ravages of time that now, in its green old age, it presents an extremely picturesque appearance as we approach its weather-beaten portal. Before passing within, let us pause awhile to scan the features of this characteristic old Pembrokeshire church.

Prominent in our view rises the gray limestone tower, whose

rugged, time-worn walls rise solidly to the corbelled battlements. These have louvred windows to the bell-chamber, and a quaint metal weather-vane atop; to right and left range the lichen-clad roofs and walls of the main structure; while a lofty and massive porch stands boldly out, enclosing a rambling stairway that leads to the tower. The

foreground is occupied by crumbling headstones, wreathed in ivy and decked with flowering creepers; and a shapely churchyard cross rises beside our pathway.

Nor does the interior of the church prove a whit less interesting. Here a group of graceful arches, with attached limestone shafts, gives access from the nave to the north aisle; whence a skew arch, having detached pillars with capitals, opens into the chancel. The latter is flanked by similar arches enclosing pretty, traceried windows.

The great south porch has a narrow doorway at some height in the side wall, giving access to a much-worn, straggling flight of steps. Scrambling up these we find ourselves in the tower, which, after the manner of the country, is massively constructed; having grim vaulted chambers with many openings, like pigeon-holes, pierced in the solid walls. Here are also the bells, erected by John Rudhale, A.D. 1809. The font, though plain, is well proportioned and of early date.

This curious old church is the head of the important parish and hundred of Castle Martin. The district is noted for its breed of black, long-horned cattle; and in bygone days could boast its own troop of gallant yeomanry, who shared with the Fishguard Fencibles the distinction of repelling the notorious French invasion' of Pembrokeshire, a century ago.

Leaving the quiet village to the care of an aged crone and a group of children playing with a lame magpie, we get under way again, and make for the crossways on the ridge. At this point the Ordnance map raises expectations of something of a 'castle,' which proves, however, to be nothing more than a prehistoric earthwork with mounds of circular form. Then onward again, passing Moor Farm, where once stood a goodly mansion, of which scarce a stone has been spared. Now we keep a straight course towards Warren, with the skylarks making music overhead; while the voice of that interesting scamp,' the cuckoo, echoes from the woods down Brownslade way.

Shortly before reaching Warren village the country lane widens out, with a corner of sedgy greensward under the hedgerow. Here stands a curious old wayside well, domed over with a sort of rude

canopy, whose mossy stones, fringed with hartstongue fern, are reflected in the clear water; indeed, from the frequent recurrence of

past Orielton, where we are on familiar ground which has been touched upon in describing a previous route.

CHAPTER VI.

CAREW, WITH ITS CROSS, CASTLE AND CHURCH. UPTON CASTLE AND CHAPEL. PEMBROKE DOCK AND HAVERFORDWEST.

CETTING

SET

FORTH by the morning train, we alight at Lamphey Station; whence we make our way to the grand old ruins of Carew Castle, as our pièce de résistance for to-day. Once

free of Lamphey village, we soon find ourselves striding across the Ridgeway by Lamphey Park; whence we get a pretty retrospect, under some weatherbeaten trees, of the pleasant vale we have quitted, with a more distant peep of the towers of Pembroke Castle. Here, too, we find a few traces of olden times in a group of gray, weather-stained farm-buildings; remnants, maybe, of Bishop Vaughan's famous grange.

At Rambler's Folly, on the crest of the ridge, we get the first glimpse of our destination, down in the valley below; with a background of open country rolling upward to the distant hills; while, by taking the trouble to cross over the road, we command the broad plain of the sea.

A shepherd with collie-dog at heel, driving his flock to pasture, now puts us in the way of a short-cut across the meadows. This woodland path is enlivened by a bevy of butterflies that, like ourselves, are taking the morning air. Here floats a stately 'peacock,' while yonder sprightly Atalanta, perched upon a spray of woodbine, displays her becoming toilette of scarlet and glossy black, edged with daintiest lace.

Approaching our destination, we skirt around a marshy watercourse

ne Amming 1895,

abloom with yellow flags, orchids and gay pink campion. Ere long a flight of stepping-stones lands us in the village, right abreast of Carew church, a noble old structure with handsome traceried windows, and a tower such as one rarely sees in this locality. A picturesque old building with pointed windows, that was formerly the village school, adds a pretty feature to the churchyard.

But we must push on to the castle, reserving these minor matters for future investigation. Half a mile of hard highroad ensues, when, just before the castle gate is reached, our attention is absorbed by an object standing upon the steep bank, hard by the road.

This is Carew Cross, a hoary monument before whose patriarchal antiquity the ruined castle is little better than a

mere parvenu. The huge monolith of

lichen-clad stone terminates in a circular head enclosing a Celtic cross; while each of the four sides is richly overlaid with deeply-incised patterns, carved in that curious, interlacing fashion peculiar to these early monuments. The date of its erection is placed as far back as the ninth century: upon its eastern face is seen a rudely-fashioned cross, each limb of which is formed by three deeply-cut lines; while the reverse side is inscribed with certain archaic characters, which some ingenious antiquary has interpreted thus:

THE CROSS OF THE SON OF ILTEUT THE SON OF ECETT.