The valley of the Taf, which runs from the Preselley hills down to the sea
at Laugharne and divides the shires of Pembroke and Carmarthen for a large
portion of its course, still remains a most remote and little-explored
region of West Wales. A wretched branch-line from Whitland to Cardigan,
detested locally for its tedium, delays and shakiness, connects this large
agricultural district with the outside world. In this valley mansions are
scarce; the Church is very weak; Dissent is embittered and all-powerful. Of
its few country houses Maesgwynne, a large white group of buildings standing
high~ amid woods and plantations, is the most notable. During the latter
half of the last century Mr W RH Powell held unlimited sway here, and his
house was celebrated for its hospitality, as well as for horse and hound.
The Squire of Maesgwynne, small of stature and therefore called
affectionately (y dyn bach )(the little man) by his many admirers, was one
of the few large landowners who held, or affected to hold, extreme Radical
views; consequently his position as Member of Parliament for West
Carmarthenshire was practically assured, especially after the Franchise Act
of 1882. On one of his election posters the Dyn Bach once described himself
in large lettering as 'the poor mans friend' whereupon his Tory opponent,
then young Lord Emlyn, heir of Earl Cawdor, aptly observed in one of his
speeches that he was no less the poor mans friend than Mr Powell, though he
did not think it necessary to advertise the fact in print on every hoarding.
Mr Powell's name occurs sometimes in books of sporting memoirs, for he was
not only a Master of Foxhounds but also a breeder and runner of horses. In
fact, the guests entertained by him at Maesgwynne were mostly of the
horsey-foxy-doggy type. One of the many social scandals that in those
far-off days shook the equilibrium of the countryside was occasioned by the
late Captain Grismond Philipps of Cwmgwili calling out in a moment of
unguarded wrath: 'By God, he's being pulled! in allusion to an incident
towards the finish of an exciting race, the losing horse in question being
the property of Powell, MP and MFH. There naturally ensued a considerable
coolness (to put it mildly) between the two brothers-in-law, for Mrs Powell
was herself a Philipps of Cwmgwili. No doubt it was untrue; but there still
persists a belief that the ethics of the racing world are not precisely
those of the spiritual ditto.
On Mr Powell\rquote s death the Maesgwynne estate was owned by his daughter
(of his first marriage), Miss Caroline Powell, an intrepid rider to hounds
and a great local philanthropist. She was mainly responsible for the
prosperity of Llanboidy, the large village near Maesgwynne, where schools
and model cottages had been built by the Powell family. Her stepmother (who,
as I have said, was a Philipps) lived with her, and it was she who planted
the bleak boggy lands adjoining the mansion with choice conifers,
rhodendrons, maples and other shrubs or trees of beauty and rarity. These
still survive, and probably there are nowhere grander cypresses and Japanese
maples to be found than at Maesgwynne. There stands one particularly fine
grove of these spired trees close to a pond outside the garden walls, and on
a clear day when these lofty tree-tops are mirrored in the still water, the
effect is that of some shady corner of the Villa d'Este gardens near Rome. A
curious story is connected with this beautiful spot. Not many years ago a
young farmer of the neighbourhood came hither at dusk to meet his
sweetheart, who was a servant at the mansion. As he waited in the gloaming
beside the pool, he saw emerge from a clump of golden yews the figure of a
short elderly lady dressed all in black, with white widows cap on her head
and a stick in her hand. He stared in amazement, for he at once recognized
old Mrs Powell, whom he had known well by sight in his boyhood. On realizing
that he was watching the ghost of the late mistress of Maesgwynne, he fell
down in a dead faint, and was found insensible on the ground the next
morning. Naturally, an attack of rheumatic fever followed upon this
adventure, but it was only during his convalescence that at last he
recounted in strict confidence to the doctor the true story of his
encounter with an inhabitant of another world than ours. I may add that the
whole of this remote district is still decidedly ' fey', or fruitful in
folk-lore and tales of the uncanny the Tylwyth Teg, the Teulu etc.
The South Wales Squires, Herbert M Vaughan, 1926
Regards
Richard James