Map. Ref. SH 260764 (OS 1:50,000; Sheet 106)

It is easy to miss this stone, as it faces seaward and lies a good hundred yards off the cliff path that winds from Lily Pond Bay to Rhoscolyn. From the sea, it is lost among other knee-high erratic boulders which dot the headland. It faces west towards Maen Piscar rock, the ship-killer, which lies three-quarters of a mile offshore.

Once a boat rounds the Stacks heading south, or clears Rhoscolyn Beacon heading north, the logical route follows the chord of Penrhos Bay, which is the large bight that contains other smaller bays like Trearddur. Maen Piscar lies on this track, and it is usually submerged. The seabed around it is encumbered with debris from uncounted wrecks. Its name is ancient and mysterious: 'Maen' is Welsh, but 'Piscar' seems to have come from Latin, by way of the Roman occupation.

This coast is notorious for sea-frets which can envelop you almost as fast as you can check your bearings. Often you can walk out of a thick fog in Trearddur Bay into sunshine less than a mile away. These were the conditions in September 1819, when a ketch bound for Liverpool cleared Rhoscolyn Head and shaped a course to round the Stacks. On board were the captain, two men, a boy and the captain's big setter, Tyger. There was a light onshore wind and a long, lazy swell, which soon picked up the little trader and dropped her on Piscar. Another wave lifted her, and she drifted for a few minutes in the fog before foundering in deep water.

Tyger took the lead, leaping into the water as the boat sank, possibly because he could hear the echo of his barking resounding from the distant cliffs. The others, lacking any sense of direction, trusted his instinct and followed. The captain was a strong swimmer and he was able to help the two sailors and see that the boy hung on to Tyger's collar. Eventually, exhausted, they saw the cliffs looming through the mist, but their survival still depended upon the dog. He brought the boy safely to shore and returned to the water, where the captain directed him to one of the men who was in difficulty, lagging far behind. The dog found him, seized him by the collar, and dragged him to land; then he returned and did the same for the captain and the remaining sailor. With the last of his strength gone, and his big heart strained beyond endurance, Tyger died in his master's arms as they all lay on the shingle, utterly spent.

Many years ago, a bright summer's morning found me dangling off the end of a rope belayed to a tractor, as I helped a farmer to rescue a sheep which had fallen down one of the cliffs close to Tyger's stone. His collie, redundant for once, lay on the cliff's edge looking down in amusement at us, or so it seemed to me. Later we shared a flask of tea, and I learned that it was the farmer's forebears who had discovered the exhausted crew and had later carved the stone. Whenever the lettering starts to fade, members of the family today renew it with black paint. Unlike Gelert, the dog of fable, whose history was invented by a Victorian hotelier to make the village of Beddgelert a draw for tourists, Tyger did exist, and his story needs no embellishment. Nearly two hundred years on it still has the power to move and inspire. It is ironic that thousands visit Gelert's 'grave' each year, but that of Tyger, the real dog, is virtually unknown. KM