FLYING OVER KILLARNEY IN AN AIRSHIP
It was just 4:30 by my watch as we started from Cork on that eventful
11th day of July. There was good daylight, but the city was still
wrapped in its slumbers.
It was a beautiful summer morning and our spirits rose with the
aeroplane. We began the strangest trip through Ireland that was ever
made by man. I can never forget the sight of the green fields of County
Cork that morning. It was a scene of peaceful loveliness.
The first place of interest we passed over was Blarney Castle, which is
only five miles from Cork. We swept directly over the famous ruin, and
I had a strange feeling as I looked down on the far-famed fortress from
my aerial seat. As I had been at Blarney Castle before I was able to
locate that part of the wall where the Blarney Stone is seen. I tried
to point it out to Mike, but, before I could get the place described,
we had flown over it. We learned that to describe anything like that
on the aeroplane you have to look as far ahead as possible. I had no
idea the country around Blarney was so beautiful until I had a good
bird’s eve view of it. I was convinced that we would see all the scenic
beauties of Ireland from our aeroplane as they had never been seen
before.
The distance from Cork to Killarney is 50 miles as the crow flies, and
as we were now traveling like crows we measured distances as they did.
We could see the River Lee at our left as it meandered through the
neat farms and little fields of the Cork farmers. The pleasant-looking
cottages fairly flew beneath us. We were surprised to see so much of
County Cork under cultivation, as we expected to see it all in grazing
land. I found out later that under the beneficent new Land Laws most
of these small farmers now own their own farms, and that this part of
Ireland is prospering.
It was a perfect picture that met our gaze as we looked around. The
small fields were divided with thick hedges, or stone walls, sometimes
with a wall of earth. Groves were frequent. Here and there a lordly
mansion peered out at us through the trees.
Quite a distance to our left we could see Macroom, where the railroad
from Cork ends. It looked so quiet and still in that region that
morning that I was reminded that there was a tradition that the gentle
Quaker, William Penn, was born there. Penn’s father had a seat at
Macroom, but I think the young William gave his first cry in London. At
least, I once saw the font in a London church in which he was immersed
as a tiny infant.
“Now for the mountains,” said Mike, as the Kerry hills drew near. Their
peaks loomed up before us big as the Himalayas. Mike began to raise the
airship higher and higher.
Right here I want to confess that often throughout the whole trip
in this aeroplane with Mike I had shaky feelings that were a little
unpleasant. Once in a while in imagination I could see myself
tumbling over and over to the ground, like a wounded bird. Nor were
my fears altogether groundless, as we shall see. If Mike had any such
apprehensions he never said a word to me about it. I rather think he
was so busily engaged constantly with the operation of the aeroplane
that he had little time to think of anything else. I had much better
chance to see the country than he did, but I also had more time on my
hands during which I could conjure up all kinds of disasters. I well
remember that, as we rose to a dizzy height, in order to clear the
Kerry Mountains, I had almost a nervous attack. For a moment I shut
my eyes and heartily wished I was on the earth again. If I could have
gotten safely to land just then, I am afraid that all the gold in Ophir
would not have tempted me to fly again. I was roused by a cry from Mike.
“Look,” he fairly shouted, “isn’t that grand?”
I opened my eyes quickly and saw Mike, with his face all aglow, gazing
on a high peak which we soon recognized as Mount Mangerton.
It towered far above us, high as we were, for this peak is over 2,700
feet high. Soon the Devil’s Punchbowl, another high mountain peak,
with a flat top, came into view. This mountain, which is over 2,600
feet high, is easily recognized. Formerly it was a volcano, but long
ago burnt itself out. The crater is now filled with clear, cold spring
water, which is piped to the village of Killarney. It is surely an
Irishism to call this beautiful water from this huge natural reservoir
the “devil’s punch.”
We were looking so intently on these great hills that we crossed the
crest of the divide before we were aware. All at once Mike startled me
again.
“In the name of all that is great, look there,” he exclaimed.
Never can I forget the sight that lay before us as I lowered my eyes
and caught my first glimpse of the Vale of Killarney. The panorama was
one of surpassing loveliness. There was no fear whatever in my heart
now. All was wonder, admiration, delight. The three Killarney Lakes lay
embosomed among the towering hills. The Lakes are fully eleven miles
long and at one place two and a half miles broad. Magnificent forests
fringe them on every side, and over sixty wooded islands float in the
charmed waters. Just ahead of us was Muckross Abbey. This ancient Abbey
was founded in 1440 by the McCarthys, and is a notable ruin. The walls
and tower are in good condition. We could see the ivy glisten in the
morning light from the top of the tower, and I caught a passing glimpse
of the gigantic yew tree, nearly fourteen feet in circumference, which
every visitor to Muckross Abbey will remember.
“Hurrah for old Ireland,” cried Mike, as we glided down to within 150
feet of the waters of the Upper Lake. We soon rose again to about
300 feet above the water, as this gave us the best view, and at this
altitude we sailed triumphantly along the entire course of the Lakes.
Here we first noticed the effect that an aeroplane had on the ordinary
denizens of the earth. It was now 6:00 o’clock, and some early
risers among the tourists at Killarney were enjoying the marvels of
a Killarney morning along the banks. We could hear their excited
exclamations as they caught sight of us, but we flew on majestically.
We soon passed the two smaller Lakes, which are joined by short narrow
streams, and discerned Ross Castle clothing itself with all the
glories of a morning of sunshine as it has done, every time it has
had a chance, for 600 years. I say “every time it has had a chance”
advisedly, for all who are acquainted with Killarney weather know that
this fine ruin is often compelled to clothe itself with morning mists
and rain.
Ross Castle was on our right and, beyond it, we could see Kenmare
House, the home of the Earl of Kenmare, who owns Killarney. It is
situated in the midst of a lovely park, with beautiful gardens,
covering fully 1900 acres of woodland and lawn. However, as Mike and
I sailed past it in our airship we would not have exchanged places
with the Earl himself. Beyond Kenmare House we could see Killarney
village straggling along amongst the trees. We were now crossing the
Lower Lake, which is the largest, being nearly six miles long. We
turned to our left and gazed with awe at the towering peaks which
enclose this scene of beauty. The shifting of the light among the
hills was glorious. Looking over our shoulders to the left we caught
sight of Carntual, over 3,400 feet high, the highest mountain in
Ireland. Altogether there are six prominent peaks, and as they rise
from the level they make a majestic scene. We passed directly over the
Innisfallen island. This large and beautiful island in the Lower Lake
covers twenty-one acres and from above it looked like “a beautiful
miniature of a beautiful country.” We could see the famous ruins of
Innisfallen Abbey on the island. This Abbey was founded in 600 by St.
Finian, and it is one of the oldest ecclesiastical ruins in Erin. The
Irish poet, Thomas Moore, has immortalized this little Island in his
ode:
“Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well.”
After passing Innisfallen we discussed our further route. Mike wanted
to circle over the Lakes again, but I objected. I wanted to carry away
the remembrance of Killarney as I had seen it for the first time from
an aeroplane. I was afraid a second look would take away some of the
charm. Mike also wanted to go up the Gap of Dunloe, but I also objected
to this, as I wished to hurry on direct to the North of Ireland that
day. We compromised by agreeing to turn around at the north end of the
lakes, and make a circle over the north part of Lower Lake, while we
took our last look at Killarney’s Vale.
When we had finally turned our backs on the glorious scene and Mike
started north over the high plains, I repeated softly:
“Beauty’s home, Killarney,
Heaven’s reflex Killarney.
Angels fold their wings and rest
In this Eden of the West.”
Mike roused me rudely from my dreams by remarking:
“These two angels haven’t folded their wings from the looks of things.
See how the ground flies past.”
I laughed good-naturedly and gradually woke up from the spell of the
beauteous Lakes of Killarney.
I pulled out my watch. It was 6:20. A short time later we caught sight
of the railroad between Killarney and Tralee and followed it about 100
feet above the tracks.
[Illustration: Blarney Castle]