British Towns and Villages

The Arms of the County of Flintshire (1)

Historical notes on the old County of Flintshire

 

The old county of Anglesey is now represented by the new County Borough of Flint

The Arms of the County of Flintshire (2)

The old Welsh County of Flintshire

 

This, the smallest of Welsh counties, presents a familiar but by no means truly characteristic aspect to the casual traveller from Chester to the coast resorts of Denbigh or Carnarvon. The Dee – with the somewhat dull Cheshire shore on the farther bank - and the more or less uninteresting strip of plain immediately south of the railway give little promise of the charming regions to be found farther a'field, the beauties of the Vale of Clwyd, the glorious reaches of the Dee in the oddly detached portion of the county which borders on Shropshire, the innumerable views and vistas to be obtained from the hills, and the wayward delights of many a secluded dell and dingle. To those who really know it, this county stands high on the varied list of beautiful districts in the British Isles, and its historical associations, its memories of ancient feuds between Celt and Saxon, and the still existing remains of its former power and dignity give it that aura of romance which makes all the difference between an old country and a “new” one.

In A History of the Deposition of Richard II, in French verse, in the Harleian MS., there is a quaint illumination of the meeting of the King and Bolingbroke at Flint Castle in 1399. Within a towered and turreted enceinte the unfortunate monarch, disguised as a pries, is being received by Bolingbroke, all the gentlemen present being several sizes too large for the edifice. It must be presumed that the artist was not copying from nature, as the existing fragmentary ruins of Flint Castle imply that the stronghold must have been exceedingly formidable. Apparently it had seen its best days even at the time of the tragic incident referred to, as Shakespeare, in King Richard II, makes Bolingbroke say;

“Go to the rude ribs of the ancient castle,”

and

“Let’s march without the noise of threatening drum,
That from the castle’s tatter’d battlements
Our fair appointments may be well perus’d.”

Poor Richard was on his way to a forced abdication and a violent and shameful death. No wonder the still more tattered battlements of the ruin wear a forlorn and sinister look!

Flint’s crowning glory as the “county” town vanished to some extent when the assizes were removed to Mold. Even that badge of dignity, the gaol, has lapsed into the unexciting respectability of a private house. But though industry has its foot on the neck of the old place, the sea has to some extent abandoned its association, and it has little to show commensurate with its ancient dignity. Flint still has a niche of its own in a work of this kind.

Holywell, too, is an ancient place, and the “well” to which it owes its name is credited with miracles as miraculous as befell St Winifred, through whom it came into existence. This seventh-century lady had the misfortune to be ardently loved by a fierce and unruly Prince of Wales, whose rough wooing, apart from other considerations, made him exceedingly distasteful to her. When pleading failed the Prince resorted to violence, and when violence failed he incontinently smote off her head. The head rolled down the hill and came to rest by the church. Wonder of wonders! A vast spring welled forth from the blood-stained ground! Recognising the portend, St Bruno came forth from the church, reattached the head to the trunk and as the result of much prayer and supplication the lady returned to life.

Such is the legend. The fact is that the spring, which became known as “St Winifred’s Well,” has for ages been visited by afflicted pilgrims on account of the miraculous powers with which it is credited, and Holywell has become a British Lourdes to thousands of sincere and deeply religious men an women. Those who do not accept the spiritual significance of the place can thoroughly appreciate the beauties of St Winifred’s Chapel, built by the Countess of Richmond, Henry VII’s mother , at a time when the Perpendicular style had reached its apogee.

Faith in the healing powers of the well has also found expression in the numerous Roman Catholic institutions and establishments which have come into being in the little village of Pantasaph, hard by. The Earl of Denbigh who was mainly instrumental in the “adoption” of the place for these sacred and charitable purposes, sleeps his last sleep in a fine tomb in the church.

Rhuddlan Castle

What remains of Rhuddlan Castle is far more picturesque and impressive than the fragmentary ruin of Edward I’s fastness at Flint. The angle towers, mantled with ivy, rear their battered but majestic heads and still witness proudly to a time when Ruddlan was a name to conjure with on the “border.” It was on Rhuddlan March that the first of the epic contest between Celt and Saxon took place in A.D. 795. Fierce Offa captained the Saxon host, while mighty Caradoc performed prodigies of valour as leader of the Welsh. Discipline and such military science as the age could boast prevailed over untutored courage, and good Welshmen still think mournfully of Rhuddlan Marsh.

The first castle on the site (though “castle” is perhaps a complimentary term) fell before the fierce onslaught of King Harold in 1063, and its successor changed hands more than once before Edward I erected the existing structure in 1277. That great ruler and soldier made the new stronghold his headquarters during part of his Welsh campaigns, and it played no small part in his official and domestic life. It was here that he persuaded the Welsh leaders to accept his Carnarvon-born son as “Prince of Wales,” with the guileful promise that they should have a prince of blameless character who had been born in Wales and could speak no English! Of more practical importance to Wales in general and Flintshire in particular was his “Statute of Rhuddlan,” which gave the former a constitution and the latter a name.

As one wanders among these splendid ruins memories of that epic period, so glorious for Edward, so tragic for Wales, crowd thick and fast. Time has healed those ancient quarrels, and Rhuddlan remains a splendid monument to the genius of the greatest of English sovereigns and that patriotic heroism of an ancient race which animates and inspires the natives of the Principality even to-day.

For all practical purposes Dyserth Castle, Rhuddlan’s neighbour (and daughter of its predecessor) is little else but a memory. For all its strength and the natural advantages of the site, it was besieged and destroyed by a Welsh Prince worthy to rank with Edward I on the scroll of fame, Llewelyn-ap-Gryffydd. It is not on this barely recognisable relic that Dyserth bases its claim to distinction. What raises it above nonentity is its church, largely a Victorian restoration , but the proud possessor of a glorious east window with a remarkable “Tree of Jesse,” which is said to have come from the much-despoiled Basingwek Abbey.

The City of St Asaph

St Asaph enjoys the distinction of being the smallest “city” in Britain and possessing the smallest cathedral. But it can also claim to occupy a delightful situation in the beautiful Vale of Clwyd, where visitors feel a wholesome contempt of that spread of industrial civilisation which has done so much to make large areas of British countryside an eyesore. The cathedral itself arouses mixed feelings, due mainly to its very mixed history. No edifice, however beautiful in its original state, could be expected to survive the ravages of English and Welsh armies and a “drastic” restoration by Gilbert Scott (necessary though that may have been) without paying toll to such vicissitudes. Frankly, the existing structure, for its plainness, has lost most of its fine features, though in all fairness it must be added that Scott added a few which redeem him from any charge of being an official Philistine.

Nevertheless, St Asaph is a place of appealing memories. Its story carried us back to the dim but splendid days when Christianity was taming the savage character of the primitive Saxon. For the place and its church were founded by Kentigern, whom all good Scots know better as St Mungo of Glasgow, and who flourished mightily in the sixth century. Curiously enough the new religious settlement took its name, not from the great missionary himself, but from one of his followers and aides-de-camp, Asa; before that good man passed to his eternal rest the new church was the cathedral of a new diocese.

From an architectural point of view the palm in Flintshire must certainly be awarded to the parish church of Mold. Here is a striking example of the high standard attained by the Perpendicular style, even in what are comparatively minor buildings. Many other churches in the county deserve mentioned for beautiful or interesting features, but to do them justice requires more space that the limits of this survey will allow, and a mere catalogue would frustrate the underlying purpose of this work.

Nothing has hitherto been said about the domestic architecture of the county, which does not, however, rank high compared with that of other counties in England and Wales. No doubt the stormy centuries through which the county – a border region – passed, made building for defence rather than appearance a necessity. The result is that with one or two exceptions the ancient mansions of Flintshire are not renowned for any special architectural or decorative features.

From the historical point of view perhaps the most interesting is Mostyn Hall, mainly a Tudor edifice, though the earliest work can probably be assigned to the middle of the fifteenth century. It was the scene of an occurrence which undoubtedly had an enormous effect on the course of British history. For it was through what is known as the “King Window” that Henry Tudor leaped to safely when a party of Richard III’s supporters made their way into his retreat and all but caught him. No man of lesser calibre would have been any match for crook-backed Richard, and yet there was no one else of Henry’s calibre in the political field at the time. The moral is obvious.

As a spectacle, Emral Hall is perhaps the best in the county, but few will refuse a measure of affectionate interest in Downing Hall, if only because it was the home of old Pennant, whose books of travels in Great Britain are packed with learning and wisdom, and still of unfailing pleasure to all who are interested in our country. He died in 1798 and was buried at Whitford.

Flintshire also shines by virtue of its association with the “G.O.M.,” Gladstone, who made Hawarden Castle his country home. The day has perhaps gone by when a picture of Gladstone felling trees in his park formed part of the decorative scheme of half the cottages and humble dwelling-houses in the Principality, but the name and fame of the great statesman are undoubtedly something of which the county is still justly proud. It may also be proud of the remains of the fine Edwardian stronghold at Hawarden, not to be confounded with the eighteenth-century mansion which is the courtesy “castle” in these days.

The detached portion of the county can show some beautiful landscapes in and around the Dee Valley. Historically, its most interesting spot is Bangor-is-y-Coed, once famed for one of the largest and most flourishing monasteries in the four kingdoms. But even as early as the sixteenth century its epitaph was “Ichabod.”

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