Talacre Hall, on the near outskirts of Gwespyr was the seat of the Catholic Mostyns - a cadet branch of those at nearby Mostyn Hall. Originally dating to no later than 1634, the current Hall, or rather Abbey,(1) is largely early 19th century, built for the 7th Bart, Sir Edward Mostyn between 1825-1829, though parts of the building can be traced back to the late 18th century.​
A carbuncular lump of ivy covered rock - the tower.
At some time in the 19th century, probably contemporary to the rebuilding of the Hall, but possibly later in the century, the deeply bewildering and curious Shell Tower and Grotto were built. From the outside the tower seems little more than an overgrown carbuncular lump of ivy covered rock. But within this mass of twisted growth an entrance can be found - the door long since gone the way of all things, but the battered wooden frame still extant. Darkness beckons from within.
Darkness beckons from within.
The stone steps to the first floor and its single room are sturdy enough, though slimy with moss and oomska, the stairwell a grim looking and discombobulating grey-brown smear of a passage. The room these steps wheeze you into seems to have been a sort of solar(2) of some kind, though it is difficult to tell now, what with a sizeable part of the floor missing(3) and the room stripped of any sort of ornamentation. There is a small fireplace in one of the walls, and what might have been a circular table of some kind half buried in the grotto below, possibly having fallen through along with the floor. The large windows would have provided both sunlight and wonderful views along the north Wales coast - at least before the site became hugely overgrown.
Mind the drop.
But as curious as this tower is, of course, the real wonder lies beneath, a hint of which can be seen through the gaping hole in the floor of solar. The Grotto below the tower was carved out of the limestone rock, possibly transforming existing caves into a mysterious amalgam of myth and madness inspired rock cut figures - what seems to be the work of a fairly frenzied imagination. What must have been a deeply atmospheric experience in the 19th century, in its most perfect state, is now akin to wandering through the lost lanes of repressed thrill, buried, for shame, in those memories we turned our backs in pursuit of a duller life.
There is here, a shell and quartz encrusted chamber, glinting in whatever little light you’ve brought with you, the remains of stone seats and a chaise lounge, a little fleur-de-lys which actually rather resembles a malice heavy face leering at you from the shadows. When fully lit with candles and lanterns within the little niches and recesses,(4) one can only imagine the effect, glorious no doubt, the equivalent perhaps of sitting breathless within a kaleidoscope.
The shell & quartz encrusted chamber.
Wander carefully now, into a neighbouring chamber, and there, appearing suddenly from the gloom is a cyclops, gravely staring at you with his one solemn eye. Time has worn him as one with the rock - he inhabits what would seem to have always been his, and you are his guest. Act accordingly.
The solemn cyclops.
A further chamber has above an animal legged stone table, a small furnace. It isn’t until you wander out into light, blink away the blindness and look back on yourself, that you realise that the flue for the furnace erupts from what would have been the mouth of a well worn and weathered lion - an animal featuring prominently in the Mostyn family crest. The spectacle of this, fire and fume, crackling and frizzling from the jaws of the great beast, especially at night, must have been terribly exciting.
Above the animal legged table - a curious furnace...
...from which the fire and fume would emerge from the jaws of a carved lion. Quite the spectacle, one would suppose.
Truthfully, every twist and turn within these long forlorn, weather worn and wearied chambers risks confrontation with some fugitive from myth and legend, roughed up savage by the glacial grind of time. Over there are the broken remains of - a satyr is it, companion to Dionysus? And here, suddenly, is the snarling head of a wolf perhaps, its obsidian eye still bright and ferocious, despite the years. There are figures of monks here, and death, lunging and leering at you from the shadows.
One imagines the Mostyns and their guests drinking with the satyr looking over them.
While worn and wearied, the wolf still snarls...
And within the dark, the smell of cold, damp stone pervades all, moss and slime underfoot and to the touch, cracks and niches shelter thickly plump spiders and even bats, and the incessant slow drip of water, echoing within the catacombs. Threading yourself through these chambers is a deliciously unnerving, frissovil experience.
Enter the grotto here, emerge blinking somewhere there, this subterranean world of weird wonders. And lush and verdant nature has had its wanton way with it all, working its way up the slope from the Hall to the very entrances of the chambers, roots gripping, ripping, rendering the rock faces to rubble.
Looking out towards the light.
With senses tautly tenter hooked, a wander down the slope through the wand whipping undergrowth, brings you to something quite extraordinary. The end of the Mostyn connection with Talacre Hall and its estate here, came to an end with the deaths of Sir Pyers Mostyn, 9th Bart in 1912, and that of his heir, Sir Pyers Charles Mostyn, 10th Bart in 1917, at the age of just 21. The estate was sold to a closed order of Benedictine nuns, through the efforts of Bishop Francis Mostyn, fourth son of the 8th Bart and Catholic Bishop of Menevia, born at the Hall in 1860.(5) In 1920 the Hall became an abbey as the nuns arrived and settled into their new North Walian home. While their story has more to do with the history of the Hall, they also owned the lands upon which the tower and grotto were sited and it was on these slopes that they chose to bury their dead.
I wasn’t expecting to find them here. But astonishingly, here they lie still, amongst the undergrowth, the sinewy limbs of beach and willow, the twisted mass of bramble. Simple iron crosses, marking the graves of the nuns of Talacre Abbey, from the time of its foundation in the 1920s, to its closure in the late 1980s. Rusting slowly, leaning slightly, they suddenly surround you. And if not expecting them, the abrupt realisation of their presence can be quite a shock. Simple iron crosses marking a name, a date of death and a declaration of Pax - Peace, the Benedictine motto. They would seem to have been forgotten - here within the woods. It’s hard to credit, and perhaps they haven’t been. Perhaps I am looking at this from the wrong direction. Perhaps they are remembered in prayer at Curzon Park Abbey in Chester, to which the nuns moved in 1988, as numbers at Talacre declined.
Amongst the undergrowth below the grotto - the nuns graveyard.
To simply state that the nuns graveyard is atmospheric is such an understatement as to be well nigh offensive. As you wander through the little groves and trails of graves, I can only say that I was left flabbergasted. I have heard said that some on visiting have found the place depressing and sad. But in truth, I found it quite the opposite - at least once I was eventually acclimatised to their presence. The simplicity is, on reflection and to my mind, quite wonderful. And on standing there, amongst this mass of undergrowth, and looked upon these simple iron crosses, I wondered as to our relationship with the dead - our need to remember and indeed, what will be remembered. And as I climbed the slope back into daylight and brightness, I felt enlivened and uplifted.
​
Amongst these pages you will find history, myth and legend aplenty. At Talacre Hall grotto you will find the curious…and much more.
​
*If visiting, please take special care. There are any number of ways you could injure yourself here.*
​
​
Footnotes
​
1. Talacre Hall became Talacre Abbey and is now known as Westbury Castle.
2. A sort of sunny parlour. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solar_(room)
3. I don’t need to tell you to be careful now, do I? Well, I will anyway. Be careful - it can be very dangerous here.
4. You will still find the niches and recesses filled with little tea lights - it would seem that night time visitors here are not rare.
5. Bishop Francis Mostyn of Menevia was appointed Archbishop of Cardiff in 1921 - a post he held until his death in October 1939.
​
​
Further Reading
B. Burke & P. Burke, A Genealogical and Heraldic History of the Peerage and Baronetage, Harrison & Sons, London, (2008)
M. Tree & M. Baker, Forgotten Welsh Houses, Hendre House Publishing, Llanrwst, (2008)
​
​
​