We now direct our steps towards St. Anne's Head, in order to visit Mill Bay, the traditional landing-place of Henry of Richmond. 'Here in Pembrokeshire,' says old George Owen, 'happened his landinge and first footeinge when he came to enoie the Crowne and to confounde the parricide and bluddie tyrante Ri:iii. Here founde he the heartes and hands first of all this lande readye to ayde and assist him.' The saying goes that as he rushed up the steep bank at the head of his troop Henry, being scant of breath, exclaimed, 'This is Brunt!' a name that has clung to the neighbouring farm ever since. [Illustration: 'THIS IS BRUNT.'] After a flying visit to the lighthouses, we retrace our steps to Dale village, and, following a track around the head of the tideway, push on without a halt to Hoaton. Here we find the huge old anchor shown in our sketch, and the question naturally arises, How did the anchor get there? A vague tradition still lingers in the locality to the effect that, centuries ago, a big foreign man-o'-war was driven out of her course and wrecked upon the shores of St. Bride's Bay. Hence it has been conjectured that this anchor may be a veritable relic of that 'wonderful great and strong' Spanish Armada, whose unwieldy galleons were cast ashore and dashed to pieces upon our western coasts, three hundred years ago. Be that as it may, some years back the anchor, which had previously lain by the wayside, was dragged into the position where it now stands; the neighbours lending ready aid in response to offers of ale _ad lib_. Fifty men with a team of horses were hard put-to to move it, for though much of the metal has rusted and flaked away, the shank is 20 feet long and nearly 30 inches thick, while the head of the anchor measures some 14 feet around, and the ring is large enough for a man to pass through. Truly that old Spanish galleon must have been a veritable Leviathan to require such an anchor as this! From Hoaton we make our way across country to Haverfordwest, and traversing a district broken up into 'meane hills and dales,' we approach the town by way of the Portfield, and proceed to 'outspan' at a certain snug hostelry not a hundred miles from St. Mary's broad steeple. [Illustration: A RELIC OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.] CHAPTER VIII. WESTWARD HO! TO ST. DAVIDS. THE CITY AND ENVIRONS. 'These high wild hills and rough uneven ways, draw out our miles and make them wearisome.' Thus, league after league, the sorry team drags the battered old ramshackle coach up interminable ascents, or plunges in headlong career down rough, breakneck steeps, _en route_ for that Ultima Thule of our wanderings, the ancient city of St. Davids. Sixteen miles and seventeen hills (so the story goes) lie between Haverfordwest and our destination. The route bears in a north-westerly direction, through monotonous country relieved by occasional glimpses of the strange, rugged rocks of Trefgarn, or a peep of more distant Precelly.