lake whose bright waters shimmer through the trees or ripple gently on
some open beach as we course along them. Out beyond lie the mountains
against the pale sapphire sky of a perfect summer morning, and the lake
makes a glorious mirror for its wooded islands and encircling hills.
We pass the "meeting of the waters," crossing a rustic bridge over
the narrow strait. Altogether, there is a succession of delightful
scenery, which the motor car affords the ideal means of seeing.
But I am poorly carrying out my resolution not to write of Killarney,
though surely the theme tempts one to linger; there is much I have
not even hinted at; Ross Castle and Muckross Abbey alone might occupy
many pages were I competent to fill them. But we will leave them all,
though we must pause a moment in the town itself, surely a paradise
for lovers of Irish laces and for seekers after trinkets and souvenirs
galore. It is rather cleaner and more substantial than the average
small Irish town, yet Killarney and its environs have all the earmarks
of a tourist-thronged resort and in this particular, at least, are
disappointing. While there is much of beauty and interest, we cannot
help a feeling as we leave the town behind us that some of the
encomiums may have been a little over-enthusiastic.
But Killarney rapidly recedes as we hasten toward Tralee through a
country whose bleak hill-ranges alternate with still drearier peat
bogs, often of great extent. Everywhere one sees piles of cut and dried
peat, the almost universal fuel in Ireland. Its use is evidenced by
the thin blue smoke curling from the rude chimneys and by the pungent
odor as it falls to the earth under the lowering sky. For the sky has
become overcast and gray. We have had--very unusual, too, they tell
us--several days of perfect weather; the rule is almost daily showers
in Ireland during the summer.
We find Tralee a large, lively town; it is market day and the narrow
main street is fairly blocked with donkey-carts, driven by screaming
old women, and the heavier, more unwieldy carts of the farmers. The
old women often go into a panic at the sight of the motor, and grasp
the donkeys by the bridle as though these sleepy little brutes might
be expected to exhibit all the fire of a skittish horse; but never one
of them even lifts his lazy ears as the motor hums under his nose. It
is different with some of the horses, which become unmanageable and
swing the heavy carts around in spite of all the drivers can do. And
woe to the motorist who should try conclusions with one of these carts
that may be suddenly thrown across his way. The wreck of the car would
be almost certain and I doubt if the cart would suffer at all. These
vehicles are primitive in the extreme; two massive wheels, an oaken
beam axle and two shafts made of heavy timbers, is about all there
is to one of them. It is with such vehicles that Tralee swarms and
our progress to the market square is slow indeed. In the midst of the
market place stands a monument surmounted by the figure of a peasant
soldier, the inscriptions commemorating the Irish patriots of '98, '03,
'48 and '67, and declaring the "undying allegiance of the Irish people
to republican principles." The hotel where we stop for luncheon is
a large limestone building, just opposite the monument. It is fairly
clean and the service cannot be complained of; Irish hotels have
averaged better than we had been led to expect.
From Tralee we take a rough, neglected road to Tarbert-on-Shannon,
running through a desolate hill country--the Stacks Mountains, as
they appear to Irish eyes--almost devoid of trees, with mean and
often unspeakably filthy huts at long intervals. Most of these huts
have but two small rooms; in one the domestic animals--the horse,
donkey or cow, with a pig or two squealing under foot--and in the
other the family. One is quite as clean and comfortable as the other.
The muck-heap is squarely in front of the door; it would be too much
trouble to put it to the rear, and it is probably cleared away once
or twice a year. But withal, the people are probably happier than the
nobles in their castles; a merry, laughing, quick-witted folk who greet
us with good-natured shouts of welcome--there is no prejudice against
the motor here. The cheeriness of the people contrasts with the bleak
and depressing country itself, today wrapped in a gray mist that half
obscures the view.
As we passed through one of the bogs, an incident occurred that added
to the gloom of the day, and the poverty of the country still leaves a
somber impression on our minds. It was a peasant funeral procession,
forty or fifty of the rude carts such as we have described wending
their way along the wretched road. The plain pine coffin, fastened
with knotted hempen ropes, was borne on a cart similar to the others,
and yet the deceased was evidently a person of importance, indicated
by the large following and several priests in the center of the
procession. As we came up they motioned us to pass, and our car crept
by as stealthily as possible, though not without disturbing some of the
horses. All treated it with good-natured solemnity and many saluted
us as we passed. Farther along the road we saw many people at the
cottages in readiness to join the procession when it reached them. The
incident could not but impress us with the poverty and really primitive
character of the Irish peasants of the inland hills--people and a
country quite unknown to those who follow the ordinary routes of travel.
Listowel is twenty miles from Tralee, a dilapidated hamlet surrounding
a great gloomy-looking church, and above it the shattered towers of the
ever-present castle peeping out of a mass of ivy. Ten miles farther
over a rough road and we enter Tarbert on a fine wooded headland
overlooking the lordly Shannon--truly worthy of such title here--a
sweeping river two or three miles in width. For twenty miles or more
our road closely follows the southern shore of the broad estuary, and
we realize keenly how much of color and distance one loses when the
gray rain obscures the landscape. The estuary of the Shannon might well
vie with Dingle Bay under conditions similar to those of the preceding
day, but we see only a leaden sheet of water fading away in the fitful
showers or lying sullenly under the dim outlines of the coast of County
Clare.
At Glin we pass beneath the ancient stronghold of the "Knight of
Glin," which recalls the splendor of a feudal potentate who in Queen
Elizabeth's time was lord of an estate of six hundred thousand acres,
and whose personal train included five hundred gentlemen. So much
glory and an Irish tendency to take a hand in the frequent broils in
the west, brought the English Lord President of Ireland with a strong
besieging force. The defense was desperate in the extreme. The young
son of the lord of the castle was captured by the besiegers and placed
in a post of great danger in hope of checking the fire of the garrison;
but the ruse had no effect on the furious Irishmen in the fortress.
When at last a breach had been made by a heavy cannonade and the fall
of the castle became inevitable, the few remaining defenders, uttering
the ancient warcry of their house, flung themselves from the shattered
battlements into the river. After a lapse of more than three hundred
years, one may still see the marks of the cannon-shot upon the heavy
walls. And this weird story of the defense of Glin Castle is typical of
tales that may be told of hundreds of the mouldering ruins of Ireland.
At Foynes the river broadens still more; "the spacious Shenan,
spreading like a sea," was how it impressed Edmund Spenser, who has
left in his poems many traces of his Irish wanderings. But we see
little of it in the increasing drizzle that envelops it. Our road turns
farther inland to Askeaton, a bedraggled collection of little huts,
beneath the lordly ruin of Desmond Castle. There is little else to
engage us on our way to Limerick, though we pass through the Vale of
Adare, of which the bard has so musically sung:
"O sweet Adare, O lovely vale,
O safe retreat of sylvan splendor;
Nor summer sun nor morning gale
E'er hailed a scene so sweetly tender."
But it is not so sweetly tender on a dark drizzly evening, and we rush
on through the rain to the shelter of an old-time hostelry in Limerick.
Cruise's Royal is a large plain building perhaps a century or two old
and quite unpretentious and comfortable. Limerick is not frequented by
tourists and little special provision has been made to entertain them.
It is a city of nearly fifty thousand people and has large business
interests in different lines. But Limerick has a past, despite its
modern activity. Its castle, standing directly on the Shannon, was
built by King John in 1205, and the seven original circular towers
are still intact. The cathedral of St. Mary's is even older than the
castle, and though restored, many touches of antiquity still remain.
The Roman Catholic cathedral of St. John's is one of the finest modern
churches in Ireland, its splendid spire rising to a height of three
hundred feet. Its magnificence ill accords with the wretched hovels
that crowd around it; for the Irish Catholic seems to take far more
pride in his church than in his own home. There is a large percentage
of English among the inhabitants of Limerick, which is no doubt a
factor in its business progressiveness. The shops which we visited
would compare favorably with those of a city of the same size almost
anywhere. One of the staple products is Limerick lace and it is sold
here at prices so low, compared with the tourist towns, as to quite
astonish one.
But the chief glory of Limerick is its broad river, so vast and so
cleansed by the sea tide as to show little trace of pollution, even in
the city limits. It is spanned by two fine bridges, that nearest the
castle replacing one built by King John. At the west end of this bridge
is the famous "Stone of the Violated Treaty," mounted on a properly
inscribed pedestal. The treaty with William and Mary was signed on this
stone, but the English Parliament repudiated the agreement, and hence
the name.
In leaving Limerick, we closely followed the Shannon, and a magnificent
stream it is, lying in wide, lakelike stretches and rippling gently in
the fresh sea breeze. The valley here is quite level and covered with
emerald verdure to the very banks, between which the river flashes
in gemlike brilliancy. It would be a joy to follow the Shannon and
the loughs, in which it rests itself at frequent intervals, to its
very source, every mile rich in historic interest and storied ruins;
but we may go no farther than Killaloe, at the southern end of Lough
Derg, about fifteen miles from Limerick. Here is a venerable cathedral
church, built about 1150, upon the site of a still older church
founded in the sixth century. And it is to this latter time that most
authorities refer the stone-roofed chapel or oratory standing near
the cathedral. Legend has it that this was built by St. Flannan, who
founded the original cathedral; and certain it is that its antiquity
is very great. One experiences strange sensations as he stands in
this rude, unfurnished little structure. It forcefully brings to him
the fact that Christianity and learning are older in Ireland than in
England and Scotland; that this chapel was probably built before St.
Augustine landed in Kent; that it was from Ireland that Christian
missionaries sailed to teach the savage Britons and marauding Picts.
We cross the river over a high-arched bridge, near which is an
attractive new hotel, for tourists and fishermen are learning of
the beauties of the Shannon and Lough Derg. We soon reach Nenagh on
the Dublin road, and the graceful church spire at once attracts our
attention. We can scarce forbear an exclamation of surprise as we come
into full view of the splendid structure, just from the builder's
hand. It is truly a poem in gray stone, as fine an example of gothic
architecture as we have seen in the Kingdom--proof that the spirit of
the old cathedral builders lingers still, at least in Ireland. A young
man approaches us as we stand in the churchyard and informs us that
the church has just been completed at a cost of fifty thousand pounds.
We should have guessed much more, but labor and stone are cheap in
Ireland; such a structure could hardly have been erected in America for
less than half a million dollars.
"And where did all the money come from?" for Nenagh shows little
evidence of wealth.
"O, they have been long in raising it and much of it came from
America."
[Illustration: ANCIENT ORATORY, KILLALOE.]
The church inside is hardly in keeping with the exterior, but this
will no doubt be remedied in time. At the door is a table covered with
pamphlets, with a notice requesting the visitor to place a penny in the
box for each copy taken. We noted the titles of several: "Health and
Cleanliness in Irish Homes," "Temperance Catechism, Showing the Evils
of Drink," "Ireland, the Teacher of England and Scotland," "The Evils
of Emigration," (in which no very glowing picture of the prospects of
the emigrant in America is shown), and many others on Irish history
and Catholic heroes. Nearly all of the dozen booklets which we select
are really excellent and show that the Catholic Church in Ireland is
awakening to the necessities of modern conditions.
From the church our guide led us to the castle near at hand and secured
the key. There is little left save the stupendous keep, a circular
tower about one hundred feet high and perhaps sixty feet in diameter.
The walls at the bottom have the amazing thickness of eighteen feet and
one would reckon this mighty tower as well-nigh impregnable.
"Destroyed by Cromwell," said our guide, "who burned the castle and
razed it to the ground."
Just as we are about to leave a very recently acquired distinction of
Nenagh occurs to our guide--the town is the home of the grandfather of
Hayes, the American runner who won the Marathon race at London. The
old man keeps a baker shop down the street and the hero is here even
now--a twofold hero, indeed, as an Irishman by descent and as a winner
over the English contestants. We pause at the little shop, but the
hero is out and we have to be content with a few purchases. We find
some difficulty in getting out of the town, but after much inquiry a
policeman starts us on the Dublin road.
And here I might speak a word of the Irish policeman. As in England, he
is everywhere and always ready with information; no matter how dirty
and squalid the surroundings, he is neat, in a faultless moss-green
uniform emblazoned with the gold harp of Erin. He is always conscious
of his dignity as the representative of law and order, and one can
easily imagine that his presence must have a calming effect on the
proverbial Irish tendency for a row. He is indeed a worthy part of the
unequaled police system of the United Kingdom.
The road which we now followed runs through the very heart of the
Island, a distance of one hundred miles from Nenagh to Dublin. It is
in the main a broad, well-surfaced highway with even grades and slight
curves. It passes through a much better and more prosperous-looking
country than the extreme southern portion of the Island. The farm
cottages are better and apparently cleanlier, but the towns show little
improvement. Nearly all of them are poor and mean-looking, with aged,
weather-beaten buildings and many tumble-down houses. They are a good
distance apart; Roscrea, Mountrath, Maryborough, Kildare and Naas are
the larger places on the road. Only two call for especial mention--one
for its dilapidation and filthiness and the other for rather the
opposite qualities. The first distinction we may freely accord to
Maryborough, the county town of Queens County, with a population of
about three thousand. Perhaps we saw it at its worst, for it was the
weekly market day. The market place was blocked with live stock, and
it was with difficulty that we forced the car through the seething
mass. The streets were covered with loose stones, straw and filth,
and on the sidewalks, little pens were fenced off and filled with
calves and hogs. The farmers circulated among the animals and regarded
us rather sullenly for Irishmen. Our luncheon hour was past and we
looked dubiously toward the Maryborough hotel. A native, divining our
situation, cast a disgusted glance at the wretched surroundings and
said, "You had better go on to Kildare; you will find it much better."
We thank him and the car spurns the dirt of Maryborough under her
wheels as she springs forward on the twenty miles of fine road to
Kildare. We find this town small and rather poor, but far cleanlier
than its neighbor. It has an ancient cathedral church and one of the
most notable of the round towers, one hundred and five feet high,
though somewhat spoiled by a modern battlemented effect in place of
the usual conical top. But the joy of Kildare is its hotel, a new,
bright-looking brick structure, delightfully pleasant and homelike
inside. There is a piano in the parlor and fresh flowers on the
mantelpiece. Our tea is soon ready in the dining-room, as cleanly and
well ordered as the best across the Channel, and the neat waiter girls
serve us promptly. Of course there is a secret somewhere to all this
wonder, and we fathom it when we learn that the railroad owns the
hotel. May the railroads build more hotels in Ireland!
At Newbridge, a few miles farther, are extensive barracks, a city of
red brick, where a large body of Irish troops is quartered. Military
life appeals to a great number of Irishmen and some of the crack
British regiments are recruited in the Island. The Irishman may justly
be proud of his reputation as a fighting man and he never wearies of
telling you of the nativity of the Duke of Wellington and of Lord
Roberts, the present chief of the British army. A fine racing course
also lies between Newbridge and Kildare, and races famous throughout
the country are held here annually.
Our Irish pilgrimage is at an end; we leave Dublin on the following
day, not without reluctance and regret. This Ireland is very old and
very interesting, and it is with a feeling of distinct sadness that we
watch her lessening shores. We find ourselves secretly hoping to come
again some day with out trusty companion of the winged wheels, to spend
a whole summer among the hills and dales, the rivers and loughs of the
"Ould Countree."
XX
SOME ODDS AND ENDS
Holyhead is an inconsequential town whose chief end is to serve as a
port of departure for Ireland. Were it not for this useful purpose, few
tourists would ever see it--or the Isle of Anglesea, for that matter.
Aside from some fine coast scenery and the castle, now very ruinous,
built by Edward I. at Beaumaris, Anglesea offers little in the way
of attractions. The island is rather barren, with here and there a
mean-looking village with a long, unpronounceable Welsh name. The main
road from the great suspension bridge over the Menai Strait to Holyhead
is excellent, but nearly all others in the island are so bad as to
discourage motorists.
The Station Hotel at Holyhead is owned by the Northwestern Railway,
and would be creditable to a city of one hundred thousand. It affords
every comfort to its guests, and the railway people have made special
provisions for the motor car, among these one of the best-equipped
garages that I saw anywhere. The motor is becoming a serious rival to
the railway in Britain, the heavy reduction in first-class passenger
travel being attributed to the popularity of the horseless carriage;
but the situation has been accepted by the companies which own hotels
and they have generally provided first-class accommodation for cars
belonging to their guests.
In a previous chapter I referred to our run from London to Holyhead,
reaching Ludlow the first night. I am going to have my say about Ludlow
in another chapter; for five visits on different occasions to the
delightful old border town should perhaps entitle me, though a stranger
to its people, to record my impressions of it somewhat in detail.
Bishop's Castle marked our entrance into the hill country of Northern
Wales. It is a lonely town following a steep, roughly-paved main
street, at the top of which we stop for luncheon at an old-fashioned
but very pleasant country inn. From Bishop's Castle to Barmouth by
the way of Welshpool, Llanfair, Dinas Mawddwy and Dolgelley, we pass
through the very heart of North Wales and see many phases of its
beauty, though generally in the wilder and sterner moods. The hills
are often steep, but from their crests we have far-reaching views over
the wooded vales and green hill ranges. In places we wind through
tangled forests or run along the banks of swift little rivers. At
Dinas Mawddwy we enter the Welsh mountains, the most imposing hills in
Britain. The tiny village nestling beside its rippling river seems
lost in the mighty hills that overhang it on every side, rugged and
almost precipitous, yet velvety green to their very summits. We begin
our climb out of the valley over the Bwlch Ooeddrws Pass--the name is
even more alarming than the heavy grade shown in the road book--and for
three miles we climb steadily up the mighty hill alongside an incline
that drops sharply to the roaring stream far below. From the summit a
grand prospect greets our eyes: the wild, broken, intensely green Welsh
hills stretching away range after range until they fade in the purple
shadows of the distance, and yet higher above us looms the crest of
Cader Idris, on which still linger flecks of snow. After a short pause
to contemplate the beauty of the scene, we plunge down the descent,
steep, sinuous and rough, to Dolgelley, lying at the foot of the hill,
a retired little town with a long history; for here the Welsh hero,
Owen Glendwr, held his parliaments and made a rallying point for his
adherents in North Wales. Today its old-time, gray-stone, slate-roofed
houses are hemmed in by more modern villas such as one now finds in
most of the beauty spots of northern Wales.
The ten miles of road to Barmouth follows the estuary of the river
with only moderate grades until it reaches the town, when it plunges
down the long hill to the seashore. Barmouth, or, as the Welsh style
it, Abermaw, is a quiet watering-place lying along a narrow beach at
the foot of the hills that rise almost sheer behind the town. The
coast line of the wide rock-bound harbor is wild and broken, and the
view over the estuary at sunset is an enchanting one. The hotels are
rather small and the beginning of the crowded season is just at hand.
Should one wish to remain for a time in Barmouth to explore some of the
grandest scenery in Wales, he would be more at ease in May or June.
As we leave the town an obliging garage man hails us and warns us
to beware of Llanaber, two or three miles to the north; a trap for
motorists has been set there, and as if to convince us that wealth and
station will not protect us, he adds in a rather awe-stricken manner
that Her Grace the Duchess of W----, wife of the richest nobleman in
the Kingdom, was stopped last week and fined ten pounds. We feel that
a contribution to the exchequer of Llanaber would hardly come so easy
from us as from the wealthy duchess, and we pass through the wretched
little hamlet at a most respectful pace. The rain has begun to fall
heavily and has apparently dampened the ardor of the Welsh constables,
for we see nothing of them. The road continues many miles between the
mountain slope and the low green marshes stretching seaward, but the
driving rain obscures the view. At only one point does the ocean lash
the rocks directly beneath us; elsewhere along the coast the road is
separated from the sea by marshes and stretches of sandy beach, varying
from a few hundred feet to two miles in width.
Suddenly the gray bulk of Harlech Castle, standing on its commanding
eminence, four square to all the winds of heaven, looms up grim and
vast in the gusty rain. It is the last of the great feudal castles of
Britain that we are to see on our pilgrimage--save some of those we
have seen before--and it marks a fitting close to the long list that we
have visited--nearly every one of importance in the Island.