_The Dull Gray Skies of Ireland_
I am coming more and more to believe that we have better weather in
America than we give the poor country credit for. What passes for good
weather here would make a poor substitute for the American article. I
will not deny that it is soft and insinuating, but it is also not to
be depended upon. I went out to climb a wild-looking mountain near
Bundoran, on the northwest coast. To my inexperienced eye the day
looked promising--that is promising rain--but the driver, of whom I
had ordered a car to take me to the base of the mountain, said there'd
be no rain. All those ugly clouds hovering over the summit of it were
merely reminders that there was such a thing as rain, and so we
started.
[Illustration: A SKY LINE AT BUNDORAN]
And here let me make a few remarks about Irish weather in general. You
are out walking in a fine "mizzle," that penetrates ordinary cloth
with the utmost ease, and you meet a countryman to whom you observe
"Not very pleasant." "Oh, it's a bit soft, but it's pleasant enough."
What a blessing it is to be easily satisfied.
You strike a day without sun and positively chilly, and the natives
assure you it is fine, that they had awful weather last week, but
that, according to the barometer, the weather is going to be steady
for awhile. They have borrowed the barometer habit from the English,
and it really is a comfort when you're going for a long walk or drive
to see that it points to fair. "Fair to middling" would be better.
Well, my driver and I set out for the mountain, and on the way I asked
him the question I ask all of the peasants with whom I hold
conversation, "Would you like to go to America?"
"Sure I would. I'll not be stayin' here long. I've an aunt an' a
brother an' a cousin an' a sister an' an uncle beyant. There's no
chance here."
I wonder whether the reason why there is no chance is because the
Irishman is lacking in application. I fell in with a delightful man at
a little town in County Fermanagh. I wanted a little thing done to my
watch and I asked him how long it would take to do it.
He assured me that he was driven to death with work and was up till
late every night trying to get ahead, but that he would try to find
time to mend my watch some time before seven o'clock, when he
nominally closed. Then he followed me to the door of his shop and
began to ask me questions about America, which I was glad to answer,
as I had a half hour to kill before starting for some sight or other,
and I killed that half hour most agreeably with the little man's help.
He pointed out different passers by and told me their life histories.
And every once in a while he would say, "I've not had a day off for
nearly a year, not even bank holiday. Never a minute for anything but
work. I've an order now that's going to keep me busy, except for the
time I'll give to your watch, all the rest of the day. And dinner
eaten in my workshop to save time."
I told him I wished he wasn't so driven, but I knew how it was with a
man who did good work, and then I bade him good day and didn't go near
there until seven in the evening. I found him outside the shop
discussing the strike of the constabulary at Belfast with a neighbor.
"Awfully sorry, sir, but I've been so busy to-day that I've been
unable to finish that job. It'll not take over twenty minutes when I
get to it. Can you come in the morning?"
I told him I could, say about eight o'clock.
"Oh, dear no. We don't open the shops until nine."
"Very well, then, nine will do."
And having some more time that I wished to kill I entered into a
discussion with him and his neighbor as to the extent to which the
constabulary disaffection would spread, and it was eight o'clock when
I went back to my hotel.
Next morning I was at the shop at nine and he was just taking down the
shutters. Said he'd worked until ten the night before, but seemed
further behind than before. If I'd come up into his workroom he'd fix
my watch while I waited.
Up there he had some photographs to show me that he had taken a year
ago and had only just found time to develop, and we talked photography
for a matter of twenty minutes, and then he fixed my watch in a jiffy
when he got to work.
[Illustration: THE ROCKS AT BUNDORAN ON THE WEST COAST]
He's typical not only of Irishmen, but of Yankees, too--men who can
work fast if you seal their mouths.
I was sorry I had to journey on, because our talks had been pleasant
and it had never once entered his head that he was wasting that time
of which he had so little, although he dealt in watches.
But to return to my driver.
When we reached the base of the mountain he put the horse up in a
stone stable that belonged to a poor woman. Think of a poor woman
housing her cow in a stone stable, built to stand the wear and tear of
generations!
We had no sooner begun our climb of the hill or mountain than the rain
came down in earnest, and my shoes were soon wet through, but I
persevered, somewhat to the disappointment of the boy, who was better
used to being wet on his car than on foot. But when we reached the
top the view of all Donegal bay and the mountains beyond, and many
other bits of geography not half as beautiful on the map as they are
in nature, repaid me for my climb and wetting.
And when I said, "It's too bad it rained just as we got here," my
driver said, "It's always rainin' on the mountains," although when he
was getting me for a passenger he had assured me it wouldn't rain on
the mountain.
We made our way down through the wet, but still beautifully purple
heather, and just as we reached the level the rain stopped. It was as
if our feet upon the mountain had precipitated the rain.
But at the close of the drive I found a comfortable inn and a most
agreeable dinner of fresh caught fish, and that mutton that we never
seem to get in America, and I still felt that the climb was worth the
wetting.
But the weather never ceases to astonish me. Dull gray skies at home
would depress me, but here I am thankful for dull gray skies if they
only stop leaking long enough to enable me to do my accomplished task
of walking or driving.
But real rain has no terrors for countryman or city man in Ireland. I
attended a concert at the exhibition in Dublin (and it would not have
been a tax on the imagination to pretend one was at Lunar Park in
Coney Island or at the French Exposition or the Pan-American). There
was the usual bandstand, and the Dublin populace to the extent of
several thousands were seated on little chairs listening to the
combined bands of H. M. Second Life Guards, the Eighty-seventh Royal
Irish Fusiliers (Faugh-a-Ballaghs) and the Forty-second Royal
Highlanders (the Black Watch).
Outside the circle of those in seats passed and repassed a slowly
promenading crowd made up of pretty Dublin girls and their escorts,
with mustaches as spindle-waxed as ever any Frenchman's, a sprinkling
of English, and the ever-present Americans, with their alert eyes, the
Americans straw-hatted, the English derbied, and the Irish, almost to
a man, wearing huge, soft green or gray-visored cloth caps.
Suddenly the rain began to fall.
I know at least two Americans who put for shelter, but the Irish
people present merely put up umbrellas and went on promenading and
sitting and listening to the music. Gay strains from "The Mikado"
(there were no Japanese present), somber umbrellas, colorful millinery
and drizzling rain. An American crowd would have made for the main
exhibition building, but I doubt if the Dubliners noticed that it was
raining. Their umbrellas went up under subconscious direction.
After the concert the crowds went home in the double-decker electric
trams, and every seat on the roof of every car was filled by the
holiday crowd, although the rain was still coming down in a
relentless fashion.
In the north they would have called it a bit soft. I know we felt like
mush when we arrived at our hotel.