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 shingly 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 fashion 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.

From this sea-girt eyrie we command a s.p.a.cious outlook over land and sea. Standing beside the gray, lichen-clad ruins of the old watch-tower, our gaze wanders across a sparkling expanse of open sea that rolls, in waves of clearest aquamarine and sapphire blue, towards the land-locked shelter of the Haven; and breaks into crests of snowy foam where St. Anne's Head stands out and takes the brunt of old Ocean's fury. The ruddy, sandstone rocks rise in picturesque confusion from the surging breakers, which eddy around a tiny islet accessible only at low tide; whose forefront, planted in the ocean, is barbed with a grim array of jagged ledges and pierced with dark, yawning crevices.

Beyond West Angle Bay the mainland rounds away eastwards, with a fort-crowned islet protecting the inner reaches of the famous estuary.

It is to be hoped that the unrivalled advantages of Milford Haven will ere long be turned to better account. With its n.o.ble fairway, untrammelled by shoal or bar, and deep, land-locked reaches where the whole British Navy might safely ride at anchor, Milford Haven has no compeer along our western seaboard. Given a better system of railway communication, and proper facilities in the way of docks and wharves, Milford should, in days to come, stand _facile princeps_ as a seaport for the magnificent vessels engaged in the great and ever-increasing traffic of the Atlantic 'ferry.'

But, meanwhile, time is stealing a march upon us, and the lengthening shadows warn us to depart; so, casting a last glance across the sunlit sea, flecked with white 'mares'-tails' and dotted with brown-sailed trawlers, we retrace our track over the breezy headland. At every step we inhale the healthful smell of wave-washed seaweed, and tread underfoot the flowers that gem the rough, uneven ground--thrift, trefoil, blue sheep's bit and a minute, starlike flower whose name we do not know.

Pushing on through the quiet street of Angle, we diverge up a steep, shady lane in search of Bangeston House; which proves to be nothing more than the gaunt, dismantled walls of a vast group of buildings, apparently of early eighteenth-century date, mantled in ivy and overshadowed by sombre trees. The ruins cover a large extent of ground, and appear to have been regarded by the neighbours as a convenient quarry for building materials. Bangeston was, as its name implies, the ancestral home of the Benegers, a family of much consequence in olden times who possessed broad acres hereabouts, but whose very name has long since become extinct.

Curious tales of the former occupants of Bangeston still linger amongst the cottagers. A certain Lord Lyon, the Garter King-at-Arms of his time, is said to have dwelt here many years ago; and an ancient graybeard whom we meet volunteers the information that, 'It was a gret plaace in they times, and I've a-heared tell as there was quare doings when Lord Lyon lived in th' ould marnsion. It was him as drove with a coach and horses, one dirty night, and went right over the clift (they do say), down by Freshwater way, and was never seed again.'

Much edified by the yarns of Old Mortality, we now retrace our steps to Eastington Farm; musing meanwhile over these fast-fading fables, and meeting a few belated peasant-folk trudging home through the gray of the gloaming.

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

Eastington, or more properly Jestynton, is traditionally reputed to have been, in days long before the Conquest, the abode of Jestyn, grandson of Howel Dda, Prince of South Wales. A descendant of his, whose unp.r.o.nounceable name we refrain from recording, was married to Sir Stephen Perrot, the first Norman of that name to settle in this county; who by this alliance acquired vast possessions and influence throughout all the countryside.

This quaint old homestead of Eastington, under whose hospitable roof we spend the night, is honeycombed with curious nooks and corners, that lure us on to endless scrambles amidst dark, crooked pa.s.sages, and crumbling stairways. The long south front, with its homely porch and small-paned windows, is flanked at its western end by a ma.s.sive mediaeval structure whose rough, lichen-clad walls are pierced with narrow, deep-set windows, and topped by ruinous battlements; all looking so h.o.a.ry and ancient, one is disposed to fancy this may be a remnant of the royal residence of that old Welsh Prince whose name it bears.

By a rude, steep flight of gra.s.s-grown steps we mount to a clumsy door, that swings noisily on its crazy hinges as we push our way into the interior. We now find ourselves in a large and lofty chamber, whose solid, concrete floor is prettily marked out with lines traced in simple geometrical patterns. Rudely-arched windows admit light at either end, one of them having cusped openings; while a ruined fireplace yawns in the centre of the opposite wall.

A small vaulted cell opens from one end of this room; and a narrow stair, winding through the thickness of the wall, ascends to the battlemented roof, which has a gangway all around and is pierced with loopholes for defence. The dark, vaulted bas.e.m.e.nt of this ancient fabric forms a capital cool dairy, where mine hostess shows us with pardonable pride her clean, earthenware pans brimful of the freshest of fresh milk and cream.

Anon ensues a quiet chat over the evening pipe; the mellowing flitches forming a canopy overhead as we lounge in the cavernous chimney-corner.

At last we retire to our lowly chamber, to be serenaded far into the night by the boom of heavy guns, waging mimic warfare by land and sea; while the glare of electric search-lights turns night into noontide, in a highly distracting fashion.

Next morning the heavens are already as bra.s.s above our heads when, turning our backs on Jestynton, we strike into the meadow-path that leads down to Rhoscrowther village. Ensconced in a secluded dell remote from the busy haunts of men, this quiet hamlet has a look of rest and fair contentment; yet the place must have been of no little importance in bygone times, for there is reason to believe that the Bishop of St.

Davids had one of his seven palaces in this parish.

Down in a hollow beside the stream stands the ancient parish church, dedicated to St. Dec.u.ma.n.u.s, patron of springs and wells, who in olden times was held in high esteem for the cures effected at the bubbling rill hard by.

This venerable church remains pretty much in its original condition, and presents a picturesque array of roofs and gables, cl.u.s.tering beneath its tall gray tower. The gable of the nave is crowned by a pretty bell-cot, which probably did duty prior to the erection of the tower. The latter is a stout old structure with 'battered' or sloping walls, having both an inner and an outer roof of stone, and looking as though built with a view to defence.

The north porch is unusually s.p.a.cious. Its broad gable end is adorned with the arms of the Daws of Bangeston, and the badge of the Whites of Hentland, a notable family in bygone days, whose chapel is in the north transept. Alongside the arched doorway of the porch is a square-headed opening, supposed to have been used as an alms window, through which, in those easy-going times, the priest handed out the dole of bread, money or what not to his _proteges_.

Our attention is next attracted by a diminutive figure surmounting the arch of the inner entrance. Upon closer inspection this archaic image appears to be seated, with the right hand raised in the att.i.tude of benediction. It was rescued, we understand, many years ago from the iconoclastic restorers who were then working their will on Angle Church; and was placed in its present position by the Rector of this parish.

Upon entering into the sacred edifice, its picturesque proportions excite our admiration. Notwithstanding its modest dimensions the short transepts, curious angle pa.s.sages and chancel with its pretty aisle, give a quaint, varied look to the low interior.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT RHoSCROWTHER.]

The north wall of the chancel is adorned with a handsome, crocketed canopy, which terminates in a triplet of queer, sculptured faces symbolical of the Holy Trinity. This monument partly hides an ancient niche or aumbry, where the wafer was probably kept in pre-Reformation times. The adjacent south aisle has two canopied recesses; under one of which reposes the handsome, though somewhat damaged, effigy of a lady, with a wimple over her chin such as is worn to this day in the northern part of the county. The wall above is pierced with a small piscina arch; and the chamber is lighted by windows of very good Pembrokeshire type.

This aisle is known as the Jestynton Chapel, from the mansion of that ilk to which it still appertains; and there is a tradition that Jestyn, Prince of South Wales, built the church; placing it conveniently near to his own residence, though remote from the rest of the parish.

Many other interesting features will reward a diligent search; and the visitor who is curious in such matters will notice that the chancel arch has evidently been cut through from the earlier nave. The south doorway, abandoned in favour of the more sheltered north porch, affords a convenient niche for the font: while odd corners here and there conceal old tombstones, inscribed with quaint epitaphs or half-obliterated armorial scutcheons.

In pa.s.sing through the churchyard, we examine a dilapidated cross, remarkable for a circular hole in the base supposed to have been used as a receptacle for contributions to the priest from his flock. Near the adjacent stile stands an ancient, upright stone inscribed with curious, illegible characters.