ACHILL TO SLIGO
It has been suggested before now that the domain of Achill Island, off
the coast of Mayo, that wonderland of natural unspoiled grandeur, be
preserved as a sort of national park.
Its primitive beauties are impressively great without rising to
splendour or magnificence.
Said Sir Harry Johnston, in writing to the _London Times_:
"Is it impossible that individuals and the State together should
intervene before it is too late and save Achill Island as a national
park, as a paradise in which the last aspects of the indigenous British
fauna may be exhibited? This might be done without disturbing the
indigenous population, who could still carry on their fishing industry
and the amount of agriculture necessary to their subsistence, without
interfering unduly with the wild birds and beasts of the island. There
would be, of course, an absolute interdict against 'sportsmen' and
gunners; it would no longer be permissible to shoot the seals that haunt
the caves and rocks around Achill, while the deer, wild goats, foxes,
eagles, ravens, swans, gulls, choughs, and other wild birds and beasts
would be similarly protected. People would then visit Achill Island at
all seasons of the year (the climate is remarkably mild in winter) for
the pleasure and interest afforded by the contemplation of its wild
fauna. We should, in short, have an object-lesson of what Ireland and
most other parts of the British Isles were like under prehistoric
conditions."
From this it will be inferred that there is every encouragement for such
a procedure, did the powers but take their rightful initiative.
Whether such an event, if it come to pass, would make for a greater
admiration of this lone and sea-girt bit of _terra firma_, it remains
for others than the writer of this book to
[Illustration: ACHILL ISLAND]
prognosticate. Certainly, under any aspect except that of the erection
of multitudinous "resort hotels" and "furnished bungalows," Achill
Island is a wonderful resort for those in need of soothing influences;
and, for its natural and unspoiled charms alone, should be kept quite as
it now is.
Achill is a veritable unknown wonderland. Not that it is actually
unexplored, that it is vast, or that it is inaccessible. It is none of
these; but few foreigners, or "aliens," as the Irish prefer to think of
strangers, have ever visited this little-known corner of Ireland, or
even know where it is. Achill Island is the largest island on the Irish
coast, in shape not unlike an irregular triangle, and contains an area
of fifty-five square miles. To the north is the deeply indented Black
Sod Bay, with its myriad smaller bays, while to the south is Clew Bay,
populated with numerous tiny islets, and the high-held head of Croagh
Patrick. Off to the northwest are the "Enchanted Isles," the legendary
homes of saints and recluses, among them Inishglora, Inishkeenah, and
Inishkea.
On one of these it is fondly believed by the natives that Ossian
resided. Tradition has preserved the record thus:
"Ossine MacFoin, seated on the banks of the Shannon, adoring the Author
of Nature in the contemplation of his works, was suddenly hurried away
to Tirna-n'oge (the country of youth, or island of immortals), which he
describes with all the vivacity that fancy, aided by the sight of so
lovely a country as Ireland, could assist the bard with. He remained
here for some days he thought, and, on his return, was greatly surprised
to find no vestige of his house or of his acquaintance. In vain did he
seek after his father Fion, and his Fonne Eirion; in vain sounds the
buabhal, or well-known military clarion, to collect those intrepid
warriors. Long since had these heroes been cut off in battle; long had
his father ceased to live! Instead of a gallant race of mortals which he
had left behind, he found a puny and degenerate people, scarce speaking
the same language. In a word, it appeared that, instead of two days, he
had remained near two centuries in this mansion of the blessed."
(O'Halloran.)
Achill itself contains scarcely a tree worthy the dignity of the name;
but heath, gorse, juniper, and coarse grasses abound.
Sleivemore has a height of 2,204 feet and Croghan 2,192. Both rise
abruptly from the sea, after the manner of the castellated peaks in the
fairy books, which, with their component castles, mostly do not exist
out of books.
Kildavnet Castle on Achill Sound was one of the numerous retreats of
Grace O'Malley. Its square keep still stands. The arm of the sea on
which it was built was so deep that vessels rode at low water under the
very walls of the castle. "Here," tradition states, "the skull of Grace
O'Malley was formerly preserved, and valued as a precious relic. One
night, however,--so the legend goes,--the bones of the famous sea-queen
were stolen from their resting-place, and conveyed, with those of
thousands of her descendants, into Scotland, to be ground into
fertilizer. The theft was of course perpetrated in secret, and in the
night-time. If the crew had been seized by the peasantry, with their
singular cargo, not a man of them would have lived to tell the tale, for
the Irish regard with peculiar horror any desecration of the
graveyard."
According to a recent census, the population of Achill and Achill-beg,
the baby islet off the southern limb of its parent, has decreased nearly
ten per cent. in the space of ten years; from which fact it may be
inferred that the popularity of this salubrious spot--for it ranks high
among the world's great natural sanatoria--is not increasing with the
rapidity that might be expected.
The two villages of the larger island, Keel and Dooagh, seem populous
enough, as is also the Protestant community of Dugort. The island, in
general, is exceedingly unproductive, though the sea yields a wonderful
harvest to the fisher folk.
There is but a narrow margin between the well-being and distress of the
inhabitants, but signs are not wanting that whatever, in exceptional
periods, may have been their condition, at present they are relatively
better off than many of their compatriots in the west of Ireland.
Considerable numbers annually migrate to the north of England and the
south of Scotland for the harvest, just as, with the same motive, the
"East-Enders" of London throng to the hop-fields of Kent, and the
willing and industrious Bretons cross the Channel, in the autumn, to
the hay-fields of England's "home counties."
Off the western Irish coast, from Connemara and Mayo, there are yet to
be found remote islands with an exceedingly primitive civilization.
Achill owes much of its interest to the fact that it exhibits a similar
state of things, in many points little altered by contact with the
mainland. The people, the cabins they inhabit, and their manner of life
show very little change, in spite of the introduction of a good many
articles of manufacture which a generation or two ago were quite unheard
of. One thing which cannot fail to be noticed will be the queer little
"public houses." The tenement itself, however aboriginal, is sure to
contain an assortment of strong drinks as varied as the average West End
bar. The quality may be dubious, but there will be no question as to the
strength and specific gravity of the spirit, particularly the
_eau-de-vie_, or the "mountain dew."
Of the charms of Dugort, the "Settlement," and Dugort proper, the
poet-laureate, in the pages of "Maga," has written eulogistically. He
says:
"A more perfect place of holiday resort it would not be possible to
imagine. There are fine yellow sands, where children may make dykes,
fortresses, and mountains of moderate height.... There is fishing,
either in smooth or rolling water, for those who love the indolent
rocking or the rough rise and fall of the sea; precipitous and fretted
cliffs, carved with the likeness of some time-eaten Gothic fane by the
architectonic ocean; rides, drives, and walks amid the finest scenery of
the kingdom. 'I think she prefers Brighton,' said a stranger to me of
his companion; and, if one prefers Brighton, one knows where to go. But
if nature, now majestically serene, now fierce and passionate, be more
to you than bicyclettes and German bands, you can nowhere be better than
at Achill."
The Settlement, or modern Dugort, is a group of cabins above the shore,
which owed its creation to the Rev. Edward Nangle, a clergyman of the
Established Church. In 1831 he visited Achill, and was so impressed with
what he deemed the "spiritual destitution"
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL CAVES, ACHILL.]
of the islanders that he organized a mission. Some seventy acres of land
having been bought, two or three cottages were erected in 1833, and in
the following year Mr. Nangle settled at what is now the bright little
village of modern Dugort. Whatever opinion may be held as to the value
or wisdom of his undertaking, Catholic and Protestant alike, now that
the dust of the battle has settled, will agree that Mr. Nangle had in
him the stuff that heroes are made of. His immediate oversight was
withdrawn about 1852, though for the rest of his life he took an active
share in promoting the continuance of his work. He died in 1883, in his
eighty-fourth year, but long before that time the "mission" had ceased
to be a cause of dispute, and now Dugort is merely a small Protestant
preserve in a Catholic district.
Just south of Achill, in Clew Bay, is Clare Island, which has been
likened to the pirate islands of the transformation scenes of the
theatre. Certainly the description is a good one, as it is a spot
typically suitable in shape and outline for hidden treasures,
shipwrecks, and blood-letting galore. Its outline is bold and jagged,
and it sits ensconced in a basin of blue water, which, in the twilight,
is lit up by the western sun in a manner like nothing else so much as
that of the theatre.
It was perhaps merely an odd fancy--though a likely enough one--that is
responsible for the _simile_; but it is pertinent to remark that this
tiny emerald, set in a sea of sapphire, was really one of the many
haunts of Grace O'Malley, the famous chieftainess and warring amazon of
the sixteenth century. Here she actually did live, hoarded her arms and
munitions, concealed her treasures, and imprisoned her captives, hence
it is with reason that the description lives to-day. One commends the
perspicacity of Grace O'Malley, or Grania Uaile, as she is sometimes
called, in having selected such a beautiful spot for her stronghold,
sheltered on one side by the purple hills of Connemara, and on the other
guarded by the open sea.
Next to the headlands of Kerry, Connemara is the westernmost part of
Ireland. Its identity is now lost in that of County Galway, but it is
still known to travellers as "wild Connemara." Not that it is entirely
unpeopled, or
[Illustration: IN CONNEMARA.]
that there is any special hardship involved in traversing its area; the
hotels are more numerous than ever, and it is an open question if the
accommodation offered at Recess, Clifden, Westport, and many other of
the purely tourist points is not the equal of any in Ireland. They have
not the electric light in many instances, and often not water "laid on,"
but the genuine traveller will not care for this if he can but be sure
of his bed and board. To feel sure of the former, however, it will be
necessary for him to bespeak it in advance if he travels here in the
season.
In Connemara there is no great wealth of historical or archæological
memorials. In fact, there is a scarcity of both, and one has to take his
fill of the wild, natural beauties of the rock-bound coast scenery, the
bracing atmosphere, and the wholly unspoiled charm of the place, which,
in spite of the advent of the great hotels before mentioned, has not yet
become travel-worn.
Lough Carib, which is possessed (at Oughterard) of a fine ruined castle,
just north of Galway, is the largest of the score of purple,
deep-looking lakes with which the western part of the county is dotted.
The scenery of lake and sea, of bracken-clad hills and plains, and of
great sombre, gloomy mountains makes up an ensemble of surpassing
beauty. The centres of population are few, far between, and of minute
dimensions.
The railway line from Galway ends at Clifden, a town so unimportant and
quiet that, in itself, it does not warrant remark. It was founded in the
reign of George IV., and this early foundation consisted of but a single
house, though it is the gateway to the wonderful coast scenery of the
region to the northward, not actually in Connemara, but what is known as
"Joyce's Country."
Of all the landlocked bays of this region, none equals Killary Harbour,
which is simply the elongated estuary of the tiny river Eriff.
The hamlet of Leenane is the metropolis of these parts, and is so very
small and unimportant that it would hardly be remarked, except for the
fact that no other of even the same rank lies within a radius of twenty
miles. The situation of Leenane is charming, at the head of Great
Killary. Around about are hills of mountainous pretentions, and before
its
[Illustration: KYLEMORE CASTLE.]
doors is a _fiord_, as ample and as calm as many, of more fame, to be
found in Norway. Seaward, the great hills come down to the water's edge
and almost join hands across the narrow mouth of the estuary, forming a
sheltered and landlocked haven of so great a depth as to allow anchorage
for even a great battle-ship.
Between Galway and Clifden is Recess, a point of vantage from which to
visit much that is characteristic of the scenery of Connemara. Firstly,
the region is of interest to the fisherman; secondly, the geologist;
and, thirdly, to all lovers of nature, which, judging from the recent
popularity of "nature books," is perhaps much the largest class.
The chief topographical feature, which forms the background to Recess,
is the mountain range of the "Twelve Bens," a glorious group of
dark-mantled mountains with stony peaks and flinty-quartz hearts.
One may tramp Connemara for weeks, and not know all its beauty-spots, or
he may scamper around it by coach and rail in two days, and depart
thinking he has seen it all; but in either case, his memory, if it be a
good one, will sooner or later call him to task for his presumption.
For this reason, it is manifestly presumptuous to attempt to give its
proper rank to its great wealth of natural attractions among the various
collections which Ireland possesses.
The scenery about Recess is a picturesque combination of lake and river
and mountain; but, to the southward, there are wild and rugged bits of
coast and red bracken-covered hills, which look to-day exactly as they
did in times primeval.
Lough Glendalough, which lies immediately before Recess, is but the
foreground of a lovely picture which it will take many days to dissect
and fully appreciate.
There has ever been a dispute as to whether the glory of the "Twelve
Bens" really belonged to Recess or Leenane. It certainly matters little,
since they are a wonderfully impressive background viewed from either
point.
It must be a well-booted and strong-limbed pedestrian who will essay the
task of ascending these famous mountains. Benbaun is the monarch of the
Bens, and is 2,395 feet in height. Not a very great altitude as
Continental
[Illustration: KILLARY HARBOUR.]
mountains go, but withal a very respectable eminence to climb.
North of Achill is Black Sod Bay, whose memory comes down to us through
Kipling's reminiscence in "A Fleet in Being." More anciently, it was one
of the harbours where a part of the ill-fated Armada was supposed to
have gone ashore. There are no great centres of population here in the
bleak northwest of County Mayo, and there are no architectural remains
of note; but there is local colour, and much of it, for one who would
study the poor Irish peasant on his native heath.
Until one rounds the headland of Benwee, and passes the "Stags of
Broadhaven,"--a head of deep-water pinnacles of rock whose jagged
outlines have been likened to a stag's antlers,--and reaches Killala
Bay, there is naught of twentieth-century civilization to remind one he
is not living in other days, or certainly in other lands and among other
associations than those which city folk have come to consider
necessaries.
Killala Bay is flanked on the west by Downpatrick Head, which rises two
thousand feet sheer above the sea-level. It is one of Ireland's true
wonders, but attracts few visitors save migratory sea-fowl.
Killala itself, one learns from the "Life of St. Patrick," is a place of
great age. The holy man himself--
"Came to a pleasant place where the river Muadas (Moy) empties itself
into the ocean; and on the south banks of said river he built a noble
church called Kill Aladh, of which he made one of his disciples,
Muredach, the first bishop."
The present cathedral was entirely rebuilt in the seventeenth century,
and has no architectural importance. Close by, on a knoll, about which
the village is built, is a round tower, eighty-four feet high and
fifty-one feet in circumference.
"At Kilcummin, on the west side of Killala Bay, a body of French troops,
under General Humbert, landed, August 22, 1798, with the object of
supporting the United Irishmen. They at once took Killala and Ballina,
and at Castlebar the government levies were in such haste to retire
without fighting as to give rise to the nickname, 'Castlebar Races.'"
Ballina, at the head of Killala Bay, is the "tourist resort" of the
region. It is pleasant and delightful in all of its aspects, and in its
neighbourhood are some very interesting architectural remains. There
are, as is often the case, a Roman Catholic and a Protestant cathedral
in the town, and an Augustinian monastery, a ruin of a fifteenth-century
structure, also many attractive vistas and spots most worthy of the
brush and pencil of the artist.
These attractions pall in the mind of the local spreader of publicity,
who extols only the size and varieties of fish which may be taken in the
river Moy and other near-by waters.
From Ballina one reaches Sligo in five and a half hours by means of that
still prevalent institution, the genuine Irish "low-backed car."
Somewhere in the county of Sligo is the "Valley of the Black Pig," which
is possessed of a legend which recounts how, for generations, the Irish
peasantry have comforted themselves in adversity by the memory of a
great battle fought here in this valley.
W. B. Yeats tells how, a few years ago, in the barony of Lisadell in
Sligo, a peasant would fall to the ground in a trance as it were, and
rave out a description of the bloody battle which once took place.
This shows, at least, that tradition and legend alike die hard in the
minds of the people, and when Mr. Yeats tells us that men have told him
that they have seen the girths instantaneously rot and fall from horses;
and that few, if any, who enter the Black Valley ever come out alive, we
realize fully how close we are, even in these times, to the age of
superstition in Ireland.
Mr. Yeats furthermore eulogized the incident in verse.
"The dew drops slowly; the dreams gather; unknown spears
Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes;
And then the clash of fallen horsemen, and the cries
Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.
We, who are labouring by the cromlech on the shore,
The gray cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you,
Master of the still stars, and of the flaming door."
Sligo itself, with its ten thousand souls and its important and
matter-of-fact seafaring trades, is a centre for journeying afoot or
awheel amid many charming scenes of lough and lake and sea and shore.
Southward is Carrick on Shannon, the gateway to the Shannon's lakes and
rivers; northward is the Bay of Donegal, backed by its famous rugged
"Highlands;" and, eastward, is Lough Erne, which, with its upper and
lower lakes and the river Erne trickling minutely southward, is quite
the rival of the long-drawn-out Shannon, or would be if the tide of
popular fancy ever turned that way. Enniskillen is the metropolis of
Lough Erne. Locally it is known as the Island City by reason of its
being apparently surrounded by the all-enfolding waters of the upper and
lower lakes. Its fame lies principally in its entrancing situation, and
the memory of its various regiments of Enniskillen Dragoons who have
fought and won gloriously in many of England's "little wars," and big
ones, too, for that matter. The colours borne by the two Enniskillen
regiments at Waterloo are still preserved in the parish church.
Until the days of James I., Enniskillen was no more than a stronghold of
the Maguires, but it then gained much prominence through the eventful
part it played in the domestic struggles and troubles of the latter half
of the seventeenth century. Of the old castle, which has braved so many
fights, only a small portion remains, and is incorporated in the modern
military barracks, which, in one way, indicate the importance of
Enniskillen.
"The Falls of Erne," at Ballyshannon, where the river joins its estuary
with its rapid, tumbling torrent falling over a thirty-foot wall of
rock, indicate in no unmistakable manner the volume of water which flows
from source to sea. At Ballyshannon, which has more than a local renown
among disciples of Izaak Walton, is the famous "salmon leap" which, at
certain seasons, provides a display of the wonderful acrobatic ability
of this gamy fish. But a short three miles from Ballyshannon is Belleek,
with its famous china factories which produce a peculiarly lustrous
egg-shell ware much admired for its simplicity and crudeness of form,
but very transparent and light. Here, too, are another series of
rapids,
[Illustration: _A Detail of Sligo Abbey_]
as great in their way as those farther down-stream. Sir Joseph Paxton
called them "the most picturesque in the world," but one should judge
for himself. They are marvellously effective, however, for the river
falls nearly 150 feet in three miles or less.
Sligo itself, in spite of its commercial importance, is not greatly
appealing in its interest, if one excepts its old abbey, now a ruin, but
once an exceedingly ambitious Dominican establishment. Founded in 1252,
it was destroyed by a fire in 1414, though immediately rebuilt. Its
Gothic is of that superlative quality known best in the superb monkish
erections of the Continent of Europe. There are various monuments yet to
be seen therein of local and historical interest, but the chief
attraction is what remains of the beautiful cloister, fairly perfect as
to preservation, and surrounding three sides of a rectangle. There are
forty-six arches, each about four feet and a half in height, all
elaborately carved, and quite different one from another.
By an ancient and inalienable right, the abbey grounds are still used as
a Roman Catholic burial-place.