The old Welsh County of Flintshire Historical notes about the old
County of Flintshire This, the smallest of Welsh counties, presents a familiar but by no
means truly characteristic aspect to the casual traveller from Chester to the coast
resorts of Denbigh or Carnarvon. The Dee with the somewhat dull Cheshire shore on the
farther bank - and the more or less uninteresting strip of plain immediately south of the
railway give little promise of the charming regions to be found farther a'field, the
beauties of the Vale of Clwyd, the glorious reaches of the Dee in the oddly detached
portion of the county which borders on Shropshire, the innumerable views and vistas to be
obtained from the hills, and the wayward delights of many a secluded dell and dingle. To
those who really know it, this county stands high on the varied list of beautiful
districts in the British Isles, and its historical associations, its memories of ancient
feuds between Celt and
Saxon, and the still existing remains of its former power and dignity give it that aura
of romance which makes all the difference between an old country and a new one.
In A History of the Deposition of Richard II, in French verse, in the Harleian MS.,
there is a quaint illumination of the meeting of the King and Bolingbroke at Flint Castle
in 1399. Within a towered and turreted enceinte the unfortunate monarch, disguised as a
pries, is being received by Bolingbroke, all the gentlemen present being several sizes too
large for the edifice. It must be presumed that the artist was not copying from nature, as
the existing fragmentary ruins of Flint Castle imply that the stronghold must have been
exceedingly formidable. Apparently it had seen its best days even at the time of the
tragic incident referred to, as Shakespeare, in King Richard II, makes Bolingbroke say;
Go to the rude ribs of the ancient castle, and
Lets march without the noise of threatening drum,
That from the castles tatterd battlements
Our fair appointments may be well perusd. Poor Richard was on his way to a forced
abdication and a violent and shameful death. No wonder the still more tattered battlements
of the ruin wear a forlorn and sinister look!
Flints crowning glory as the county town vanished to some extent when the assizes
were removed to Mold. Even that badge of dignity, the gaol, has lapsed into the unexciting
respectability of a private house. But though industry has its foot on the neck of the old
place, the sea has to some extent abandoned its association, and it has little to show
commensurate with its ancient dignity. Flint still has a niche of its own in a work of
this kind.
Holywell, too, is an ancient place, and the well to which it owes its name is credited
with miracles as miraculous as befell St Winifred, through whom it came into existence.
This seventh-century lady had the misfortune to be ardently loved by a fierce and unruly
Prince of Wales, whose rough wooing, apart from other considerations, made him exceedingly
distasteful to her. When pleading failed the Prince resorted to violence, and when
violence failed he incontinently smote off her head. The head rolled down the hill and
came to rest by the church. Wonder of wonders! A vast spring welled forth from the
blood-stained ground! Recognising the portend, St Bruno came forth from the church,
reattached the head to the trunk and as the result of much prayer and supplication the
lady returned to life.
Such is the legend. The fact is that the spring, which became known as St Winifreds
Well, has for ages been visited by afflicted pilgrims on account of the miraculous powers
with which it is credited, and Holywell has become a British Lourdes to thousands of
sincere and deeply religious men an women. Those who do not accept the spiritual
significance of the place can thoroughly appreciate the beauties of St Winifreds Chapel,
built by the Countess of Richmond, Henry VIIs mother , at a time when the Perpendicular
style had reached its apogee.
Faith in the healing powers of the well has also found expression in the numerous Roman
Catholic institutions and establishments which have come into being in the little village
of Pantasaph, hard by. The Earl of Denbigh who was mainly instrumental in the adoption
of the place for these sacred and charitable purposes, sleeps his last sleep in a fine
tomb in the church.
Rhuddlan Castle What remains of Rhuddlan Castle is far more picturesque and impressive
than the fragmentary ruin of Edward Is fastness at Flint. The angle towers, mantled with
ivy, rear their battered but majestic heads and still witness proudly to a time when
Ruddlan was a name to conjure with on the border. It was on Rhuddlan March that the
first of the epic contest between Celt and Saxon took place in A.D. 795. Fierce Offa
captained the Saxon host, while mighty Caradoc performed prodigies of valour as leader of
the Welsh. Discipline and such military science as the age could boast prevailed over
untutored courage, and good Welshmen still think mournfully of Rhuddlan Marsh.
The first castle on the site (though castle is perhaps a complimentary term) fell
before the fierce onslaught of King Harold in 1063, and its successor changed hands
more than once before Edward I erected the existing structure in 1277. That great ruler
and soldier made the new stronghold his headquarters during part of his Welsh campaigns,
and it played no small part in his official and domestic life. It was here that he
persuaded the Welsh leaders to accept his Carnarvon-born son as Prince of Wales, with
the guileful promise that they should have a prince of blameless character who had been
born in Wales and could speak no English! Of more practical importance to Wales in general
and Flintshire in particular was his Statute of Rhuddlan, which gave the former a
constitution and the latter a name.
As one wanders among these splendid ruins memories of that epic period, so glorious for
Edward, so tragic for Wales, crowd thick and fast. Time has healed those ancient quarrels,
and Rhuddlan remains a splendid monument to the genius of the greatest of English
sovereigns and that patriotic heroism of an ancient race which animates and inspires the
natives of the Principality even to-day.
For all practical purposes Dyserth Castle, Rhuddlans neighbour (and daughter of its
predecessor) is little else but a memory. For all its strength and the natural advantages
of the site, it was besieged and destroyed by a Welsh Prince worthy to rank with Edward I
on the scroll of fame, Llewelyn-ap-Gryffydd. It is not on this barely recognisable relic
that Dyserth bases its claim to distinction. What raises it above nonentity is its church,
largely a Victorian restoration , but the proud possessor of a glorious east window with a
remarkable Tree of Jesse, which is said to have come from the much-despoiled Basingwek
Abbey.
The City of St Asaph St Asaph enjoys the distinction of being the smallest city in
Britain and possessing the smallest cathedral. But it can also claim to occupy a
delightful situation in the beautiful Vale of Clwyd, where visitors feel a wholesome
contempt of that spread of industrial civilisation which has done so much to make large
areas of British countryside an eyesore. The cathedral itself arouses mixed feelings, due
mainly to its very mixed history. No edifice, however beautiful in its original state,
could be expected to survive the ravages of English and Welsh armies and a drastic
restoration by Gilbert Scott (necessary though that may have been) without paying toll to
such vicissitudes. Frankly, the existing structure, for its plainness, has lost most of
its fine features, though in all fairness it must be added that Scott added a few which
redeem him from any charge of being an official Philistine.
Nevertheless, St Asaph is a place of appealing memories. Its story carried us back to
the dim but splendid days when Christianity was taming the savage character of the
primitive Saxon. For the place and its church were founded by Kentigern, whom all good
Scots know better as St Mungo of Glasgow, and who flourished mightily in the sixth
century. Curiously enough the new religious settlement took its name, not from the great
missionary himself, but from one of his followers and aides-de-camp, Asa; before that good
man passed to his eternal rest the new church was the cathedral of a new diocese.
From an architectural point of view the palm in Flintshire must certainly be awarded to
the parish church of Mold. Here is a striking example of the high standard attained by the
Perpendicular style, even in what are comparatively minor buildings. Many other churches
in the county deserve mentioned for beautiful or interesting features, but to do them
justice requires more space that the limits of this survey will allow, and a mere
catalogue would frustrate the underlying purpose of this work.
Nothing has hitherto been said about the domestic architecture of the county, which does
not, however, rank high compared with that of other counties in England and Wales. No
doubt the stormy centuries through which the county a border region passed, made
building for defence rather than appearance a necessity. The result is that with one or
two exceptions the ancient mansions of Flintshire are not renowned for any special
architectural or decorative features.
From the historical point of view perhaps the most interesting is Mostyn Hall, mainly a
Tudor edifice, though the earliest work can probably be assigned to the middle of the
fifteenth century. It was the scene of an occurrence which undoubtedly had an enormous
effect on the course of British history. For it was through what is known as the King
Window that Henry Tudor leaped to safely when a party of Richard IIIs supporters made
their way into his retreat and all but caught him. No man of lesser calibre would have
been any match for crook-backed Richard, and yet there was no one else of Henrys calibre
in the political field at the time. The moral is obvious.
As a spectacle, Emral Hall is perhaps the best in the county, but few will refuse a
measure of affectionate interest in Downing Hall, if only because it was the home of old
Pennant, whose books of travels in Great Britain are packed with learning and wisdom, and
still of unfailing pleasure to all who are interested in our country. He died in 1798 and
was buried at Whitford.
Flintshire also shines by virtue of its association with the G.O.M., Gladstone, who
made Hawarden Castle his country home. The day has perhaps gone by when a picture of
Gladstone felling trees in his park formed part of the decorative scheme of half the
cottages and humble dwelling-houses in the Principality, but the name and fame of the
great statesman are undoubtedly something of which the county is still justly proud. It
may also be proud of the remains of the fine Edwardian stronghold at Hawarden, not to be
confounded with the eighteenth-century mansion which is the courtesy castle in these
days.
The detached portion of the county can show some beautiful landscapes in and around the
Dee Valley. Historically, its most interesting spot is Bangor-is-y-Coed, once famed for
one of the largest and most flourishing monasteries in the four kingdoms. But even as
early as the sixteenth century its epitaph was Ichabod.
http://www.british-towns.net/welsh/old_flintshire.htm
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