A trip to Painscastle with Sir Gawain

Sheep stand guard on the mounds of Painscastle in Radnorshire/Powys

 

To Radnorshire now as once was known we ride

And up beyond Clyro’s motte to mounds magnificent in the hills:

Painscastle now we see, peeping proudly from its fields

Surveying every scene of hereabouts, a silent bearer of old news.

What a place this was when I well knew its prime!

Built on Roman roots, we think, but rounded now by Norman spades

And cast in scarps scoured from the hill by sweat of men long dead.

Pain Fitz John its founder piled these heaps of earth

Upon this hill to stake his claim in marcher hinterlands;

Then lord Rhys did wrestle it in war from Maud whose name it also bears

In memory of her proud defence, defiant in the land against the Welsh.

Yet where are the walls that well I knew and halls and houses here?

All gone? All gone! Like barley blown away by autumn winds

And now not one stone stands upon another which once with king I saw!

Yet Henry did this place shore up when Welshmen rose again

And so Pain’s castle proud it stood against the warring spears

Built on the labour of Lincolnshire, Leicestershire and loyal shires!

But now up here silence only sings Paincastle’s siren call to tourists in

its sleep:

Pain and Maud have gone save for their name

With what’s left just ditches deep.

Is this what becomes of Norman fame;

Great mounds slow munched by sheep?

 

Painscastle in Radnorshire (Powys) is one of the finest motte and bailey castles in the Welsh marches and well repays a visit.  Founded in the early 12th Century by Pain Fitz John, Lord of Ewyas, it was re-fortified during the reign of Richard I by William de Braose III whose wife, Maud, defended it against the Welsh (and by whose name the castle is also known). Simple in plan, Painscastle comprises a large bailey, a small hornwork/barbican earthwork and an enormous motte.  The earthworks themselves are of great proportion; the site itself may once have had Roman origins.

Under threat from a new Welsh uprising, the castle was considerably rebuilt by Henry III and, between July and September 1230, his army remained there while the castle was “splendidly rebuilt in stone and lime”. It appears that much, if not all, of this work was robbed out in later centuries; the Inventory of Ancient Monuments in Radnorshire laconically laments this fact, stating accurately that the surface of the earthworks is “broken here and there by mounds, as though masses of overturned masonry were buried beneath the soil”. And thus it seems, even today.

Note to the visitor: located in a remote hamlet, the castle hides behind a farmhouse and it is only correct that permission must be sought from the farmer to see the remains.

Remote with views towards the mountains, the motte at Painscastle must have seemed a lonely place to Lady Maud.

What does this motte conceal? Mounds and bumps abound at Painscastle in Radnorshire/Powys

Masonry remains atop the motte of Painscastle in Radnorshire/Powys

View from the motte at Painscastle in Radnorshire/Powys

The great bailey ditches of Painscastle in Radnorshire/Powys. The motte is in the background and the entrance hornwork to the right.

Immense earthworks – the bailey dwarfs the neighbouring farm at Painscastle in Radnorshire/Powys

The great motte at Painscastle in Radnorshire/Powys. Notice the hornwork (centre, to left of tree)

A classic country sign in Britain – promises so much too!

Into Laugharne in search of whispers

Laugharne Castle, Carmarthenshire, once the home of Robert Courtemain and the place where Henry II met the Lord Rhys of Deheubarth in 1189. Much of the castle today was built in the thirteenth century under the de Brians and was later extensively modified in the Tudor period.

Sshh! it is quiet now after the blowing winds as qualmed Myfanwy waits

in the cobbled lane round the back for Mr Jones jolly to return from jaunts with jugging jars of ale alternative.

Silent, too, I have levelled at this old town of Llanffopohuoy on Gringalet by Pendine

where men now ride faster on destrier unimaginable in my mounting days.

It is day but day dawned delightful as a still, clear night;

out on the light, limpid water, seabirds in the sunshine linger.

The odd mew of gull, gullible tourist chit-chat and the chinking of china

in the tea shop by the shore can hardly shatter this silence now

but dark above us, standing stout, to shout stentorian

is the grey-stoned home of the Courtemains growling

through stilled lips at a land long lost when here

Lord Rhys met Henry to settle in much accord and who

in later years took this place from English hand

as through this part of Wales his lordship washed anew

before Llewelyn by destruction laid it low in later years.

Cast as Tudor palace this pile lived again

till fortune fair her back upon it turned and

where once was welcome then came weather

and homely husbandry fell sway to the humbling of the decades:

roofs fell in, ivy crept round and mortar to sand its destiny prescribed

until in recent years its stones afresh were stirred,

its pebbles polished for a poignant day

when poets proud would write their way

to fame and fortune and fate unkind

but whose fame immortal still blessed this inlet isle

held calm in deep Carmarthenshire long after they were gone.

I walk thus warily towards that place and now

where once was guard and garrison is but a shed

with gewgaws game to gently prise the silver

from the tourist’s tipping hand.

There sits Myfanwy, musically holding forth

by mouth with  friends and family at the  till,

happily diverting mind from home, home from men.

I approach for entrance and proffer pence appropriate;

her eyes swivel towards me as if a sudden

apparition apparent had chanced before her orbs

and then the words which all in Britain know so well

as a token of warm welcome – words thus spoke which

waft them home from worldly winds:

“We’re closed”, she crabs with apology none and in a moment

I was gone.

Mefanwy though your life be broke

don’t let it be to dark the sun:

’tis better you are softly spoke

so men can dream that you’re the one.

Laugharne Castle, Carmarthenshire, once the home of Robert Courtemain and the place where Henry II met the Lord Rhys of Deheubarth and which, upon Henry’s death, was seized by Rhys in 1189. Much of the castle today was built in the thirteenth century under the de Brians and was later extensively modified in the Tudor period.

This view of Laugharne is the one which most who visit take back as their abiding memory of the place. It is certainly dramatic.

The entrance to Laugharne Castle today; until fairly recently, the castle was in a much worse condition and covered in ivy. Thankfully, the ivy has been removed and the ruins consolidated.

Laugharne today is more famous for the man who lived here than the Lord Rhys who seized Laugharne Castle in 1189. Dylan Thomas, creator of Under Milk Wood and other magnificent poetry lived in this beautiful spot at the end of his career.

The banality of life, so much of which was celebrated by Dylan Thomas, is summarised in these garments, hanging in the breeze at the Boat House, Laugharne.

The Lord Rhys ap Gruffydd certainly had a great reason to capture Laugharne other than taking the castle itself; the view is quite wonderful.

Fulk Nerra – the Butcher of Anjou

This knight, part of a frieze at the collegiate church of St Ours, Loches, shows an early mediaeval knight. The church was built by Fulk’s son; could this be an image of the man himself?

Lithes and listen you ladies and young gentlemen
To my jolly journey now as I on le Gringalet jaunts
South  to Loches in the Loire, lively once to the sounds
Of clinking iron clattering in the clamour for blood
and now silent in the sunshine.
Enter here Fulk Nerra, the Black – and blackest of the black;
Blacker here than the blue-black crack of Beeston’s fractured well.
Fulk the Black, founder of the fight to form
A future in a land of chaos, chancing to chafe
His enemies by brutal power pressing with a pounce.

I knew him well, that man who men mention that
Even God and the Devil in equal measure paled from his presence.
I saw him when fresh-wed in the fruiting of his lust he
Clasped young breast and pink beauty to his bosom
And planted seed a plenty with the pleasantry of seduction.
But then I saw him have fair wife whipped in flames
For adultery unsupported by actions or actuary.
I saw his enemies bludgeoned, burned and bastard sons
Blossom in the aftermath of his cruelty.
No man, count, courtier or king could withstand
His blood red eyes and bleeding passion for bloodshed.
Even the king, it is said, was made with eyes a-wet
To watch on old friend executed on Fulk’s command!

Yet here was a man of contrasts contrary:
His ferocity was fewtered by a fear fecund;
On four crusades he crossed to be crossed
And his flesh bore witness to a whipping
Bare naked in the streets of Jerusalem –
Penitence indeed for the power he pricked
With spurs of spurting contempt for his fellow man.
Yet he held with fear and favour his fideles and in
So doing he built donjons dramatic to dab
The skies of the low and looming Loire and Indre.

Which brings me now to Loches, the light of lovelies:
The finest of all fine keeps and fair in faint colour,
Its tuffeau tower twinkling on horizons
For mile after mile as a monument of power
And suppression silent to all who see it far and wide.
This columned keep captures the eye from where man roams
In this part of Anjou; no angel from any angle
And but a blunt stub to bludgeon the blind.
It towers on its hill high, the highest of all keeps
And in its day dwarfing even Rochester in our own isles.
But this was one of the first – and what a first fastness!
It is peerless , matchless and unmatched;
It housed in later years the Lionheart himself
And still today stands almost to its full height,
Diminished but a little by the passing of the years.

What this has watched we wouldn’t wish to know:
Torture, touching tender its secrets to will out;
De Commynes confined in cruel uncertainty;
Sforza in centuries later secured in solemn dark;
Untold horrors hidden in these holes.
But time treats all the same
As the seasons wend and waft their way
And Fulk himself did to dust dimly pass
As so we all must in the drifting of our days.
Now at Beaulieu, Fulk be-fears no more his folk
But sleeps soundly in a solemn grave
Among the stones that once astounded one and all.

If we slay others in the vanity of our aims
On pursuit of glories only we can see
Then little wonder the payment for our gains
Is contempt of others – on our death their glee.

The looming presence of the keep on its hill dominates the skyline of the region.

The keep at Loches, viewed from the inner courtyard. Standing 121 feet high today, it was originally even taller – possibly reaching 135 feet in total.

From any angle, the great keep at Loches is formidable and dominating.

In this view, we see the remains of the private quarters of Fulk Nerra which, in later years, was also enjoyed by Richard the Lionheart.

Another view of the imposing and uncompromising keep at Loches – one of the finest of all keeps and one of the earliest – beating stone construction in English castles by 80 years.

This knight, part of a frieze at the collegiate church of St Ours, Loches, shows an early mediaeval knight. The church was built by Fulk’s son; could this be an image of the man himself?

The Collegiate Church of St Ours, Loches, was built by the son of Fulk Nerra. Built in the Romanesque style of the period, it contains a host of exquisite carvings, of which this doorway contains a sumptuous variety, well worthy of inspection.

This ancient font is older than the rest of the church and is made from an ancient Roman pillar bearing images of soldiers and sporting figures.

Loches has a spectacular collection of mediaeval graffiti. This intimate writing in a 15th Century hand may well have been written by a courtier who knew Charles VII or his “official” mistress, Agnes Sorel.

The tomb of Agnes Sorel, the “official” mistress of Charles VII. She died young from an undiagnosed complaint, leaving Charles distraught.

Sic transit gloria mundi – the tomb of the once mighty and brutal Fulk Nerra, who went on four pilgrimages to atone for his sins.

Castell Dinas Emrys – Ambrosius reborn

 

Through Logres and across the crowing hills from Camelot, le Gringalet takes me deep into Gwynedd. Here, paths peter out in passes steep and the roads which you rely on rise up into the mountains to disappear in the mists, mounds and moss. And it is just here, when the world seems but a whisper that the warriors of Wales still live on in the crumbling castles and commotes of Hywel Dda, “the Good“.

At the home of the joggled lintel: Conisborough Castle revisited

What is it about travelling, reader, that makes of the mind to float like the Orford Merman, lost among the brown and briney waves? In my quest to find the quoins of the door to my escape I query at times why ceaseless disappointment never dissuades me from my search. Each castle I find, casts new barbs at my calm: each church and chancel disturbs me as I try to chart my true way home. And here, so, I am brought to Conisborough where once I dined on coney meat and now just the carping of the pigeons serves to capture past times…

Lurk long in the land of Yorkshire and soon you come to Conisborough. It’s keep is like a beacon brightly burning above the hillside and yet… When last I lingered here such sport was to be found in several parks that a lord could stay all year and never tire of the hunting. Not now though, for all around are dwellings and dowdy views I dare not describe in depth for fear of offence.

But let me tell you how it once was to me as in the household of the de Warennes I did discover the delights of that great place. Ascent to the great bailey was by a barbican tall and bold: a narrow defile among high walls, a death-trap for the dim-witted. And those high walls were bright as snowberries being built of York stone to shine for miles, lighting the way for the weary traveller…

Inside, I will take you, the inner ward wakens the soul, awash with sounds of the denizens within. In the bailey the kitchen staff cook in cauldrons round while stablemen stoutly stand to groom the lord’s horses. And here you too could wait while through the long day the wallowing shadow of the Donjon turns round the realm like a rouncey on slow parade.

Ghosts all now, of course, those gentlemen and guards have gone the way of history. But let us not leave here, alighting instead the steps to the stone sentinel, this great keep, one of the most remarkable in the kingdom. These stairs are new, I perceive, pitched differently to the practice when I last walked here but nevertheless, and notwithstanding, they nudge you upwards to the great door.

In standing there, before entering, eye if you will the excellent masonry: a joggled lintel jiggling jauntily above your head – moving but static; moving and ecstatic. These stones stir the soul, perched perilously in position as they have done these last seven centuries since. And thence inside, an empty chamber now but one which once chanced to cheer you as the Lord John de Warenne chuckled with his friends a welcome. At least that was so when I last saddled up this way in a distant summer in 1340…

This astounding stone stump is as complex as it is comforting. Buttressed all about by bold bastions six, it dazzles the dozy dreamer, being visible for miles.You are impressed at first sight, your innocent imagination imbued with visions of the Tres Riches Heures du Duc de Berry: the castle as culture, a carapace of kings. But back inside to be becalmed by the beauty of it: that welcoming chamber again makes you ghasp with its gawping fireplace with joggled lintels more.

Then, fellow traveller, ascend to the Lord’s room above to listen as I once did to his lilting voice. His private chamber charms you with its chapel, a wash-basin to water as you will, and views over hunting hills and high banks. That chapel is indeed cheering with its fine vaulting, piscina and cupboard for the chalice. This small room is where our Mighty Lord, He that lives above us, loiters in your spirit, glowing like a spark above dark waters…

And then you climb further, by invitation, inclining inside the walls as the steps lead you to the light, like a lamp at the end of a tunnel. Athwart that tower take time to be entranced by vistas vast and velvety if, by chance, you can imagine what was once to be seen beyond what’s there now… Yet there is one more treat for the traveller of turrets bold: a pigeon coop fashioned in a buttress for the private predeliction of the Lord Warenne, now long gone

It is said that mighty kings earn wealth by grace

and keep it with a hand of stone.

But I know too that here’s the case:

Such work cannot be done alone.

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Rochester Castle upon the Medway

The great keep at Rochester - the south-east tower has been repaired since the siege of 1215 removed it.

Travelling south along Watling Street from London towards Canterbury, the seasoned pilgrim cannot avoid the mighty castle at Rochester and nor should he (or she) for this indeed is a castle worthy of the name. Dominated by its keep, tall and proud – I believe the tallest in the kingdom at 117 feet – Rochester is a place to rest and savour the passage of the years and marvel at the ingenuity of earlier times.

And what the years have done to this place! Of course, it is many centuries since last I rode this way in 1216, but looking upon the keep now it is different to how it was when I last saw it – with one of its corners blasted away following a siege by king John.

Oh how sad it looked then! In October and November of the previous year, King John had ordered a mine to be dug under the south east corner of the castle and the building propped on wooden stilts. I was told by a vassal that it took the fat of forty pigs to burn away the props and down the tower tumbled.  

Today of course, it is still a ruin but at least a complete ruin – and one of the most remarkable keeps in all England. That corner of the keep was subsequently rebuilt in the rounded style of a later day and, although it differs but slightly from the original keep erected by William de Corbeil in 1127, the tower stands tall across the land.

Let us go inside for but a few minutes. Ascending the stairway of the forebuilding – now alas without its drawbridge at the top – entry through the old great door reveals the skeleton of what was once a busy and substantial place.

How I remember the grand hall – now only hinted at by the decorated arches high above – and the gallery where lords and ladies gathered for private conversations and where musicians once played! Now bereft of Tharsian tapestry and sendal shifts, the walls are cold but not without power to conjure thoughts of days gone by.

And of course, to my mind one of the most impressive features of that fine palace: the well shaft which ascended a central pillar to bring water to every floor. In all my travels I have not seen such a marvel; I recall how when this tower had floors, the lord’s children used to shout to each other down the shaft and how, if they were unlucky, one of them would receive a bucket of water thrown down on him from above!

Yet all is quiet now. The tower is but an empty shell; its stories, sounds, smells and sentiments there only to dress the mind of an imaginative soul. In the bailey – once vibrant and alive with horses, cooking, tradespeople and castle servants – is but a public park. Even the stone bridge which carried the road across the Medway has long since ceased to echo to the rattling of carts and the shouts of the watchman – being demolished, so I am told, in 1857 and replaced by the current, yet still impressive, iron structure.

Archbishop Stephen Langton – the man who held the place in 1215 and was described by King John as that “notorious and barefaced traitor” – might well have regretted his decision when he “failed to render up our castle of Rochester to us in our so great need”. Yet history shapes all things and architecture – like the English landscape – bears the scars of happenstance in silent obedience to the events of time.

Though kings and traitors,  lords and ladies, vassals and serfs have gone away, Rochester still points to skies and stands with pride upon the river bank. The guardian of the Medway, valiant through the centuries.

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Castle Rising – my favourite keep in Olde England

Castle Rising in the County of Norfolk - surely the finest keep in all the land? (Image courtesy of Wikipedia Commons)

In the many years I have spent traversing this kingdom of Logres, from Camelot in the west to the depths of Staffordshire, I have always been impressed by accommodation offered to me. Whether hall house or manor, whether some lowly stable or some vast tower, I have seen them all. Yet few places stand out so much as the keeps and donjons in which it has been my pleasure to lie.

Now, of course, you will know well of my stays with lord and lady Bertilak and my meeting with the Green Knight up near the Staffordshire Roaches. And, of course, for reasons of my shame, I cannot say that my stay in their castle brings me great joy – save to say that it challenged my purity and my arrogance and is therefore worthy of remark. The best place for that castle is in my memory, befogged and dim of view – but there are others, dear reader and here I share my favourite with you, Castle Rising near King’s Lynn in the County of Norfolk, England.

To my mind, there are several great houses and all of them worthy of note: The Tower of London or Windsor, both great Royal keeps; Conisborough, surely the greatest circular keep in the land; Rochester, one of the tallest; Warkworth, one of the most striking; Peveril, one of the most dramatic; Orford, one of the most ingenious; Dover, one of the most impregnable; and Middleham, one of the most solid. Yet, for me, Rising outshines them all.

Rising is a veritable palace, a fine Norman keep of c.1140 set among rolling sandlings and built within great earthworks and – indeed – dwarfed by them. From the outside, it is difficult to gauge the sheer scale of the place; from the village, the tower is scarcely visible. But press on into the bailey and thence to the inner bailey and surely one of the finest keeps in all Albion awaits.

The keep at Rising is a statement of grandeur: a home above all others and the home in my day to William of Albini, the second of his line. The keep is approached up a flight of stairs all within a forebuilding which I would describe as probably the most magnificent in all the land: exquisite arcading, ornate craftsmanship and execution of the highest quality. To enter this building is to be impressed from the moment you walk through the door.

And now, once atop the stairs within a vaulted vestibule, turn left and enter the main building itself – sadly now without its floors but in my mind I recall well the feasts of pork, ox, venison and mutton we ate there with great joy. Oh what majesty! A lofty hall, well equipped with its own private kitchen and – unique possibly – garderobes split between lords and ladies. William respected the privacy of all his guests and built for that accordingly.

But there is more. In my day, few could enter the lord’s private rooms but today you can see within theme clearly. The private garderobe, an ante-chamber, a private staircase and also the keep’s own exquisite chapel. This is a building which clutches you and warms your spirit. It was – and is – a statement of power in the landscape, and quite rightly so.

Lord William was a powerful man, with other possessions (now sadly much depleted) at New and Old Buckenham – including, at the former, a most unusual planned town with a vast motte at one end surmounted by the stump of a round donjon in the continental style. When he built his castles he built them within earthworks so vast – especially in the huge flatness of East Anglia – that they brooded on the land, surveying his territories and visible for miles.

He was nothing if not adventurous in his experimentation in building but he was also a fine huntsman and sportsman which is why, for me, Rising is so special. What is not clear to today’s visitor but which for me kindles the magic of the place, is the great Chase, or park all around it, encompassed by banks some 15 miles long. Rising was a statement within a planned landscape of feudal lordship: proud from without, proud from within.

Oh what pleasant days I had there riding with Sir William, talking about the joys of the hunt, of chivalry and of his beloved Norfolk lands! And so it is, dear reader, that I recommend this place to you if, on your travels, you venture east into Norfolk.

Little wonder that the duke of Norfolk himself in later years, writing a letter to the duke of Suffolk in 1538 took time to say that it was “written on a molehill in Rysyng Chase, 8 August, 11 o’clock”. It’s that sort of place – you’ll like it so much that you’ll want to tell your friends.

Note: until recently, Castle Rising was in the care of the State under the auspices of English Heritage. It is now managed by Lord Howard of Rising although I shall say that I have not been hunting with this gentleman. For information, visiting times and entry charges (not levied in my day but, then again, you had to know the owner personally), click this link to Castle Rising.