Built in a strong, simple manner well-suited to its exposed situation, Llanwnda Church has some characteristic features. Above the western gable rises a low double bell-cot, while a similar but smaller erection for the sanctus bell divides nave from chancel roof. As we enter the low-browed porch, we espy a cross of archaic type carved upon a stone slab in the outer wall; and two similar crosses are to be seen upon the exterior of the chancel gable. The nave retains its dark, oaken timbered roof, having a rudely carved head upon the eastern side of one of its ancient beams. The openings to the rood-loft are now blocked up, but at the time of the French incursion these apertures afforded a hiding-place to a servant-maid and child, who peeped out in trepidation whilst a gang of ruffians played havoc in the sacred edifice, setting fire to everything inflammable they could lay hands upon. [Illustration: THE CHALICE AT LLANWNDA.] After some little persuasion Mary Reece, the sprightly nonagenarian caretaker, is prevailed upon to produce the communion chalice for our inspection. This little vessel has a history of its own, having been stolen by a Frenchman, who endeavoured to dispose of it at Carmarthen, trying to pass off the word Llanwnda engraved upon the cup as La Vendée, a name of France. The chalice, which is much cracked and dented from the rough handling it has undergone, bears upon the exterior the inscription: POCULUM ECLESIE DE LLANWNDA. Pushing on across country, we win our way after half an hour's rough scrambling to Carreg Gwastad Point, a low, rocky, furze-clad headland sloping down to a secluded creek, where the would-be French invaders effected a landing. A more out-of-the-way spot, or one more suited to embark on such an enterprise, they could not well have chosen. The wild and little-frequented coast-line of Pencaer stretches away on either hand with scarce a vestige of a landing-place; while the scattered peasant-folk, dwelling in isolated cottages and lone farmhouses, could offer but an ineffectual resistance to the enemy. We now extend our route to Trehowel, a large, rambling old farmstead shaded by trees, where the French commander took up his unwelcome billet. Thence we strike up the slope of Garn-vawr to the huge British camp that crowns the summit, a wide prospect over land and sea rewarding our exertions. Following the crest of the ridge, we enjoy a breezy tramp across country, sundry fallen cromlechs and such-like relics lending an old-world interest to the locality.