hill and surmounted by its heaven-directed spire. Part of this bridge was broken down during the Civil War to prevent Cromwell’s army from reaching Hereford. The castle, too, fell into the hands of the Royalists, though its owner had carefully refrained from supporting either side, with the result that he offended both. The ruins now enclose a private garden and are fairly picturesque though they hardly compensate for an interrupted run. Within these walls, of which so very little is left, the poet Spenser was once entertained in the days of the Greys. Later on the castle was owned by the family of Brydges, one of whom, when he was Deputy-Lieutenant of the Tower, was the means, either deliberately or from mere procrastination, of securing for England one of the most glorious reigns in her history. The warrant for the execution of Princess Elizabeth reached the Tower, but Charles Brydges delayed to carry it out. While he was waiting Queen Mary died.