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Historical notes on the old County of Caernarfonshire
The old county of Anglesey is now represented by the new County Borough of Gwynedd |
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Caernarvonshire may be described, soberly and without exaggeration, as unique among the counties of the British Isles. No other county combines so many beauties, natural or otherwise, within its borders. There are mountains in Scotland higher than Snowdon, but none which uses its bulk to greater effect. There are river valleys more wooded and picturesque than that of the Conway, but none which is so perfect a complement to the landscape in which it is set. There are headlands in Achil loftier and more abrupt than Penmaenmawr Mountain, but none which flings itself so arrogantly into the surging sea, or imposes so mighty a barrier to further progress. And then we have the Caernarvonshire specialties which are beyond challenge, the green and silver ribbon of the Menai Straits and the two great wonders, each unrivalled in its kind, of Carnarvon Castle and Conway Castle. Did not Dr Johnson say that “ one of the castles in Wales would contain all the castles he had seen in Scotland”?
The shape of the county may be likened to a long gauntlet, the hand and wrist being the Lleyn Peninsula and the rest the great mountain massif which is bounded by the Menai Straits and the valleys of the Conway and Lledr and intersected from north-west to south-west by the two passes which enfold Snowdon and their brother, Nant Ffrancon, which in turn separates Snowdon’s north-eastern neighbours, the Glyders, from their northern neighbours, the Carnedds. The southern ends of these three passes are joined by Nant Gwynant and its continuation to Capel Curig, where the valley of the Llugwy is reached and communication thus established with Bettws-y-Coed and the upper reaches of the Conway.
If this skeleton outline be borne in mind, it will be realised that the geographical structure of the county is comparatively simple, and the following description should not be confusing. The River Conway everywhere forms the eastern boundary, with the exception of the peninsula at the farther side of which Llandudno lies between the tow fine headlands of Great Orme and Little Orme.
Nothing better illustrates the trend of events in the nineteenth century than the story of Llandudno. It now enjoys the possible unenviable reputation of being the “Queen of Welsh Watering-places,” and in summer months becomes a kind of maritime annexe to half the industrial towns of the busy and populous North. Even its permanent population is nearly twenty thousand. But only ninety years ago it was just over 500, and human beings went to Llandudno not to disport themselves on the beach (duly sorted out into sexes when it comes to bathing!) but to see specimens of birds which had become exceedingly rare in other parts of the country. It is true that the magnificent view of the Caernarvonshire coast and hinterland from the Great Orme’s Head still links the tripper of 1924 to the tourist pioneer of 1824. From appropriate spots on that fine promontory the county can be taken in at a sweep, from the estuary of the Conway to distant Menai Straits and southwards to the great peaks which form the bulwarks of Snowdon itself..
St Tudno’s Church recalls the name and activities of a Welsh saint of the sixth century who has left little but vague traditions behind him. The little church which has appropriated his name may stand on the site of some buildings which he made his retreat, but the existing structure is probably not older than the fifteenth century.
The curiously flat neck of land which connects the two Ormes with the right bank of the Conway is somewhat uninteresting, though quite historic ground. Its chief antiquarian curiosity is Gloddaeth House, once a fine Tudor mansion, but much renovated and altered in later times.
Close by is Egglwys Rhos, or Llanrhos, as it is called now, with an ancient church “celebrated,” as Pennant tells us, “for the death of the prince Maelgwyn Gwynedd, who had taken shelter here to avoid the vād felen, or yellow pestilence, which at that time raged through Europe. The Britons, like the Romans, personified disease. In this instance, it was to assume either the form of a Basilisc, or the powers of one, under the form of a fair woman, who slew Maelgwyn with a glance, as he incautiously looked out of the window; according to the prophecy . . . . ‘Whenever a strange creature arrives on the marsh of Rhianedd, if Maelgwyn looks at it, he will die.’”
Deganwy is not altogether a place to detain the beauty-seeker, but its castle, now represented by a few fragments, has had its great moments, and quite a string of eminent visitors, some of them royal, have honoured it with their presence at one time or another. Of its origin nothing is certain, but we are told that in 1088 Robert of Ruthin “descended from his fortress, attended by a single soldier, Osbern de Ongar, and without any defensive armour except his shield,” in order to deal faithfully with Prince Gryffydd ap Cynan, who was ravaging the countryside. But the Welsh “rushed on him, cut off his head, and fastening it to the mast, sailed off in savage triumph.” A century or so later the castle was destroyed by Llewelyn the Great, but it must have been speedily rebuilt, as King John occupied it with his army in 1211 and had the mortification of seeing his line of retreat cut by the Welsh. Thirty years later his son, Henry III, found himself in the same awkward predicament, and the castle was itself destroyed in 1260.
It was because Edward I realised that Deganwy was on the wrong side of the River Conway, so far as military operations against the fastnesses of Snowden were concerned, that Conway Castle came into existence. From whatever point it is viewed, the little town of Conway, with its complete of Edward walls and the noble ruin of its castle, is a delight to the eye. There is no scene in Britain more picturesque, mainly because Conway has always remained a small town and sturdily refused to outgrow its ancient defences. Internally, no doubt, Conway has moved to some extent with the times, though the twentieth century has not yet invaded it. But externally, it is the primitive fortified town of our dreams.
Even the most unimaginative of minds must respond to some extent to the appeal of such a beautiful and eloquent monument of the picturesque past as Conway Castle. The very tripper who strews the courtyard with paper bags evidently has three-penny-worth of curiosity to satisfy. At the other end of the scale fierce and poetic patriots like Pennant cannot stem the flood of oratory such a sight releases: “When I image to myself the gay appearance of this fortress, filled by the festive court of Edward, his beloved Elinor, and all the train of gallant nobility, who passed a Christmas here, exulting at the conquest of my hardy countrymen; and when I survey its present ruins, my mind naturally falls into melancholy reflections, suitable to the scene around me. Let me only change the rock on Towy’s flood for that of Conwy, and a favourite poet will express the ideas that must arise in the mind of its past and present state:
‘Deep at its feet in Conwy’s flood,But times have changed since 1784, and a Pennant of 1924 could hardly say:
“And there the Fox securely feeds,If Pennantis thinking of the Christmas of 1294 he is quite wrong in speaking of the court as “festive” or Edward as “exulting.” For in that year there was a successful Welsh revolt in which Carnarvon Castle, still in course of erection, was destroyed, and Conway escaped, as we may presume, soberly because it was then completed.
Unlike Carnarvon, Conway is more than a mere shell; enough remains to give some idea of its internal arrangements. In the outer ward, the great hall, with tow arches of the roof, is still clearly recognizable and a round window still shows where the chapel stood. In the Queen’s Tower, looking down on the harbour, is a charming oratory, dating from the thirteenth century, but perhaps the most picturesque feature of the castle, apart from its mantle of ivy, is the battlements, which remain much as they were when that great military architect, Henry de Elreton, finished his work. In addition to its unique castle, Conway possesses a very interesting church and a Tudor mansion of exceptional charm.
The parish church is the sole relic of the great Cistercian abbey of Aberconwy on which Llewelyn ap Torwerth lavished lands and gold. The earliest existing portion, including the three lancet windows on the western front of the tower, is Early English work of the thirteenth century. The rest is mainly Decorated, with a little Perpendicular.
Of several interesting tombs, perhaps the most curious is that of one Nicholas Hooke, who is duly recorded as being the 41st child of his father, and himself the proud father of twenty-seven! No doubt he was one of those public-spirited gentlemen who regarded it as a personal duty to make good the losses of the Civil Wars in the seventeenth century.
Plas Mawr, Conway’s domestic “lion,” is one of the finest Elizabethan houses to be found in the county. It was built in 1585 by Robert Wynne, one of the Wynnes of Gwedir, the date being recorded on the house itself. Among many rooms, the architectural and decorative details of which are most attractive and illuminating, perhaps the most interesting are the kitchens, Queen Elizabeth’s Room and Queen Elizabeth’s bedroom, the so-called reception room and the Wynne room. Within and without, the house is a never-failing source of interest to all, from the most dry-as-dust of antiquarians to the most casual of trippers.
Between Conway and Penmaenmawr, the next point of interest along the coast, three modest heights, Conway Mountain, Penmaen Bach, and Allt Wen, separate the coast road from the line of communication through the Sychnant Pass.
Penmaenmawr lies in a semicircular hollow, round which the hills sweep westward to the great headland of Penmaenmawr Mountain. Its fame now rests on its activities as a summer resort, but it was not always so. In the eighteenth century it had an evil repute as the most dangerous point on the old coach-route to Holyhead.
No one in these days would claim that rounding Penmaenmawr Point is exactly an adventure, or feel particularly heroic for accomplishing a feat which is less perilous than walking down the Strand. But in days that are not too old to be forgotten, strong men trembled at the prospect of facing the horrors of the journey between Penmaenmawr and Llanfairfechan.
The old road, which was above the present one, was apparently enough to send a shudder down the spine of the most experienced mountaineer. Sir John Wynne, the seventeenth-century topographer of these parts, writes in 1625: “The way . . . is cut through the side of a steep, hard rock, neither descending nor ascending till you come to Seiriol’s Chapel . . . and all that way is two hundred yards above the sea, over which if either man or beast should fall, both sea and rock, rock and sea would strive and contend whether of both should do him greatest mischief.”
Even in 1774, just after the new road had been completed, Dr Johnson could write that
“We would have staid at Conway if we could have found entertainment, for we were afraid of passing Penmaen Mawr, over which lay our way to Bangor, but by bright daylight. . . . . Our coach was at last brought, and we set out with some anxiety, but we came to Penmaen Mawr by daylight; and found a way, lately made, very easy, and very safe. It was cut smooth, and enclosed between parallel walls; the outer of which secures the passenger from the precipice, which is deep and dreadful . . . . The old road was higher, and must have been very formidable. The sea beats at the bottom of the way.”The ring of hills behind Penmaenmawr contains much charming scenery of very varied character, from the rocky summit of the great headland, and the grassy slopes of Tal y Fan, with its splendid views, to the pretty little sylvan valley known as the “Fairy Glen.” Nor are they lacking in antiquities of considerable interest. The old church of Llangelynin, whose silence and solitude are undisturbed save by the most ardent of sightseers and worshippers, is one of the most venerable ecclesiastical monuments in Wales. Much older still is the British encampment, Braich y Dinas, which crowns the top of Penmaenmawr Mountain; but these two are mere youngsters compared with stone circles, wrongly called “Druids’ Circles” (of which at least one is still clearly recognisable), which probably date from Neolithic times.
Llanfairfechan, on the far side of the headland, is not so picturesque as Penmaenmawr, if only because the mountain-ridge strikes away south-west towards Snowdon, instead of encircling the place. But Aber, 3 miles farther on, is delightfully situated at the head of the attractive glen down which the little river Aber pours tumultuously after performing its “star” turn at Aber Falls.
Nothing is left but a mound to indicate the site of the castle which Lewelyn the Great had here. It is associated with a grim and sinister version of the “unwritten law” in the thirteenth century. The Welsh prince held prisoner here a certain English baron, William de Braose. During his captivity de Braose developed a guilty passion – which was returned – for Lewelyn's wife, but the intrigue was not discovered until after William had been ransomed. Keeping his own counsel, Llewelyn enticed de Braose back to Aber by an invitation to celebrate the feast of Easter. At a superb banquet the injured husband suddenly rose to his feet, accused his guest of his crime, and had him summarily dragged forth and hanged. The news was communicated to the Princess – who was not present – in a singularly piquant fashion. If tradition can be accepted, the lady was met by a bard, who asked her: “Tell me, wife of Llewelyn, what would you give for a sight of your William?” The Princess replied: “Wales, England and Llewelyn to boot; I would give them all to see my William.” Whereupon the bard pointed out her William, an ungainly figure hanging from a tree.
Beyond Aber, Penrhyn Castle furnishes an example of the nineteenth-century Norman style which the critical may not desire to see repeated, though the edifice is imposing enough. Its Tudor predecessor was in a sad plight even in Pennant’s time, but some of its curiosities and treasures, notably the famous drinking-cup, the “Hirlas Hord,” have been preserved.
The famous Penrhyn slate quarries, which have brought fame and fortune to the family during the last century and a half, are situated close to Bethesda, some four miles away. These slate quarries, known all the world over, call for a place in “Britain Wonderful” rather than Britain Beautiful. He is a bold man who would assert that they have improved the landscape, and such a bold man was old Pennant, who roundly “recommended to the curious traveller a ride to the quarries: they will merit his attention, as well as the various improvements made of late by his lordship. The whole neighbourhood is made by the houses and cottages of the quarries, built after the elegant design of Mr Wyatt; and Ogwen Bank is a beautiful lodge for the reception of Lord Penrhyn, whenever he chooses to treat his friends with the sight of his laudable changes in the face of this once desolate country.”
Bangor enjoys magnificent views in all directions, but cannot truthfully be described as picturesque in itself. Most of the great ones who have described it in days gone by seem to have been somewhat unfavourably impressed, though the fault was mainly their own, not Bangor’s. Dr Johnson, for instance, was cross because he had to sleep at a “mean inn” in a room with two other men who shared one bed. Borrow was adversely affected by the company he found. He “took tea in an immense dining-room or ball-room, which was, however, so crowded with guests that its walls literally sweated . . . I addressed several individually, and in every case repented; form some I got no answers, form others what was worse than no answers at all – in every countenance near me suspicion, brutality, or conceit was most legibly imprinted – I was not amongst Welsh, but the scum of manufacturing England.” The result being that Wild Wales Bangor does not get the notice it deserves.
Yet its ancient cathedral is devoid neither of interest nor beauty of a certain kind. Its two predecessors were destroyed in the incessant wars between Welsh and English, and the existing building dates largely from the end of the fifteenth century and the beginning of the sixteenth.
Bangor suffers mainly by contrast with Caernarfon, at the other end of the Menai Straits, the capital of the county and blessed with a castle which is one of the “museum pieces” of mediaeval Europe.
This magnificent structure and its ancient walls gives an otherwise not too picturesque town an air which is less appealing than that of Conway but undeniably imposing. Caernarfon would in any case have serious claims to consideration as the approximate site of the very important Roman station of Segontium. When the legions were withdrawn a period of obscurity fell upon it, but Edward I, engaged in the subjugation of Wales, was quick to seize the military importance of its situation, and the town and castle were originally his creation. The great rebellion of 1294 played havoc with both, but on its repression work was resumed, and the castle as we see it now was completed in the reign of Edward II. The internal buildings have all vanished, but externally nothing could give a better idea of the fortresses of the days before gunpowder.
Perhaps the most imposing feature of the castle is the seven huge towers crowned with the turrets which give the whole structure such a delightful silhouette against the sky-line. Research has played havoc with perhaps the most picturesque of the stories associated with the castle – the birth of the first Prince of Wales in the Eagle Tower and his presentation to the assembled multitude at Queen Eleanor’s Gate. It has been amply proved that at the time of Edward of Caernarfon's birth the tower had barely begun.
So great a stronghold was bound to figure prominently in the military history of England and Wales, but it appears to have remained in the occupation of an English garrison continuously, and it certainly defied all the attempts of Owen Glendower to capture it at the beginning of the fifteenth century. In the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century its fortunes varied, but after being alternately in Royalist and Parliamentary hands it was definitely secured by King’s opponents in 1646.
Between the valley of the Conway and a line drawn due south from Carnarvon to Tremadoc Bay lies the vast mountainous massif which is the chief geographical feature of the county. As has been said above, the main ridge, from Moel Hebog to Penmaenmawr Mountain, is intersected by three well-known valleys running from north-west to south-east. The most westerly of these valleys runs down the left flank of Snowdon and, after passing the far-famed Beddgelert, continues its career as the equally celebrated Pass of Aberglaslyn.
The men of learning have begun to be as cruel to the story of Beddgelert as to that of Edward II’s birth in the Eagle Tower. Not content with demonstrating that the delightful and melancholy legend of Llewelyn’s slain hound in a comparatively recent fabrication, they go on to say that “Beddgelert” does not mean “Grave of the Gelert” the dog, but Grave of the Kelert,” the monk – which is a far less moving proposition.
Some might say that Snowdon, or rather the complex of peaks which make up Snowdon, defies description. It certainly defies description in the small compass necessarily imposed by a work of this kind. It must be sufficient to say that this vast mountain, though exceeded in height by many of the Scotch giants, can hold its own with all of them for sheer power to impress, mainly, perhaps, owing to the contrasting forms of its peaks, Y Wyddfa (the highest), Lliwedd, Yr Aran, Crib Goch, and CribyDdysgl. Nor must its lakes, Glaslyn and Llyn Llydaw, be forgotten; perhaps the finest view of the mountain can be obtained from the latter.
An artist in language has already described the view from the summit of Snowdon, and the present writer will not attempt an improvement on Borrow’s word-picture: “ . . . A scene inexpressibly grand, comprehending a considerable part of the mainland of Wales, the whole of Anglesey, a faint glimpse of part of Cumberland; the Irish Cannel, and what might be either a misty creation or the shadowy outlines of the hills of Ireland. Peaks and pinnacles and huge moels stood up here and there, about us and below us, partly in glorious light, partly in deep shade. Manifold were the objects which we saw from the brow of Snowdon, but of all the objects which we saw, those which filled us with most delight and admiration, were numerous lakes and lagoons, which, like sheets of ice or polished silver, lay reflecting the rays of the sun in the deep valleys at his feet.”
The next transverse valley is the well-known Pass of Llanberis, one of the finest in the kingdom. The northern end of the pass is occupied by tow lakes, Llyn Peris, the natural beauties of which have been somewhat spoilt by the proximity of great and ugly quarries. But between them lies a wan but picturesque memorial of the past, a tower which is a fragment of the ancient Castle of Dolbdarn. This ivy-clad ruin could no doubt tell a stirring story, but strangely little is known of its history, except that it is by no means the first fortress on the site. An earlier one was occupied by that prince, Melgwyn Gwynedd, who died at Deganwy when “something horrible” looked at him out of the marsh.
The third of these great valleys is the wild Nant Ffrancon, leading from Bethesda to Capel Curig and almost interrupted half-way by the desolate Llyn Ogwen, a very impressive sheet of water between those fine peaks Carnedd Dafydd and Y Tryfan. Close by, and crouching under the cliffs of Glyder Fach and Y Garn, is Llyn Idwal, beyond which the gully called the Twll-du, or more popularly “Devil’s Kitchen,” is sinister enough to be quite in keeping with melancholy history of poor Idwal, son of Owen Gwynedd, whose murdered body was thrown into the lake by his godless foster-father.
South and east of the main Snowdonian range the characteristic of the scenery changes, and a glorious region of wooded river valleys marks the area where the youthful Conway gathers up the waters of the Llugwy and the Lledr and starts on its northward journey to the sea. The gem of this district is Bettws-y-Coed, within easy walking distance of which lie such far-famed haunts as Conway Falls, the Miner’s Bridge and Swallow Falls on the Llugwy, and the ruined tower of Dolwyddelan on the Lledr, the charming river which artists innumerable have made their special preserve. But little inferior is the scenery of the Conway itself, which forces its way northwards at the base of wooded hills past Llanrwst and Trefriw. Llanrwst deserves a visit if only for the sake of Gwdyir Castle, the ancient home of the Wynnes, and their chapel in the parish church, which contains, inter alia, the reputed coffin of Llewelyn.
East of the main mountain mass the promontory called “Lleyn” projects into the Irish Sea and terminates at Braich y Pwll, opposite the scared island of Bardsey. Compared with the rest of the county it is comparatively flat, save for a few isolated humps, and the prominent and graceful projection of “The Rivals,” an absurd Anglo-Saxon corruption of “Yr Eifl.” On both sides there is fine coast scenery, and the fact that it is appreciated by the growing popularity of summer resorts such as Nevin, Abersoch, Pwllheli and Criccieth. But the main attraction of the district is its souvenirs of the remote and remotest past.
Clynnog Church, north-east of Nevin, is a remarkably fine example of Perpendicular work in a count where the architecture of the churches is in general anything but noteworthy. Adjoining the church and connected with it by a covered passage is the far more ancient church of Eglwys Beuno, where St Beuno was reputed to have been buried: it thus became a famous place of pilgrimage, and all kinds of astounding miracles are alleged to have been wrought by the magic power which emanated form the saint’s remains.
Farther down the coast, one of the peaks of “The Rivals” possesses a notable antiquity, Tre’r Ceiri, a British fortified town; the main features of which can still be made out among a picturesque jumble of fragments.
Nevin is a small but growing seaside resort with an annual overflow from the August invasion of more celebrated spots on the Carnarvon coast. But it once undoubtedly had greatness thrust upon it, when Edward I celebrated his victory over Llewelyn by riotous celebrations on this spot. Again in the last century it ran a serious risk of achieving fame during the protracted agitation to develop the neighbouring Porth Dinlleyn into the chief harbour for cross-Channel traffic, thus ousting Holyhead.
The Lleyn promontory is somewhat tame after the grandeur of the Snowdon region, but for those with eyes to see it is full of charm, the charm of a smiling landscape, shelving bays, good cliff scenery, and an ever-present atmosphere of antiquity.
Take the vicinity of Aberdaron, for instance. Anyone with an inclination to run down a steep place into the sea can drop from the top of Braich-y-Pyll – over six hundred feet in height – into the Irish Sea, at quite a giddy angle. If he likes to take a look before he makes his plunge he will enjoy one of the most spacious views this world affords – on three sides the great waste of waters stretches away to the Cardigan coast and distant Ireland; at his feet lies Bardsey Island, a picturesque gem on a gown of green. Inland, the verdant slopes of the promontory lead to the mountain mass of Snowdonia, shutting out the skyline on the north-east. And if he be of an antiquarian turn of mind, he may know that he is standing on one of the most historic corners of ancient Wales. In centuries that are long past, this last remnant of Caernarvonshire, the “Land’s End” of Wales, was black with pilgrims on their way to the famous Abbey of St Mary on Bardsey, the “Holy Island” of Wales. It was a considerable adventure, for the sea itself conspired to keep the sacred island remote and inaccessible. So fiercely does the tide sweep through the channel separating it from the mainland, that the native name for Bardsey is Ynys Enlli, the “Isle of the current.”
Of the ancient abbey to which so many eyes and feet were turned when the human heart was still simple and young, very little remains. Gorton records how by his time the Abbot’s House had been converted into a “commodious” dwelling, and there is not much to tell the traveller that the ground on which he treads is the burial-place of saints in-numerable.
The old church of Aberdaron is rather more eloquent, albeit its eloquence is somewhat primitive and uncouth. For practical purposes it has been abandoned in favour of a monstrosity not quite so close to the all- devouring waves. In the early part of the nineteenth century Aberdaron emerged from a respectable obscurity by producing a nine days’ wonder who absorbed languages with total disregard for their difficulties and set all Wales talking about “Dick of Aberdaron” the freak linguist who died ( and apparently lived also) in poverty.
The eastern coast of the promontory represents a return to civilization, for the waves of August invasion have long swept as for south as the little fishing village of Abersoch. The present writer well remembers an occasion some years ago when the visit of an English Socialist professor, with an abundance of hair and a singular shortage of collar, caused quite a sensation. But the twentieth century has reached this remote corner since then!
What can be said of Pwllheli except that it has perhaps the finest beach in Wales and is learning to cater for the manifold wants of the holiday crown? It has picturesque corners, but Britain Beautiful cannot regard it as more than a stepping-stone to higher things.
Criccieth, too, is somewhat of a paradise of boarding lodging houses, though its natural situation is much finer. The ruins of its ancient castle, crowning a bold promontory of rock, supply a picturesque feature. The castle is no rival of specimens such as Harlech, Carnarvon, or Conway, but it takes precedence of them in one respect, inasmuch as it was no upstart creation of the conquering Edward but an earlier Welsh fortress, which that monarch probably brought up to date. The two towers of a gateway alone give an idea of its great strategic importance in those far-off times