Haverfordwest, a fascinating sleepy old town with three ancient churches, is a few miles on the other side of Milford Haven, which you cross in a steam ferry; and from there a motor omnibus service will take you to far away little St. Davids, the “Cathedral Village,” with its wonderful Norman Cathedral Church. It is a magnificent journey that, from Haverfordwest to St. Davids, across a wild and windswept country with seventeen steep hills to negotiate in sixteen miles, and a magnificent view from the top of each one of them. And at the end of the road one of the choicest churches in the whole country, nestling in a sheltered valley, awaits you, and that sense of complete peace and quiet that can only be found in a place utterly remote from crowds, and the hustle and worry of modern life. [Illustration: _St. Govan’s Chapel._] [Illustration: Fairies tending a garden.] THE FAIRY GARDENS OF TREEN. The Small Folk, or Fairies, as strangers call them, are very fond of flowers. They have their own particular gardens in many places around the rough Cornish coast, but mostly they are to be found near the base of jagged cliffs in little green tracts, inaccessible either from the sea or from the summit of the cliff above. There are several of these near the foot of the cliffs round Trereen or Treen Castle, that rugged headland near the Lands End, upon which stands the famous Logan Rock, or rocking stone. You can generally tell a Small Folks’ garden by the many sea pinks that bloom there in season, and the peculiar brightness of the green of the ferns that nestle in the moist shade of the rocks. There is nothing much else to distinguish them by day, but of a summer night it is very different. Then if you chance upon one of them--which is very rarely--you will find the soft green of the cliff turf spangled with wee flowers of all colours, rare and beautiful, such as mere mortals never know. And you may see the Little People dancing happily in rings around some sea pink which towers above their heads, or busying about with tiny water-pot or spade tending their beloved blooms. The fishermen sometimes see them when, on a still summer night, their boats drift silently close in by the cliffs. They hear the strains of sweet soft music coming from close down by the water and see a constant moving of hundreds of tiny bright lights flickering in and out among the fairy flowers; and sometimes, on calm warm nights, the delicious scents of the flowers drifts far out to sea, a scent that is ten thousand times sweeter than any that came from a mortal garden.