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The old Welsh County of Pembrokeshire

The old county of Pembrokeshire is now represented by the new County Borough of Pembroke

Historical notes on the old County of Pembrokeshire

Belonging geographically, and perhaps sentimentally, to the Principality, Pembrokeshire is none the less associated historically with England. It is the “Little England beyond Wales,” colonised largely by Englishmen and Flemings in the Middle Ages; and to that fact it owes much of its character and interest. Having said so much, the wrath of Welshman must be appeased by the statement that is scenery is typically Welsh, and that in the northern half of the county at least Welsh place-names outnumber the English by quite ten to one.

A step over the Carmarthenshire border brings one to Narberth, not unpicturesquely placed on a hill, and boasting – somewhat half-heartedly – of the sketchy remains of its castle. Like so many of the Pembrokeshire strongholds it defied Cromwell’s fortress artillery and was speedily reduced and “slighted.”

The same fate overtook the castle of Tenby, which in its old and honourable, but decrepit and fragmentary age, serves as a museum. Of more interest are the remains of the old town walls, which give a most excellent idea of the fortifications of a mediaeval borough and show – what is indeed the fact – that in earlier days the town was of far greater importance than it now posseses. Indeed, modern Tenby may be said to be the outcome of the passion for sea-bathing which began to flutter the well-to-do classes at the beginning of the last century.

Quite the worthiest memorial of the town’s great days is the parish church of St Mary, a large and fine edifice with splendid tombs of local merchants, tombs which show that even by the end of the fifteenth century the money-bag had become greater than the sword.

The coastline east of Tenby is full of interesting and attractive features, among which a high place is taken by Caldey Island, described by George Owen as “very fertile and yeeldeth plenty of corne; all their plowes goe with horses, for oxen inhabitants dare not keepe, fearing the purveyors of the pirates . . . . “ Its ancient monument include a very early church, important remains of the small but once famous priory, and various articles (if an article can properly be termed a “Monument”) that were made by human hands in prehistoric and Roman times.

Manorbier Castle is one of the finest and most impressive examples of a feudal fortress in the country. It inspired a celebrated passage in the Itinerary through Wales of Giraldus Cambrensis, who was born here in 1147: “The castle called Maenor Pyrr, that is, the mansion of Pyrrus . . . is distant about three miles from Penbroch. It is excellently well defended by turrets and bulwarks, and is situated on the summit of a hill extending on the western side towards the sea-port, having on the northern and southern sides a fine fish-pond under its walls, as conspicuous for its grand appearance as for the depth of its waters, and a beautiful orchard on the same side, inclosed on one part by a vineyard, and on the other by a wood, remarkable for the projection of its rocks, and the height of its hazel trees . . . “

And there is more to similar effect, winding up with proud conclusion that: “It is evident therefore, that Maenor Pirr is the pleasantest spot in Wales, and the author may be pardoned for thus having extolled his native soil, his genial territory, with a profusion of praise and admiration.”

The first fortress raised on this site was unquestionably Norman, but it is doubtful whether more than a very small portion of it is incorporated in the present buildings, which date in the main from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They comprise domestic and residential portions as well as purely defensive works, and show well enough how important it was that such a stronghold should be as nearly as possible self-contained.

At no great distance is the equally impressive ruin of Carew Castle, another of the great military structures which bring home to the visitor the full meaning of the phrase “Little England beyond the Wales.” The successful Norman invaders had to keep their foot upon the necks of a hostile, proud, and warlike race, and that could only be done by erecting fortresses impregnable to all existing siege weapons of the times. It would be monotonous and serve no useful purpose to account the adventures of Carew. Perhaps the most interesting portion of the castle to those unversed in the intricacies of mediaeval warfare is the “residential” quarter built in Tudor times by that stalwart supporter of King Henry VII, Sir Rhjys ap Thomas. The castle had its “Golden Age” in his time, for he was a man of big ideas and a deep purse. Few events made a greater impression on contemporary Britain than the great fete he organised here to celebrate the bestowal of the Order of the Garter upon him. “This meeting,” concludes a long account of the festivities published in the Cambrian Register, “was for some years after called by the name of St George his pilgrimage to St David’s, where one thing is note-worthie, that for the space of five days among a thousand people (for soe manie at least were though to be assembled at that time) there was not one quarrel, crosse word, or unkinde look that happened between them.”

The town of Pembroke

Pembroke, the county capital, is an ancient place, but with little of antiquity about it save a portion of its walls and its great castle, a most romantic ruin crowning the tongue of land which divides the Pembroke River into two branches. Of the castle in Henry VIII’s time we have a brief account in Leland’s Itinerary;

Though there was some sort of stronghold existing here shortly after the Norman Conquest, is seems tolerably certain that the earliest portion of the structure now visible is the splendid keep which was built by William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, in 1200. It is probable that the whole work was completed in its present form during the next century. But for all its prominence and the importance of the town in mediaeval times, it makes no conspicuous appearance in history until the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century.

The castle’s stout resistance under Colonel Poyer to Cromwell in the summer of 1648 is well known. We get a glimpse of its toughness in the Protector’s letter of June 14 in that year: “Last night, we got two little guns planted, which in Twenty-four hours will take away their mills; and then, as Poyer himself confesses, they are all undone. We made attempt to storm him about ten days since; but our ladders were too short, and the breach so as men could not get over . . . . I question not, but within a fortnight we shall have the Town, and Poyer hath engaged himself to the Officers of the Town, not to keep the Castle longer than the Town can holdout. Neither indeed can he; for we can take away in tow days, by beating down a staircase, which goes into a cellar where he hath a well.”

Lovers of fine coast scenery will certainly not neglect the neighbourhood of St Govan’s Head, the extreme southerly point of the county, and that is saying much in a shire with a coast not greatly inferior to anything to be found in the British Isles. It is a fine, bold headland, famous for its chapel or hermitage, which has kept legend, tradition, and hosts of pilgrims busy for many a century. If only half the wondrous tales associated with it are true, the reason for the pilgrimage is not far to seek. Is there not a marvellous cavity, shaped in the form of a human body, which opened itself to receive the corpse of the martyred saint when it was drawn from the sea? And is not the old biographer of the county, Fenton, right when he tells us that the cavity “is of so accommodating a nature s to admit of the largest as well as the smallest man, contracting of dilating to fit the inhabitants, and if you frame wish whilst in it, and do not change your mind during the operation of turning you about, you will certainly obtain it”?

Milford Haven lies on the north side of the inlet of the same name. The freaks of fortune alone have prevented it from climbing the dizzy pinnacle of greatness, for the natural advantages of its fjord are many and cumulative. Just over a century ago the British world expected Milford to become another Portsmouth; the French war was at its height, and Charles Greville, nephew of Sir William Hamilton whose wife was making considerable stir in social circles, began to build the town and dockyards, not to mention a church for the spiritual needs of the inhabitants. That the latter were of highly moral character may be gathered from a note found in The Beauties of England and Wales:

Perhaps the “pious prelate” was also influenced by the reflection that the unholy reputation of the donor might further “contaminate the element.”

However, the end of the French wars reduced Milford to the ranks of the unemployed, and in spite of fitful efforts it has never attained the position its geographical position would warrant.

The most prominent object in the old town of Havorfordwest is another memorial of mediaeval Pembrokeshire, the inevitable castle, a building of less structural interest than its many neighbours, but with much the same history, ending of course with “slighting” in the Second Civil War. Since its military days it has performed the humble but necessary office of gaol, police court, and so forth – s somewhat harsh fate for a proud and ancient stronghold.

Roch Castle, though restored, is a highly interesting example of what is undoubtedly a rarity south of the border counties – a “tower-house,” ie a single tower divided into stories; purely military in outward appearance, but fashioned within to furnish a certain degree of comfort and what the old books call “elegance.” The tradition of its origin is one that might apply to all fortified residences.

It is solemnly said that its first builder (who may or may not have been Adam de Rupe) was warned in a dream that he would die of the bite of a viper. The only method of averting so dire a calamity which presented itself to his mind was to build this mediaeval safe and shut himself within it. But when Fate has her eye on a man she is not to be thus defied. A viper got into the castle concealed in a bundle of faggots, and the obstacle of an introduction having been thus surmounted, had no difficulty in carrying out its allotted task. There are some occasions on which it is to be regretted that “stone walls do not a prison make.”

St. David

Before describing St David’s Cathedral it would only be proper to say something of the patron saint of Wales himself. Shorn of its trimmings, his history appears to be that he was born of noble parentage in the sixth century and soon acquired fame for his learning and austerity. Of the community he founded, an ancient record tells us that “their food was bread with roots or herbs seasoned with salt, and their thirst they quenched with a mixture of water and milk. . . .As long as they were in the church, it was not permitted to any slumber, or sneeze, or cast forth of spittle.” In due course he became Archbishop of Caerleon, but was not canonised until more than five centuries after his death (at that somewhat advanced age of 147!)

It need hardly be said that no part of the existing church of this time. The earlier work is the Transitional Norman nave, built towards the close of the twelfth century.

St David’s shrine (of which the base still remains) was a popular object of pilgrimage throughout the Middle Ages, a notable list being headed by at least three sovereigns of England – William I, Henry II, and Edward I.

The cathedral is by no means the only antiquity of St David’s. Of St Mary’s College, founded by Bishop Houghton in 1361, there are some rather piteous relics, but the saddest ruin of all is the Bishop’s Palace, saddest because its dismal plight is mainly the work, not of religious fanaticism, but of a bishop of the see, who had no excuse for such vandalism. Barlow wrought its undoing about 1540 by stripping the lead from its roof. A charitable version of the motive for his action is that he found the cost of maintaining the palace too much for his revenues and was anxious to have some for not residing at St Davids. Another, well-authenticated, version is that the proceeds of the sale of the lead went into dowries on his five daughters! Whatever the cause, the effect was utterly disastrous to a building which Fenton described as “worthy of a crowned instead of mitred head,” and even in decay is a noble memorial of its builder, Bishop Gower.

Fishguard and its splendid bay calls for more notice than can be given it here, if only for that flash from the lantern of Fame which made it the most conspicuous spot in the British Empire on the 22nd February, 1797. On that day the troops of Republican France had the unparalleled impertinence to land on the sacred shores of Wales, and for one brief moment the kingdom thought itself faced with a second Norman Conquest. How the motley troop surrendered at the sight of Lord Cawdor’s impressive uniform (they seem to have taken him for a Field-Marshal at least and not a mere commander of a handful of yeomanry) is part of history. Part of history, too, is the superb episode of the body of Welsh ladies, clad in scarlet cloaks and high black hats, manoeuvring on a neighbouring hill to induce the enemy to believe they were British soldiers.

On the very edge of Cardiganshire lie two other relics of Pembrokeshire of old, At St Dogmael’s are some remains of a celebrated abbey said to have been founded by Martin of Tours, one of the companions of the Conqueror, and on a rock above the Teifi is the picturesque ruin of Kilgerran Castle. Of its real history little is known, and that little of no particular note.