My Summer Holiday (Being a Tourists Jottings About Tenby)

The legend of Dunraven, ship wrecks and sermons in the stones! My Summer Holiday - Being a Tourists Jottings About Tenby is an 1863 publication from William Freeman of London and the work of an unknown author; and seemingly, deliberately so. 

Part Victorian travelogue, part collection of local lore - it makes for a unique and particularly charming collection regrading Tenby and its surrounding landscape in South West Wales.

'The North Sands have many interesting features. The rocks here are varied and picturesque. At one point they are clothed with waving ferns; whilst at another they are bare and rugged; then they are marked with gigantic fissures; and then, again, attired in green. At their base lay ponderous stones covered with rare weeds and shelly parasites. About two miles from the town the rocks are separated by a picturesque little valley called Waterwinch, and further on is Monkstone Point, a series of rugged, shapeless rocks, which, in their ponderous confusion, look as though they had been tumbled about by the Titans.'

Tales From Antiquaria is a podcast dedicated to exploring the legacy of work published regarding folklore and local history during the golden age of antiquarian writing in the nineteenth century.

For show notes and links, visit the episodes page at thelocalmythstorian.com

Episode written, produced and presented by Eli Lewis-Lycett. All source material taken directly from the stated publication. Main theme music by Humanoid Media. Incidental music from Restum-Anoush. 

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The Legend of Dunraven Shipwrecks and Sermons in the Stones. My name is Eli and this is Tales from Antiquaria, a tourist's jottings about Tambi. The podcast where we explore a legacy of antiquarian folklore, local history, and curious legends spoken directly from the pages of the past. We're back for my little summer break, and it's a special one for me this. Tembe in South West Wales is probably, should there be such a thing, a kind of spiritual home for me. Honestly, from being a very small child into adulthood, visits to the seaside town, 200 miles away from where I live, have been something of a constant. I must have been more than 20 times as a kid, and as a teenager, and although I haven't visited so much as an adult, I try to. Most recently, November last year, I love the place out of season, when the wind whips the waves into an autumn fury, crashing against a seawall. It's a place filled with history and legend, its medieval walls still an inspiring sight encircling the town as they do. An ancient settlement with the holy island of Caldy just off the coast too, it became a wealthy medieval trading port following the Norman conquest, saw action in the Civil War, and suffered greatly under a plague in 1650. Just before it became revitalized as a Victorian holiday destination, many of its features were captured by the artist Charles Norris in his work Etchings of Tembe, published in 1812. Although not known for it, it included some very curious local law in his book of Etchings too, chiefly that of Will's Mark, the name of an underwater island off the coast of Tembe that had apparently been teeming with fish since time immemorial, until, as he states, this spot is now no longer to be found. The loss is said to have been a judgment on Temby for some awful enormity perpetrated by its inhabitants. So severe is the punishment that every native is incapacitated from all future discovery forever. And sure enough, John Rogers, mayor of Temby in 1612, did apparently lead a campaign to rediscover this underwater island, but to little avail. Amazing stuff, I had to mention it as it doesn't make the title we're going to be reading tonight. No, tonight is something quite unique amongst the books we've covered so far. My summer holiday, its full title being My Summer Holiday Being a Tourist's Jottings About Tembe, is an 1863 publication from William Freeman of Fleet Street and the work of an unknown author, and seemingly deliberately so, as a dedication at the start of the book reads as follows To TDT. I dedicate this little seaside gossip as a humble offering to the pure shrine of friendship, the author. It's essentially a Victorian travelogue, and whilst we don't know who the author was, we do know a little about where they were from. The book opens with a bustling descriptive scene of a city, a city that we soon learned to be Bristol. It was not quite seven o'clock. The big city was just opening its eyes. Here and there mats were violently shaken outside doors by energetic housemaids, who seemed to like the exercise, whilst other members of the domestic fraternity leaned leisurely upon brooms and chatted to friends over the way. Occasionally a shutter was slowly removed or a door noisily unbarred, disclosing merchandise of various descriptions and sleepy looking shopmen fresh from the land of dreams who yawned audibly at porters engaged in the removal of the long wooden protectors of glass and property. After a drive through Bristol, I found myself at the Hot Wells, inquiring for the steamer announced to start for Temby, whither I invite you, dear reader, to journey with me. And so we shall, with our anonymous guide to lead us to Temby, we go Introductions. If I were to tell you everything there is to tell about the early history of Tembi and describe all the ruins which remain for artists to sketch and poets to sonetize, you would soon grow weary, and so should I. Besides, if you want to know about these things, you have only to buy one of the several local guides and you may have every detail which you miss in my narrative. Nevertheless, I cannot pass over the leading features of interest, so let me dash off into the old fortifications of Tembi without further delay. Ruined as they now are, they have stood many a rough attack. A great portion of the old defences are still in good preservation and present many features of picturesque beauty. Where archers bent their little U bows, birds have built their nests, and leafy parasites have taken possession of the ancient loopholes. The swallow flits through the galleries and twitters in the grey time-worn towers. Ivy and creeping flowers entwine themselves about the bastions and nod from the crumbling turrets. The Legend of Dunraven or the story of Walter Vaughn and Matt of the Iron Hand. Walter Vaughn, the Lord of Dunraven, was born to a large inheritance of lands, and unfortunately for him an unusually large amount of vanity. He was not, however, like many vain people, devoid of ability or courage. He had both wit and valour and was a man of fair proportions. Shortly after attaining his majority, he exhibited his prowess and courage in rescuing the crew of a stranded ship. The vessel was sinking fast, and the mariners had all given up hope of ever reaching the shore. Bands of villagers gazed with horror on the labouring ship as the waves washed over her, but none dared venture to the rescue. At length the young lord of Dunraven appeared amongst the crowd and undertook the dangerous errand of carrying a rope to the struggling crew. No one seems to have opposed the young lord in this task, and dashing into the breakers he made for the vessel. Many a time he was lost to view amongst the billows, but eventually he completed his hazardous expedition, and the whole crew were saved. This humane act gained for the young lord great notoriety, and from this time he deeply interested himself in everything connected to the sea. He devised plans for divesting shipwreck of its greatest calamity and loss of human life and studied astronomy and navigation. Adjoining his castle was a lofty watchtower in which he spent whole nights in studying the stars. According to Cicero, the contemplation of celestial things will make a man both speak and think more sublimely and magnificently than when he descends to human affairs. Such was not the case, however, with Walter Vaughan. He did not read the heavens aright. He learned not the many lessons men say they gleam from stars which teach as well as shine. After a long course of preparation, after many plans had been devised, many schemes invented for accomplishing his object, the Lord of Dunraven submitted his plans to government, which rejected them and slighted their author. During the long and studious fit of its owner, the mansion of Dunraven had been shorn of all its former pomp and gayety. The sound of revelry and the jock and laugh of mirth was stilled. Such frivolities were unseemly in a sage. No sooner, however, did Walter Vaughan learn the fate of the scheme which he had hatched with so much care in his high watchtower than he revived the good old times at the castle, and in this he gained a local distinction, but he only rekindled the fires of hospitality and bid the harpers retouch their harmonious strings that he might drown in revelry, the miseries which his vain heart felt at his great disappointment. Bacchus now became his god, and from counting stars he sunk to counting dice. The watchtower had not long been deserted, and its owner married, the lady being mainly caught by the dazzling halls of Dunraven. The nuptials were celebrated in a gorgeous manner. Nothing that fancy could suggest or wealth obtain was spared to mark the interesting event. Alas, how much misery was here wrapped up in the tinsel of pomp and show. Year by year, Lord Dunraven's fortune fell away, and eventually his wife died brokenhearted, leaving behind four sons, the youngest was not more than four years old. Death had hardly made his appearance when another guest arrived at the castle. Poverty, which had long since peeped in at the window, now entered the door. At its approach, Walter Vaughan's former friends disappeared and left the grim visitor sole possessor of the halls in which they had so often feasted. Poverty, like a weary bailiff, strode through the deserted rooms. It sat down with the family at their daily meals. It lay beside them throughout the weary night, and appeared to them in their dreams, and then rose with them again in the morning. The castle was partly closed. The only attendant who remained faithful to his lord was an old Welsh harper, and he was true to the last, sharing the miseries of the fallen family and endeavoring to afford consolation to them in their hour of need. Upon Walter Vaughan, trouble and anxiety brought the shadow of death before its time. He grew prematurely old. The vicissitudes of life had bowed him down like a young oak shattered by a storm. Care had wrinkled his face, made hollows around his eyes, and tinged his hair with grey. His eldest son, who should have been heired to a fine estate, was compelled to leave the halls of his father's to seek fortune in foreign climes, and sad indeed was the day which separated father and son. Both felt acutely the parting hour. The father for once at last was smitten with remorse, but this came too late, and the heir to the ruined estates of Dunraven sought fame and fortune on the ocean. When the dissipated nobleman had almost ascended to the bottomless stave of the ladder of ruined hopes and fortune, a wreck occurred off the coast. All hands perished. The ship and most of the cargo were washed ashore, and became the property of Walter Vaughan as Lord of the Manor. The money thus obtained would have been a great boon to him had he not kindled in his crooked mind ideas of the most horrible character. Years ago, when Mr Vaughn was in the height of his power and exercised authority as a magistrate, there came into the port a strange looking craft which was discovered by some fishermen to be a pirate. The vessel was consequently seized by order of Mr Vaughn, but the captain and his desperate crew made a fiercer resistance. Hand to hand the borders fought with the pirate band. The result was, however, favourable to the side of justice. The captain, who lost a hand in the fight, eventually settled in the neighborhood and turned his attention to a practice which, in former times, disgraced many of the inhabitants of the dangerous coast of East Clamorganshire, he became a wrecker. That is, he misled vessels by hanging out four slides, luring strange craft to rocks and dangerous shoals, or causing them to run aground. When vessels had thus been wrecked, they were plundered, and the men who succeeded in gaining the shore often met with a worse death than that of drowning. By this villainry, the ruined pirate nicknamed Matt of the Iron Hand amassed considerable booty. But he never forgot the grudge he owed to the Lord of Dunraven. One night when Matt was about his horrible work, it was noted by some of the natives that he had a companion. Strange whisperings went abroad that the ruined landlord, Matt's old enemy, was the wrecker's new ally, and the rumours proved true. Mr Vaughan, ever since the wreck which has so considerably improved his means, harboured thoughts of reclaiming his estates by augmenting the number of shipwrecks. He did not now think of saving human life from these dreadful calamities. His wants demanded their increase, and he was bold enough to disclose his valenious notions to his old harper, who was loud against such horrible criminality. Not all, however, the harper could say moved his master from pursuing the course he had indicated, and he became the midnight associate of Matt of the Iron Hand. In a grotto by the sea, where the waves made mournful music in a thousand curious crevices, the Lord of Dunraven and his harper will want to spend whole days in watching, waiting for unsuspecting prey. On a certain eventful evening at the close of the year, the watchers observed Matt with eye intent and outstretched neck gazing towards a distant rocky and dangerous point. Then a loud, sharp cry was heard from the direction in which Matt was so intently looking. The wrecker laughed in fiendest exultation and pointed to a boat which was rapidly drifting out to sea. The frail craft had two occupants, but they had no power over the rushing tide which hurried them to destruction. For a time the sight paralyzed the horror stricken father. At length the rocks rang with his cries. He rushed to the beach, but death acclaimed its heritage. The sea rolled on as before, though beneath the waves now slept two sons of the Lord of Dunraven. To look for the safety of the third son was the first impulse of the wretched parent. He hastened home, but here another woe awaited him. His youngest child being left alone had fallen into a vassal of liquor, and had perished at the same time as the waters closed over his children in the boat. The moment in which the stricken father learnt the full force of the calamity that had befallen him must have been one of those terrible periods where the pulse stands still and the course of life seems checked by some hidden impulse, when the wrong deeds of a whole lifetime rise up to justify a merited retribution, and the heart is ready to break under the weight of its infliction. For days no food or drink passed the lips of the wretched man, and as the shock wore off he showed signs of the deepest repentance for his crimes. His thoughts were now all centered on his eldest and only son, for whose safety he offered up incessant prayers. But his cup of sorrow was not yet full, and his punishment not yet complete. Years passed away, but no tidings of the long absent son reached the unhappy father. Summers had come and gone, winter had whitened the rocks with snow, and another autumn had shaken the leaves from the oaks that surrounded the domain of Dunraven. It was a calm evening, the sun was setting as it had done years ago, when a boat drifted out to sea and never returned with the two youths who had occupied it. The wind swept gently over earth and sea, quietly chasing a few dried leaves over the rocks, and dallying with the sails of a strange ship which was seen standing up the channel. There was uncertainty about the vessel's movements which attracted the attention of Mr Vaughn and his harper. As night came on the wind rose and soon it blew a gale. Anxious about the fate of the vessel, Mr Vaughn hired him to his old retreat in the grotto. The faithful minstrel accompanied him, and suspicious that evil might befall them from Matt, provided himself with arms. Matt's treacherous signals soon glimmered through the hazy night, and in a few short hours the crushing sounds and willing cries of shipwreck mingled with the storm. Eventually Matt entered the cave and informed the watchers that the ship was a total wreck, the only man who had survived being the captain. Is he safe? cried old Vaughn. He told me he was a Welshman and was born on this coast, continued Matt doggedly, without noticing the old man's question. You helped him then, yes. Yes, you saved him, exclaimed the wretched interrogator. Not another word uttered the iron hearted and iron handed wrecker, but he thrust into the hand of the questioner a cold, clammy substance. Old Vaughn uttered a despairing cry as he claps Matt's awful booty between his own pallid fingers. A human hand was the wrecker's present, and the torchlight revealed upon it a ring, a well known hairloom of the house of Dunraven. The wrecker's revenge was consummated. The hair of Dunraven had fallen by his hand, and the cold fingers of the corpse had reminded the father at the time when a pirate chief lost a hand in fighting for his ship. No sooner, however, was his revenge satisfied than retribution overtook him. He was shot to the heart by the aged harper, a lurid gleam from the wrecker's treacherous signals glimmering upon the pirate's features as he fell at the feet of the Lord of Dunraven. After this, no more was seen or heard of the unhappy lord, until about forty years ago an inscription was accidentally discovered on a tomb in the old church of Tenby, chronicling the decease of Walter Vaughan of Dunraven, who died and was buried sometime in the sixteenth century. It's supposed that the miserable man went to Tenby, then a retired spot, immediately after the untimely death of his eldest son, and there lived in seclusion for several years. What became of the faithful harper we are left to conjecture. The legend of Dunraven, whilst it thus adorns the tale, also conveys an excellent moral, which I will venture to point out in rhyme. Though a little vanity may be a good thing, for those whose ambition is fame. Excessive the passions sooner thwart will than bring that much sought for bauble a name. And crime, though it flourish undisturbed for a time, brings misery at last no one can doubt. For the saying holds good in every climb. Be sure your sins will find you out. Tembi's chief attractions are its sands and the clear green ocean, which twice in every 24 hours leaves its wet kisses on the yellow beach. A high water the sands are completely covered by the sea, which lashes itself into a foam at the foot of the beautiful range of rocks by which the beach is bound. In the cliffs of the South Sands are several interesting little caverns, and if you can pick out an intelligent boatman hereabouts, he will perhaps tell you some incidents of the numerous wrecks which have occurred within gunshot of the houses perched upon the rocks. In 1844, the Brig Richard was wrecked just in front of the Paragon House, and several of her crew perished. In 1855, a schooner went to pieces between St. Catharines Island and Castle Hill, but the crew fortunately were saved by the lifeboat. At about Christmas 1856, a Spanish schooner came ashore near the Balmont houses, and the unfortunate mariners were saved by the galling conduct of the crew of the Tembe Lifeboat. The North Sands have many interesting features. The rocks here are varied and picturesque. At one point they are closed with waving ferns, while at another they are bare and rugged. About two miles from the town, the rocks are separated by a picturesque little valley called Waterwinch, and further on is Monkstone Point, a series of rugged, shapeless rocks which in their ponderous confusion look as though they have been tumbled about by the Titans. The Legend of Saint Tilo. My first excursion outside Tembi was to Lydstep and Manabir. The caverns of Lydstep may be reached on foot by the South Sands, but I preferred the road in one of the numerous vehicles which are always at a visitor's command in Tembi, provided he pays the owner's price and does not forget the driver. Beyond the ancient watchtowers which stand out in solitary state against the hills, and an occasional view of the sea, like the background to a painting, there is nothing which particularly attracts attention until you arrive at Penali, a neat little village with pretty little houses and green sunny slopes, nestling amongst luxuriant trees that stretch out their great arms all over the place as if to shelter the villagers from every rude wind. The ponderous square tower of the church made For defence as well as ornament, rears its grey head above the adjacent foliage like a village sentinel, ready as an antiquated crow that I observed close by to give timely warning of impending danger to the scattered flock around. I did not stop to inspect the church, but my driver intimated that there was a legend about Sir Tilo. It was buried there which I might like to hear, whereupon I expressed my delight in the legends generally, and bade him to be kind enough to tell me the legend of Saint Tilo. Well, sir, this is how I've heard the story, and indeed to goodness I believe there's some truth to it too. Saint Tilo, you see, lived here, and after he had been away for many years into a distant land he came back with two other saints, one of them called Saint David, and stayed here for a very long time, and achieved some sort of situation in the church. He was elected the Archbishopric of Saint David's, I suggested. Yes, something of the sort. Well the king of these parts once called for the saint's assistance in a case which was very curious, you see. It happened that every day when the king had his dinner that one of the soldiers or the servants died either by accident or some other unnatural way. It was the devil that did it, of course, and so the king sent for Saint Tilo, and although there have been these very strange deaths ever so many days one after the other, the saint with two disciples came to the court, dealt out the meat and drink, and said a very great many prayers. And from that time the mortality was put to a stop, and the king gave the saint two or three villages for the job, and very good pay too. A strange story, truly, I said, but why does your horse stop at the same moment that you are silent? We are going through this door, sir, said the driver, jumping from his seat and making towards a white gate on the left. No no, said an urchin, clinging to the gate in a most determined manner. And why not? inquired the driver. The gate is locked and misses Jones has got the key, said the youngster, with scarcely a twang of the Welsh brogue, which we might have expected from such a quarter, notwithstanding the boast of the people of this part of Wales that they are not Welsh, Pembrokeshire being locally called the Little England beyond Wales. During the brief altercation, several other young priors of the road congregated around their companion as if to defend the pass. Despite their unsophisticated appearance, I was not long in guessing that the key to the gate was the silver one, which had opened many a more formidable door than the one leading to Lidstep. What is that a pay boy? Sixpence, sir, replied the youngster, relaxing his hold on the gate. Then fetch the key. The payments of sixpence to Mrs. Jones' agent and a handful of half pences scattered amongst his juvenile companions at once settled the business. My Walsh driver was soon rattling me along the road leading to the valley of Lidstep. Leaving my conveyance at the top of the valley, I called at the guide's cottage and accompanied by the chief occupant of that romantic retreat, commenced the descent of a rocky defile which widened as we proceeded until we stood on the beach. The Bell Having met with my enthusiastic friend, I strolled around Scottsborough, which is an ancient house in ruins. An intelligent inhabitant of Tenby told me that Aparis, a clergyman who lived there three hundred years ago, had the bell of Tenby Church lined with silver in order that its tolling might be heard at Scottsborough. I do not find this stated in any of the local histories, neither do I find another which my landlady narrated to me. Near St. Govan's well, there's an appetite in the rock which the smallest man can fill and the largest man may also enter, so mysterious is the apartment and its accommodating characteristics. Some of the old inhabitants told my landlady that our Saviour came there to the well. Some villagers in the fields above were sowing wheat, and the Lord told them to fetch their sickles. They went for the reapers accordingly, and on their return found Jesus in the aperture, which has ever since remained so mysteriously elastic. Meanwhile the wheat grew and harvesting came at seed time. Close by are a flight of limestone steps which nobody can count, and near the church are some fragments of limestone, with which is connected another curious legend. They are strangely metallic, a ring when struck with a stone. It's said that once upon a time, convenient period for legendary story, some pirates landed at this spot and stole the bow from an ancient chapel built in the rocks where an Anchorite dwelt. When the thieves were removing their booty, they rested near these stones, whereupon the properties of the bow metal passed into the fragments of the rock, and thus Providence provided the holy man with musical rock in lieu of his abstracted bow. Such are the sermons in stones preached as Saint Govern's Customs. In the olden time the people of Tembe had some peculiar customs, traces of which still remain. Christmas tide was observed with every mark of festivity. On Christmas Day, the young men of the town conducted the rector from his residence to church, lighted torches being carried by the majority forming the procession. The feasting of the time was not neglected, and at the present day Tembi knows how to keep Christmas well, both in respect of good old customs and English fare. On St. Crispin's Day, the Tembionians read in public places a document which they called the Saint's Last Will and Testament, in which he left to the shoemakers of the town his clothing. Meanwhile, an effigy that had been hung upon the church steeple during the night was removed, and after reading of the will stripped of its outer garments, which were then presented to the Cordwainers. However, the most serious customs observed during the year were left for the coming of all Hallows Eve, when the superstitious feelings of the people were exhibited in a variety of ways. Young girls did all sorts of outlandish things to lift the veil of the future and get a glimpse of him they were destined to marry. At midnight they would sow hemp seed where four roads crossed, and, waiting for a response to the following lines, would chant this during the ceremony. Hemp seed I sow, hemp seed I'll mow, wherever my true lovers to be, come rake this hemp seed after me. The true love often appeared, it's asserted, and some enthusiastic sowers have actually felt the rake come in contact with their feet. Spectral funeral processions on All Hallows Eve are still believed in by many superstitious people on the Welsh coast. At Tembe, many stories are extant of people being entangled in these ghostly processions and seeing the name on the coffin. Mixed with these narratives of local customs, you may hear many curious stories of pirates and smugglers, wrecks and stirring legends such as those I have mentioned in former chapters. But now I must leave you, friendly reader, to gather the rest for yourself or to remain content with those I have narrated. The author and narrator seems to have fled from the bustle and the busy life of Bristol, across the Channel and to Temby. The coastline in Temby and the Pembrokeshire coastline in general, for those who aren't aware, is some of the most stunning scenery, some of the most rugged and beautiful vista anywhere in Britain. I'm a big fan of the place, but don't take my word for it, have a Google. It really is a stunning place. And the thing is as well, around our coastal areas, you get quite a unique mix when it comes to folklore because, of course, sailors were coming into port and port hopping along the coastline, so stories could fly from one locality to another with far greater ease than they would perhaps inland. So that's our time in West Wales done. Hope you enjoyed it. Something a bit different, and we'll be back soon with our next episode. Oh, one more thing before I go. I'm trying to put a bit of a focus on our social channels. It's not my most favourite thing in the world to do. My most favourite thing is making these podcasts. But nonetheless, the social channels and signing up on the website, it just supports what we're trying to do with this little project. So I don't want to bleat on about it, but if you haven't done, and if you could, please find my Facebook page or blue sky profile, Eli Lewis Lyset Folklore and History. It's where I communicate about the podcast and various other things I might be involved with. And of course, if you can sign up at tailschemantequaria.com, it really helps kind of grease the gears of the project as we move forward. Well, that's all for now. So take care. And until next time, meet a god go with you.com.