Fascinated by these entrancing prospects, we linger in this wonderland until the advancing tide hints at a speedy departure, when, scrambling once again to the upper world, we strike away for the solitary hamlet of Lydstep. Hard by the road stand two scattered groups of dilapidated buildings, sometimes called by the imposing titles of the Palace, and the Place of Arms. In the good old times--so runs the legend--Aircol Llawhir, King of Dyfed, held his royal Court at this place. Be that as it may, the existing structures are probably not older than the fourteenth century, and may be ascribed to those yeomen proprietors, a 'peg' above the common farmer folk, who erected these stout walls to safeguard their goods and chattels. The return journey lies along a pleasant, open road between the Ridgeway and the cliffs; affording lovely glimpses of the rugged coast-line and the land-locked sea. At Penally a return train puts in a timely appearance, and conveys us in a few minutes back to quarters, while the declining sun sets the world aflame in the glow of its lingering rays. * * * * * There is a spring-like feeling in the crisp morning air as we drive leisurely along the Ridgeway road, bound westward ho! to 'fresh woods and pastures new.' Fairy cobwebs, gemmed with glistening dewdrops, sparkle in every hedgerow as we mount slowly up the steep, ruddy flank of the Ridgeway. Bowling merrily along the smooth, well-kept road that traverses its breezy summit, we are in all probability following the course of some primitive trackway, used from the earliest times when enemies lurked in the lowlands. Ever wider grows the outlook as we jaunt along; the glory of the scene culminating as we clamber up the last of these steep 'pinches,' and call a halt, near a farm called the Rising Sun, to scan the summer landscape spread around. Close at hand broad meadows, green with the promise of spring, spread away down a winding valley tufted with shadowy woodlands, whence gray old steeples peep above the clustering cottage roofs. Far away amidst the folding hills, the walls and towers of lordly Carew rise near a silvery sheet of water--an arm of Milford Haven--backed by leagues of unexplored country, o'ertopped by the faint blue line of the Precelly Mountains--a glorious scene indeed! 'Ah! world unknown! how charming is thy view, Thy Pleasures many, and each pleasure new!' Turning across the lane, we lean upon a neighbouring gate, and leisurely scan the fair prospect over land and sea. Yonder the snow-white cottages gleam amidst the ruddy ploughlands. Seawards, the gorse-clad downs plunge in warm red sandstone cliffs to the all-encircling ocean, that stretches in unbroken span from St. Govan's Head, past Caldey Isle, to the gray-blue line of distant Devon, with Lundy lying under its lee.