Part 16

But this astonishing name, like most others in the Principality, is (or was originally) descriptive, and contained almost as much local information as a guide-book. Done into English it means “the church of Saint Mary in the hollow of white hazel, near to the rapid whirlpool of Saint Tysilio and a red cave.” The church of St. Mary may, indeed, be found in the deep hollow at the foot of an incredibly steep lane and by the shores of the Menai, where whirlpools of sorts are created by the tides that set so strongly through the Straits, and rise and fall over twenty feet; but the red cave is not now to be discovered, and they are oaks and elms rather than white hazels that to-day enshroud the hollow.

Llanfair church has been rebuilt and is uninteresting. In its churchyard, close to the shore and almost in the shadow of the great Britannia Tubular Bridge that carries the mail trains between Anglesey and the mainland, one may find the decaying monument, overgrown with bushes, erected to the memory of fifteen men who lost their lives on the bridge works between 1846 and 1850. The bridge itself, “that ’ere great, long, ugly iron thing,” as the coachmen whom it drove off the last length of road called it, bulks large from this point of view, with an irrevocable air in its straight, clear-cut lines and massiveness, and a stern and solemn grandeur—like that of some Egyptian monument; in sharp contrast with the Menai Suspension Bridge, spanning the waters in the distance like the product of some fairy wand.

It was in April 1846 that the foundation stone of this great structure on the then Chester and Holyhead Railway was laid, on the Britannia Rock in the middle of the Straits. The rock itself obtained its name from the “Britannia,” a vessel wrecked some years before at this point, and in its turn suggested the very appropriate title of the bridge. The width of the Straits, here about 1,100 feet, presented an even graver problem to Robert Stephenson than had been faced by Telford, over twenty years before, for not merely a suspended road-bridge, but a rigid structure to sustain the burden of trains weighing 200 tons had to be designed. The Admiralty, jealous to preserve the navigation, forbade an arched bridge of any less height than a clear hundred feet above high water, and moreover refused to allow the interruption of the passage for a single day during the construction. Arches were out of the question, and eventually Stephenson resolved what was then the novelty of a bridge on the beam principle, consisting of rectangular iron tubes supported at intervals by giant masonry piers. There are three of these supports: the Britannia pier and tower, midway, and one on either shore. The two spans, or main tubes as they are called, across the water are each 472 feet in length, and that of the side spans 230 feet each; the whole length of the bridge 1841 feet, the weight of iron 10,000 tons, and the cost £602,000. The idea of this vast mass of riveted iron being elastic, seems grotesque, but when Stephenson designed the bridge he had sufficient forethought to allow for the expanding and contracting properties of iron under extremes of heat and cold. This precaution for securing free movement of the tubes, that would otherwise have broken down the supporting piers, took the form of allowing their ends to rest on cast-iron rollers and balls in a clear space left in the masonry. Experience has shown the expansion and contraction to be fully twelve inches. The first train ran through on March 5th, 1850, completing the present railway route from London to Holyhead; and although the weight of locomotives and trains has doubled since then, the bridge still serves its purpose.

A near sight of the Bridge is generally sought for, and when one has climbed the railway embankment and walked along the line to its gloomy entrance, it can scarce be denied that the expedition is worth the while. There are the two parallel tubes for up and down lines, and above them the masonry of the Anglesey tower; on it deeply carved the name of Robert Stephenson and the date. On either side the colossal granite figure of an Egyptian lion crouches on its pedestal, guarding the approach, and with sphinx-like inscrutable gaze seeming to bide the coming of an appointed day. The impression of weird mysticism they give at twilight; the inky blackness of the two railway tubes in between; the evening mists gathering over the Snowdon heights in the background; and the last rays of the setting sun flushing the Britannia tower with a dusky red, is indescribable. Suddenly as one gazes, a hollow rumbling is heard, gradually increasing until with a hellish clang and the reverberation of a million echoes, a train dashes out, bringing with it a taste of the sooty air that lingers in the tubes, the product of fifty years, and abominably like that of an unswept chimney.

But the curiosities of Llanfairpwllgwyngyll are not yet exhausted. One other remains, in the shape of a colossal granite statute of Lord Nelson, claimed to have been “designed” by Lord Clarence Paget, placed ridiculously on an undersized pedestal on the sea-weedy rocks by the Menai. It is, as a matter of fact, an exact copy of the well-known statue crowning the Nelson Column in Trafalgar Square, with empty sleeve pinned across the breast and cocked hat on head. Here, lonely in a meadow, beside the water he stands, with a very fine view of nothing in particular, and looking as though left to be called for. The curious who seek to know all about it may make the circuit of the slippery rocks and find the date 1873, and, facing the water, Nelson’s famous signal, “England expects that every man will do his duty.” But why the statue should find a place here, in so remote a spot, is not revealed.

LV

From the old toll-house at Llanfairpwllgwyngyll to Holyhead it is only twenty-one miles, but there are no fewer than five toll-houses on the way, all in as good and sufficient repair as though they had only retired from business yesterday. And indeed it is not so long since the gates were swept out of existence, and this remote corner of the country freed from these irritating taxes on the farmers and villagers. It is a curious fact that to the Holyhead Road belongs the distinction of having been under the control of turnpike trusts for a longer period than any road in the kingdom. That portion of it lying in Bedfordshire and Bucks was the first road placed in the care of trustees, instead of in the hands of the parish surveyors, and is described in the Act of 1706, handing it over to the new jurisdiction, as “now and for many years past the common post-road towards Ireland.” The greater number of the gates were swept away from 1860 to 1870, but Shropshire was not rid of them until November 1st, 1883, nor Denbighshire and Merioneth until a year later; while, under the Annual Turnpike Continuance Act of 1884, the Carnarvonshire gates levied toll until November 1st, 1890, and by the Act of that year the Anglesey gates were continued until November 1st, 1895.

At Gaerwen village the road descends to Pentre Berw, the “Holland Arms,” and the snipe-haunted Malldraeth Marsh; rising again to where the church and isolated cottages of Llangristiolus stand overlooking a vast expanse of mountains, marsh, and sea, from a curious rocky bluff, cleft by a huge fissure; the effect, perhaps, of some prehistoric earthquake. The name of Llangristiolus, grotesque though it sounds, means the “church of the most worshipful Christ.” “Mona,” two miles beyond, the place mentioned on all the Anglesey milestones, is—or was when such things were—the half-way house between Bangor and Holyhead. The inn, for such it was, is referred to by Telford in his reports to the Holyhead Road Commissioners as having been a part of the work undertaken, and the cost of building it is included in the estimates. Never anything but ugly, it is a melancholy enough place in these days of railway travel: remote in the middle of Anglesey, and now a farmhouse, encircled with trees.

Gwalchmai, by comparison with Mona, is a veritable metropolis, with inns, aye, and shops, and a post-office. Between this and Bryngwran, a stone-walled enclosure in midst of hillside fields marks the spot where some one has chosen to be buried. Why that solitary place was selected is hid from the Saxon by the Welsh inscription on the tombstone.

Now comes the village of Caer Ceiliog, with windmills and toll-house overlooking the descent from Anglesey into Holy Island. When the gate was first erected the Road Commissioners experienced some little trouble at the hands of a certain Reverend Mr. Griffiths, who had objections against paying tolls. It seems that when the parish had made all the necessary legal arrangements with the Commissioners for the new road constructed just here, the authority required for stopping up the old one was forgotten and not applied for; so when the old way was abandoned and fenced in, compelling travellers to pass through the gate and pay toll, the Reverend Mr. Griffiths, learned in the law, pulled down the obstructions and passed down the old road, toll free. Naturally, the neighbours all followed his example, and the horrified lessee of the tolls, who had bought them at auction for the year, saw his income going. The trouble had to be remedied by a special Act.

From Caer Ceiliog the crest of Holyhead Mountain, ten miles distant, is seen; a dark-blue mass suspended, to all appearance, in mid-air, like some fabled scene of _Arabian Nights_ adventures. It is the original Holy Head; in Welsh “Pen Caer Cybi,” or the Head of Cybi’s town—Cybi himself a Welsh saint who somewhere about the year 500 founded a college where Holyhead town now stands. That rugged mountain rises from the sea to a height of 719 feet, and is rarely free from the dense sea-fogs that make the neighbourhood of Holyhead so dangerous to mariners. The billowy vapours, often leaving the upper part of the mountain clear, create this startlingly complete illusion of a suspended island, and dispose the stranger to come into Holyhead expectant of marvels.

Coming, thus expectant, down from Caer Ceiliog, the old road is crossed at Valley, a modern village with a railway station. A quarter of a mile beyond, road and rail go side by side across the Stanley Sands, dividing Anglesey and Holy Island: the road on Telford’s great mile-long embankment and the rail on the left, hid from sight by a dull masonry wall some sixteen or twenty feet high. The scene is still as melancholy as it was when Borrow tramped past, with the broad channel a waste of sand at low tide, and a furious salt-water stream at the flood, rushing with great force through the arches in the middle of the embankment. The winds that boom and buzz across the flat shores and rank grasses, and the waves lapping about the seaweed and rotting timbers of ancient wrecks, give the place a sinister and mournful air.

At the Holy Island end of the embankment stands the last toll-house, and thenceforward the town of Holyhead begins.

LVI

This destination of the Holyhead Road, its sponsor and reason for existence, makes a very sorry ending to these two hundred and sixty miles of picturesque and historic scenery. It is a squalid little town, set down, to all appearance, at the edge of the known world, and only existing on the traffic of its harbour. Described by Swift so long ago as 1727 as “a scurvy, unprovided, comfortless place,” and in Ogilby’s _Roads_, of 1749, as “consisting chiefly of houses for the entertainment of such persons as are bound for Ireland, or just arrived thence,” it has not advanced far in all the years that have passed since those unflattering descriptions were penned.

Swift, to be sure, came to Holyhead in a fury. When, however, was he not possessed of that “_saeva indignatio_” referred to even in his epitaph? He had come by Penmynydd, where he had hoped to see Owain Tudor’s tomb, but missed the place by the knavery of the guide, who wanted to be moving on. Wearied with riding, he then rested two hours at Llangefni. “Then I went on, very weary, but in a few miles more Wat’s horse lost his two fore-shoes, so the horse had to limp after us. The Guide was less concerned than I. In a few miles more my horse lost a fore-shoe, and could not go on the rocky ways. I walked about two miles to spare him. It was Sunday, and no smith to be got. At last there was a smith in the way; we left the Guide to shoe the horses, and walked to a Hedge Inn three miles from Holyhead. There I stayed an hour with no ale to be drunk. A boat offered, and I went by sea, and sailed in it to Holyhead. The Guide came about the same time. I dined with an old innkeeper, Mrs. Welsh, about three, on a loyn of mutton, very good, but the worst ale in the world, and no wines, for the day before I came here a vast number went to Ireland, after having drunk out all the wine. There was stale beer, and I tryed a receit of Oyster shells, which I got powdered on purpose, but it was good for nothing. I walked on the rocks in the evening, and then went to bed, and dreamt that I had got twenty falls from my horse.”

Swift lay here for seven days waiting for the packet to sail. On the 28th of September it set forth, but was obliged by stress of weather to return, and it does not appear how much longer he was detained. In these empty days of waiting he wrote the verses:—

Lo, here I sit at holy head, With muddy ale and mouldy bread ; I’m fastened both by wind and tide, I see the ships at anchor ride. All Christian vittals stink of fish, I’m where my enemyes would wish. Convict of lies is ev’ry sign, The Inn has not one drop of wine, The Captain swears the sea’s too rough— (He has not passengers enough.) And thus the Dean is forc’d to stay. Till others come to help the pay.

The room smoked, but it was too cold to be without a fire. “There is,” he writes, “or should be, a Proverb here:”

When Mrs. Welsh’s chimney smokes, ’Tis a sign she’ll keep her folks; But when of smoke the room is clear, It is a sign we shan’t stay here.

Thus his notes run on: “Dined like a king all alone for seven days. Whoever would wish to live long should live here, for a day is longer than a week, and, if the weather be foul, as long as a fortnight. Pray pity poor Wat, for he is called Dunce, Puppy, and Liar five hundred times an hour; and yet he means not ill, for he means nothing.” Wat he ordered to wipe his wet gown and cassock, and he did so with a meal-bag, with the result that it was caked thickly with a kind of meal-plaster. When at last the Dean did leave Holyhead, he carried with him memories not likely to be speedily effaced.

Wesley had something like these experiences in 1748, when he was storm-bound for eleven days. He spent the time mainly in preaching, but for all practical purposes might just as well have stayed within doors, for he laments that his congregations did not understand English. It is difficult to decide whose was the greater foolishness—that of the preacher who preached in a strange tongue, or that of those who listened to words they could not comprehend. Two years later he was at Holyhead, detained for three days, and then, obliged by storms to return for another eight, he “expounded the story of Dives and Lazarus to a room full of men daubed with gold and silver.” _They_, at any rate, seemed to understand, for they “took it in ill part, and went away railing and blaspheming.” These “sons of Belial,” as he calls them, returned, and would have seriously injured him, but that he was locked in the room. They were at last dispersed by a courageous maidservant, who threw a bucket of water over them.

No longer is it necessary for travellers to wait shivering for days before winds and weather permit of the Channel being crossed. They arrive nowadays for the most part at dark and ungodly hours, at railway terminus or harbour, and are at once whisked away to Dublin or to London. Some may make acquaintance with the Railway Hotel, but, beyond that, Holyhead merely stands for a name and an hour in the time-tables. It was different before the steam packets began from July 1st, 1819, to make the sixty-four miles passage in 7½ hours. To wait a week at Holyhead before the crossing could be made was no unusual experience in the old sailing days, when a good average passage took fifteen hours, and a very bad one more than double the time. Even the journey by steamer has been cut down to half its duration, and now takes only from 3½ to 4 hours, so that the passengers who halt at Holyhead are few and far between, and the town lives only in an indirect way on the traffic between the kingdoms. It remains no more than a fringe of hilly, gaunt, and aimless streets gathered round the harbour and railway station, with the old church of St. Cybi in their midst, its central tower surmounted by what has been described as “a low, flat spire.” The traveller will doubtless be as eager to see this curiosity of a flat spire as he would to discover a round square, a square angle, or anything else equally unknown to Euclid.

LVII

There still stands, at the entrance to the Pier, the granite archway erected to commemorate the landing of George IV. in 1821. Severely classical, in the Doric sort, it resembles (save that it is not so large and not so black) the funereal entrance to the Euston terminus of the London and North-Western Railway. It bears an inscription in Welsh—“Cof-Adail i Ymweliad y Brenin Gior y IV. ag ynys fôn. Awst VII., MDCCCXXI.”—which those whose Pentecostal attainments render it possible may translate.

Holyhead was a proud town that day, August 7th, when George IV. landed, on his trip to Ireland. He had come, aboard the yacht _Royal George_, round by St. George’s Channel, escorted by a squadron, and spent five days in the Isle of Anglesey, detained by contrary winds. “His Majesty,” says a contemporary report, “was struck with admiration at the appearance of the town”; and we in our turn might well be struck with astonishment, were it not that modern monarchs are the best of actors and can smile approval to order.

But, in spite of this admiration, the King did not stop at Holyhead. That battered warrior, the Marquis of Anglesey, took him across the island to Plas Newydd. The next day died Queen Caroline, at Hammersmith, and the news by incredible efforts reached the squadron lying off Holyhead the day after. The King was freed at last from the wife he hated, and his feeling towards her was sufficiently marked by the facts that the squadron did not fire the salute of minute-guns usual on such occasions, and that the trip to Ireland, with its attendant banquets and rejoicings, was not interrupted.

The winds that could in those days detain a fleet, and kept the King’s yacht and his escort swinging for days idly at their anchorage, made a vast difference to Holyhead. The _Times_ correspondent on that occasion tells how scarce provisions grew, and to what extravagant prices ordinary articles of food rose. Eggs, he wails, were sixpence each, and for neither love nor money could he obtain any Welsh mutton for his dinner. He was, accordingly, truly thankful when the squadron sailed and plenty reigned once more. The King left, however, before his escort. He had observed how the Dublin new steam-packets crossed, irrespective of weather, and took passage on the 12th, aboard the _Lightning_, named afterwards, in honour of the occasion, the _Royal George the Fourth_.

When, in 1851, Borrow walked into Holyhead, he stayed at the “Railway Hotel,” a “noble and first-rate” house. All others were described to him as “poor places, where no gent puts up.” What, then, had become of the several mentioned in the works of Cary and Paterson; the hostelries that had been sufficient for the needs of coaching times? Only four years had then passed since the last coach was driven off these ultimate miles, and yet Maran’s Hotel, the “Royal,” the “Hibernian,” the “Eagle and Child,” and others, were already dismissed among those unmentionable “poor places.” Possibly travellers by coach put up with a great deal more than railway passengers would tolerate. An illuminating side-light on these matters is shed by Jack Williams’ recommendation of the Holyhead inns, quoted by Colonel Birch-Reynardson; and certainly Jack Williams, who drove the Mail between Bangor and Holyhead, should have been an authority.

“Coachman, do you know Holyhead well?” asked a passenger. “Me know Holyhead,” said Jack, who spoke with a strong Welsh accent. “Yes, inteed; I suppose I to; at laste I should to; I’ve lived there all my life. Yes, inteed; I was pred and porn there.” “Then you can tell me, I dare say, which is the best inn; for I want to stay a day or two at Holyhead.” “How should I know the best inn?” said Jack. “Well, if you know Holyhead so well, surely you must know which is the best inn.” “Well, inteed, I know that there’s two inns in Holyhead, but I canna say which is the pest; I never goes to either of ’em.” “Well, but you must know which of them is called the best, and which would be best for a gentleman to stay at.” “Well, inteed,” said Jack, at last, “I’ll tell you how it is. Should you wish to get drunk, go to Spencer’s. Should you wish to get lousey, go to Moland’s.”

“Maran’s” was probably the house meant. As Colonel Birch-Reynardson remarks, it is not likely that the landlord or the landlady would have felt flattered by Jack Williams’ account of what any one going to their house was to expect.

No one need look to match Borrow’s experience at the “Railway Hotel,” where “Boots” was a poet and critic of poets. “In those days,” says Borrow, “there never was such a place for poets as Anglesey; one met a poet, or came upon the birthplace of a poet, everywhere.” Every one is now a great deal more matter-of-fact, and railway and steam packet time-tables, are the forms of literature best known to the modern hotel staff.

Holyhead, in short, is but a dependency of the London and North-Western Railway, and wakes up only at those intervals when the steamers and the trains arrive. Then, just as though it were an ingenious mechanical toy of a larger growth, like those that used to be—perhaps are now—at the Crystal Palace, and as though the necessary penny had dropped into the mechanism, everything begins to work furiously. Trains roll in, electric lights glare coldly from tall standards in the docks, mountains of luggage are shot out upon platforms or quay walls; porters, sailors, passengers, newsboys, and a miscellaneous crowd rush back and forth, just after the fashion of those little clockwork mannikins in the glass cases. Then the whistles of the steamer or train blow; the passengers are all aboard, the porters trundle their trucks back whence they came, the crowd disperses, the newsboys end in the midst of their shouting, and out go the lights; all as though the machine had done its allotted task, but would begin it all over again if another coin were forthcoming.

Some day, when the oft-discussed project is realised of making Holyhead, instead of Liverpool, the terminus of the trans-Atlantic voyage, the melancholy wastes surrounding the town will be built upon or excavated for docks. Even now, a large proportion of the American passenger traffic comes this way: travellers landing from the great liners at Queenstown saving time and escaping the tedious up-channel voyage and delays at Liverpool by taking train from Queenstown for Dublin, and so across to Holyhead.