OGMORE CASTLE—EWENNY PRIORY—DUNRAVEN-HOUSE—ST. DONATT’S CASTLE—LLANBITHIAN CASTLE—COWBRIDGE—PENLINE CASTLE—COITY CASTLE—LLANTRISSENT—BENIGHTED RAMBLE TO PONT-Y-PRIDD—WATERFALLS.
Ogmore castle is situated on the eastern bank of the river Ogmore, near the road to Cowbridge; its remains, however, are very inconsiderable, consisting merely of the keep and some outer walls. Caradoc, in his History of Wales, says, that the manor and castle of Ogmore were bestowed by Fitzhammon on William de Londres, one of his knights; from which its foundation may be dated prior to the Norman conquest. The manor courts are still held in a thatched hovel near it, which appears like an overgrown pig-stye. Here, according to the custom of the times, a religious institution followed the acquisition of power. William de Londres, or his descendant John, built Ewenny Priory, at the distance of a mile from the castle, and also near the road to Cowbridge: but in this the proprietor seems not to have lost sight of his worldly interest; for the strong embattled walls and towers that appear among the ruins of this building would lead one to consider it as intended not less for the purposes of war than of priestcraft; and its situation on the bank of the Wenny was admirably adapted for the defence of that part of his domain. In the hall of the house, a gloomy building, are several racks, which appear to have been used for the lodging of arms. The church is a venerable massive structure, wherein unornamented heavy arches repose on short bulky columns of the rudest workmanship: it contains a monument of Paganus de Turbeville, supposed to be the grandson of Fitzhammon’s knight of that name. The thick columns, plain capital, and circular arches of this edifice, denote it to be of the earliest Norman architecture; and might lead one to suppose it to be of Saxon origin, did not historical facts invalidate the conjecture. Leland says that it was founded for Benedictine monks; but neither he, Dugdale, nor Tanner, gives us the date of its foundation. A.D. 1141 it was made a cell of St. Peter’s of Gloucester.
Not far from Ewenny, on the sea-coast, is Dunraven-house, or castle, as it is called by Caradoc; a misshapen dismal building, only to be admired for its situation on a lofty sea promontory, commanding extensive prospects. William de Londres, Lord of Ogmore (says Caradoc) won the lordships of Kydwelhy and Carnewihion in Carmarthenshire from the Welchmen; and gave to Sir Arnold Butler, his servant, the castle and manor of Dunraven. It continued a long time in the possession of his descendants; but at length fell to the Vaughans, the last of whom, as tradition relates, was such an unprincipled wretch, that he set up lights, and used other devices to mislead seamen, in order that they might be wrecked on his manor. But his crimes did not escape punishment; for it is said that three of his sons were drowned in one day by the following accidents. Within sight of the house is a large rock called the Swancar, dry only at low water; to which two of his sons went in a boat to divert themselves: but not taking care to fasten their vessel, on the rising of the tide it was washed away, and they left to the horrors of their fate; which was inevitable, as the family had no other boat, nor was there any other in the neighbourhood. Their distress was seen from the house; and in the confusion their infant brother, being left alone, fell into a vessel of whey, and was drowned almost at the same instant with the other two. This was universally looked upon as a judgement for the iniquities abovementioned; and Mr. Vaughan was so struck with the transaction, that he immediately sold the house to Mr. Wyndham, ancestor of the present proprietor.—Two extraordinary caverns, about a mile westward of the house, we neglected to visit: the one called the Cave is described to be a passage worn through a projecting stack of rocks, running parallel with the sea-shore, and forming a kind of rude piazza, with an entrance to the south, of very grand effect. The other, called the Windhole, is a deep cavern, a little to the east of the Cave: its depth from the entrance measures seventy-seven yards. There are two or three small fissures through the roof of the cavern to the land above, a considerable distance from the edge of the cliff; over which if a hat be laid, it will be blown back into the air with considerable violence; but this only happens when the wind blows fresh from the South-east.
St. Donatt’s Castle, a few miles further on the coast, and about five south-west of Cowbridge, is an extensive structure, of much antique beauty, and is still partially inhabited. Its garden, descending in terraces from the south wall, was formerly much admired, but now
“Sunk are the bowers in shapeless rain all,
And the long grass o’ertops the mould’ring wall.
Although loftily situated, the castle is so surrounded with high groves, as only to be seen with advantage from some heights in the adjoining park: on one of them is a watch-tower, which affords a prospect truly grand and extensive. This castle is of very remote foundation, although the greater part of the building indicates the work of latter ages. We learn from Powell’s translation of Caradoc, that the castle and manor of St. Denewit, or St. Donatt, was apportioned to Sir William le Esterlong, alias Stradling, on the conquest of Glamorgan. The Stradlings, outliving the descendants of all the other twelve Knights, held it for 684 years; but they becoming extinct, the estate fell to Busy Mansell, Esq. [163]
Between St. Donatt’s and Cowbridge is Lantwit, a poor village, but once a large borough town. On the north side of its church are some old British relics, consisting of high carved stones; but whether sepulchral or otherwise is not determined. Llanbithian, or St. Quintin’s Castle, is situated about half a mile south of Cowbridge. The leading feature of this ruin is a massive gateway, now converted into a barn; which, as well as the other parts, denotes considerable original strength, and is said to have been built prior to the arrival of Fitzhammon. The castle and manor fell to the share of Sir Robert St. Quintin on the division of Glamorgan; but it passed from his descendants in the reign of Henry the Third, and is now the property of Lord Windsor. Cowbridge is a neat little town seated on the banks of a small river. [164]
Penline Castle, loftily seated on a bold hill, and commanding a prospect of uncommon diversity and extent, is about a mile distant from Cowbridge. From the lines of Edward Williams, a native poet, it may appear that it serves as a barometer for the neighbourhood:
“When the hoarse waves of Severn are screaming aloud,
And Penline’s lofty castle’s involv’d in a cloud;
If true the old proverb, a shower of rain
Is brooding above and will soon drench the plain.”
This structure is of very ancient date: in some parts of the building the stones are laid in the herring-bone fashion; a mode observed in the oldest parts of Guildford, Corfe, and others of the most ancient castles. The mansion near to the ruin was built by Mr. Sergeant Sey, and is now possessed by Miss Gwinit, by a bequest of the late Lady Vernon’s.A retrograde movement, hastily performed in a shower of rain, brought us to Bridgend, a straggling little town, built on the opposing banks of the river Ogmore. From this place a road passes to the village of Coity and its dismantled castle. This ruin stands on a plain ground, and is prettily interspersed with various trees and underwood: its foundation is generally attributed to Paganus de Turbeville, one of Fitzhammon’s knights.—The continuance of our ride to Llantrissent boasted little interest; until, making a curve near the seven-mile stone, when the wide undulating vale of Cowbridge exhibited a most extensive tract of beautiful fertility: among the high hills circumscribing the vale, that sustaining Penline castle rose with superior importance. The whole laid out in rich pastures and meadows, continually intersected with tufted inclosures, and enlivened with embowered hamlets and detached whitened buildings, formed a coup d’oeil of considerable interest.
The old town of Llantrissent appeared within a small distance of us, long before we arrived at it: for, perched upon the summit of a high hill of remarkable steepness, it was only by a circuitous road, then of sufficiently fatiguing ascent, that it could be approached. This place, comprised nearly in one narrow irregular street, and made up of poor Gothic habitations, has so little of modern appearance engrafted on it, that it may be interesting as a specimen of ancient times, but scarcely in any other respect. The castle is nearly all destroyed; the fragment of a lofty round tower, and the vestiges of its outworks, nearly concealed by tangled shrubs, being all the remains of it. The church is a large Norman edifice, and from the cemetery a wonderful prospect is obtained of the surrounding country: although a hazy state of the atmosphere denied us the whole of its extent, enough remained to assure us that it must be considerable.
Pont-y-pridd, or New Bridge, was our next destination. My companion went forward to secure accommodation at the Bridgewater Arms, a comfortable inn about half a mile beyond it, while I was engaged in sketching some subjects about Llantrissent; at which task I incautiously protracted my stay
—“until the approach of night,
The skies warm blushing with departing light
When falling dews with spangles deck’d the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen’d ev’ry shade.”
As I proceeded from Llantrissent, cultivation diminished; and from that fertile and populous district, bordering the Severn, I found myself entering upon the unfrequented wilds of the interior country. It soon became so dark, that I could but just distinguish the broken road that I was travelling; which, although a Welch turnpike, a modern farmer in England would be ashamed to own for his cartway. Not a human face or habitation presented itself, nor any relief from silence, except the uncheering note of the screech owl. At length, however, the distant murmur of a waterfall saluted me; which, growing louder as I advanced, presently accumulated to a hoarse roar; and, by the direction of the sound, it appeared that I was travelling on a precipice above the torrent. A plentiful shower falling at this instant did not add to the comforts of my situation; and I found by the motion of the horse, that I was on a steep descent; while his frequent slides and stumbles proved that he was on very rugged ground, and probably out of any track. In this dilemma imagination, ever active in magnifying concealed danger, pictured my situation as tottering on the brink of some such chasm as that of the Devil’s bridge. Here I might have exclaimed with Ossian’s Colma: “It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the Mountains; the torrent shrieks down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds.” But to remain under such apprehensions were worse than to encounter danger, and I slowly moved on in almost total darkness; until, making a sudden turn, I beheld the tops of the neighbouring hills illumined in a strange manner. In a few moments a gleam of light, transmitted by reflection through an opening in some trees, shone on my track, and discovered a dark huge figure standing at my horse’s head. I was scarcely collected from my surprize when my bridle was forcibly arrested, and a loud but unintelligible voice seemed to demand that I should stop. Already was I conceiving how to repel the attack, when the man, observing that I did not understand Welch, civilly accosted me in imperfect English, and assured me that I was on the edge of a precipice. Nor did he leave me with this service, but kindly led my horse to the little village of Pont-y-pridd, then within a short distance. Here, while regaling over a mug of ale, my conductor accounted for the light that surprized me: it proceeded from an immense bonfire of a party of colliers in some distant mountains, rejoicing at the blessing of peace. At this place I determined to fix my quarters; nor could the offer of a guide and lanthorn, to conduct me to the superior accommodation of the Bridgewater arms, induce me to tempt again the dangers of the night, or quit the coarse barley bread, salt butter, and miserable beer of the village alehouse.
Early in the morning my companion rejoined me, when we visited Pont-y-pridd, the celebrated bridge of Glamorganshire. This extraordinary piece of masonry consists of a single arch, whose chord is 147 feet, thrown across the Taffe. William Edward, an ingenious mason of this country, who built it, failed in two preceding attempts, which would have proved his ruin; but the gentry in the neighbourhood laudably supported ported his ingenuity, although at first unsuccessfully exerted, and enabled him to complete the present structure. The great beauty of this arch arises from the simplicity of its construction, and indeed from its very defect as a roadway; for the passage over the bridge is not sloped away into the adjoining roads, as it might be; but precipitately descends on each side, following the line of the arch. This circumstance, and its being defended with only a very low parapet, gives the bridge a remarkably light appearance. Situated in a romantic hollow, and abruptly jetting from the bold woody banks of the river, it looks a magic bow thrown across by the hands of fairies.
Two waterfalls in this neighbourhood deserve notice. One occurs about half a mile above the bridge. We proceeded to it through a delightful sylvan path on the bank of the river, and under the beetling brow of Craig-er-esk. The river is seen for a considerable distance struggling through a region of rocks, which in some places rise in large masses above its surface, and in others appear through the transparency of the stream shelving to a considerable depth; wearing throughout the odd appearance of a vast assemblage of cubes, variously heaped, but with one face constantly horizontal: at length the river breaks over a compact strata; yet only in a fall of eight or ten feet, which is divided into several streams. The white foam of the river, and the light grey tint of the rocks, afford a strong contrast to the mixed verdure and dark shadows of its banks; but upon the whole the subject is rather to be noticed for its singularity than for any leading points of picturesque beauty. More agreeably composed appeared to us the other cascade of the tributary river Rhayder, about two miles distant from the bridge. The dark rocks that occasion the fall; the surrounding craigs; the light and pendant foliage that adorns them, and the vigorous trees that emerge from the banks, are all disposed with the utmost symmetry, and form a highly-pleasing picture, though of inconsiderable dimensions.
