|The cabin lay a hundred yards from the hot, dusty road, midway between
Sneam and Derrynane, looking across the noble fiord of Kenmare River and
out to the open Atlantic.
A bare-footed girl with hair black as midnight was driving two cows down
the rocks.
We put our bicycles in the shade and ascended the rough rocky path to
the cabin door. The bare-footed girl had marked our coming and received
us.
Milk? Yes. Would we come in?
We entered. The transition from the glare of the sun to the cool shade
of the cabin was delicious. A middle-aged woman, probably the mother
of the girl, brushed the seats of two chairs for us with her apron, and
having done that drove the chickens which were grubbing on the earthen
floor out into the open. The ashes of a turf fire lay on the floor and
on a bench by the ingle sat the third member of the family.
She was a venerable woman, probably the grandmother of the girl; but her
eye was bright, her faculties unblunted, and her smile as instant and
untroubled as a child's. She paused in her knitting to make room for me
on the bench by her side, and while the girl went out for the milk she
played the hostess.
If you have travelled in Kerry you don't need to be told of the charm
of the Kerry peasantry. They have the fascination of their own wonderful
country, with its wild rocky coast encircling the emerald glories of
Killamey. They are at once tragic and childlike. In their eyes is the
look of an ancient sorrow; but their speech is fresh and joyous as a
spring morning. They have none of our Saxon reserve and aloofness, and
to know them is to forgive that saying of the greatest of the sons of
Kerry, O'Connell, who remarked that an Englishman had all the qualities
of a poker except its occasional warmth. The Kerry peasant is always
warm with the sunshine of comradeship. He is a child of nature, gifted
with wonderful facility of speech and with a simple joy in giving
pleasure to others. It is impossible to be lonely in Kerry, for every
peasant you meet is a gentleman anxious to do you a service, delighted
if you will stop to talk, privileged if you will only allow him to be
your guide. It is like being back in the childhood of the world, among
elemental things and an ancient, unhasting people.
The old lady in the cabin by the Derrynane road seemed to me a duchess
in disguise. That is, she had just that gracious repose of manner that
a duchess ought to have. She knew no bigger world than the village of
Sneam, five miles away. Her life had been passed in this little cabin
and among these barren rocks. But the sunshine was in her heart and she
had caught something of the majesty of the great ocean that gleamed out
there through the cabin door. Across that sunlit water generations of
exiles had gone to far lands. Some few had returned and some had been
for ever silent. As I sat and listened I seemed to hear in those gentle
accents all the tale of a stricken people and of a deserted land. There
was no word of complaint--only a cheerful acceptance of the decrees
of Fate. There is the secret of the fascination of the Kérry
temperament--the happy sunlight playing across the sorrow of things.
The girl returned with a huge, rough earthen bowl of milk, filled almost
to the brim, and a couple of mugs.
We drank and then rose to leave, asking as we did so what there was to
pay.
“Sure, there's nothing to pay,” said the old lady with just a touch of
pride in her sweet voice. “There's not a cabin in Kerry where you'll not
be welcome to a drink of milk.”
The words sang in the mind all the rest of that summer day, as we bathed
in the cool waters that, lapped the foot of the cliffs near Derrynane,
and as we toiled up the stiff gradient of Coomma Kistie Pass. And they
added a benediction to the grave night when, seated in front of Teague
M'Carty's hotel--Teague, the famous fisherman and more famous flymaker,
whose rooms are filled with silver cups, the trophies of great exploits
among the salmon and trout, and whose hat and coat are stuck thick with
many-coloured flies--we saw the moon rise over the bay at Waterville and
heard the wash of the waves upon the shore.
When cycling from Aberfeldy to Killin you will be well advised to take
the northern shore of Loch Tay, where the road is more level and much
better made than that on the southern side. (I speak of the days before
the coming of the motor which has probably changed all this.)
In our ignorance of the fact we had taken the southern road. It was a
day of brilliant sunshine and inimitable thirst. Midway along the
lake we dismounted and sought the hospitality of a cottage--neat and
well-built, a front garden gay with flowers, and all about it the sense
of plenty and cleanliness. A knock at the door was followed by the bark
of a dog. Then came the measured tramp of heavy boots along the flagged
interior. The door opened, and a stalwart man in shooting jacket and
leggings, with a gun under his arm and a dog at his heels, stood before
us. He looked at us with cold firmness to hear our business. We felt
that we had made a mistake. We had disturbed someone who had graver
affairs than thirsty travelers to attend to.
Milk? Yes. He turned on his heel and stalked with great strides back
to the kitchen. We stood silent at the door. Somehow, the day seemed
suddenly less friendly.
In a few minutes the wife appeared with a tray bearing a jug and two
glasses--a capable, neatly-dressed woman, silent and severe of feature.
While we poured out the milk and drank it, she stood on the doorstep,
looking away across the lake to where the noble form of Schiehallion
dominates the beautiful Rannoch country. We felt that time was money and
talk foolishness, and drank our milk with a sort of guilty haste.
“What have we to pay, please?”
“Sixpence.”
And the debt discharged, the lady turned and closed the door.
It was a nice, well-kept house, clean and comfortable; but it lacked
something that made the poor cabin on the Derrynane road a fragrant
memory.
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[Illustration: 0156]