FROM WESTPOINT TO ENNISKILLEN
Mike made an excellent landing in an open space in a beautiful park
beside Westpoint. A small crowd soon gathered around us when we lit,
but Mike and I paid little attention to them. I stepped out on the
ground and looked at my watch. It was one o’clock. We had been in the
air four hours. Mike felt the strain of this long aerial journey also,
but not so much as I did. He was more accustomed to aeroplaning.
Our motor had been acting well, on the whole. It was a new style motor,
without carburetor, and I had been suspicious of it, but it surpassed
any motor I had ever seen in reliability.
We had just finished stretching out our tired limbs when a middle-aged
man, with a kindly, honest face, but an important air, came hurrying
along the driveway of the park in our direction.
We heard several in the crowd exclaim: “The Keeper, the Keeper.” The
new comer looked at us in astonishment and then he inspected our
aeroplane. Then he looked at us again, and exclaimed: “By the Powers.”
We did not know what kind of a salutation this might be, but Mike told
what we were doing and why we had alighted in the Park.
The “Keeper,” as they called him, at once became friendly and
introduced himself as the Steward of the Marquis of Sligo, in whose
park we had alighted and whose mansion was close at hand. The Steward
resided at the mansion, as the Marquis did not spend much time on his
Irish estate.
He invited us to come up to the mansion, which invitation we gladly
accepted. Following the Steward, we soon arrived at the stately home
of the Marquis of Sligo, who owns the greater part of this section
of Ireland. He is an absentee landlord, but he comes to Westpoint
occasionally, and he treats his tenants liberally, for an Irish
landlord. The large park around his mansion is open to all Westporters.
We noticed, from the signs, that automobiles were not allowed to enter
the park, but aeroplanes were not excluded, at least, not yet.
The Steward served us a good lunch, and sent a boy with a pony-cart to
town to get the petrol. The Sligo Mansion is luxuriously furnished, and
Mike and I felt like royal travellers.
The Steward’s kindness was explained when he began to talk about
America. He had two brothers in the New World, and told us that tens
of thousands of Irishmen from County Mayo and County Galway had left
Ireland for America in the past twenty years.
Westport is the most westerly town in Ireland, and is only 1,600
miles from Nova Scotia. At one time it was proposed to run a line of
steamers from here to America, but the project fell through.
We would like to have spent a day or two around Westport, but we still
thought we could reach the Giant’s Causeway that evening, although I
was beginning to think that Antrim was quite a long ways off.
The Steward showed us around the gardens and grounds, and even offered
to drive us over the town, but we were anxious to get started in the
air again and we declined. It was 2:00 o’clock when we had the starting
rail in place and had everything in readiness for another flight.
An immense crowd had gathered around the aeroplane. They made few
remarks, evidently restrained by the presence of the steward, for whom
they showed much respect. One or two did volunteer an Irish farewell.
“Ah, then,” said one old woman, “it’s not often we have the blessing of
such fine company, good luck to your honors, and God send you safe back
again.”
“Good-bye,” said a good-natured Son of Erin, with the map of Ireland
all over his face. “Good-bye, and I hope ye can _kape on your feet_
until you land agin.”
“God bless you, sors,” said the Steward, “and keep you safe and bring
you back.”
One gets used to hearing the name of Deity in Ireland, but it does not
shock you. The Irish use God’s name familiarly, but reverently; not
lightly, as in France; or vulgarly, as so often in America. No one
calls on God to damn you in Ireland. God is appealed to for blessing.
“Good-bye,” Mike and I shouted, as we rose in the air. The crowd broke
out in cheers, as we sailed away toward County Sligo.
We crossed several lakes and much enjoyed the rest of our flight over
County Mayo, but it is not a desirable part of Ireland in which to till
the soil. We passed over a pretty little town on a railroad, called
Castlebar. We entered County Sligo near Swinford.
Just after entering County Sligo, Mike said to me:
“Where’s our sunshine?”
I looked around. The entire sky was overcast. We were having the usual
experience with the Irish weather, which some one has said is as
changeable as the Irish character. Smiles and tears come at a moment’s
notice.
The clouds soon got to work and it began to drizzle. Passing over Sligo
we could see the farms improve, and when we reached County Leitrim,
which we entered near Lake Allen, we could see a marked improvement.
The soil was fertile, the farms and houses were larger, and there was a
general air of prosperity apparent.
Our aeroplane whizzed through the misty, rainy atmosphere, like an
ocean liner through a fog, but as the upper plane got soaked through,
it began to leak down on us, and the water-logged planes made the
machine more difficult to control. Mike told me that the airship was
not built for Irish weather, but he afterwards remedied this defect, as
we shall see.
When we reached County Fermanagh we began to realize Ireland’s
agricultural possibilities. Ulster is a different world from Connaught.
The landscape is rolling, covered with cultivated farms. The houses are
often two-storied, slated, and neatly kept. There are large barns and
every appearance of prosperity. The picture presented to us in Ulster
was not so romantic as in Connemara, but it is more like living. In
many parts of Connaught a crow would need to have its rations along,
but there are signs of plenty in Ulster. We could well understand why
the Irish did not altogether approve of the grim Oliver’s dictum: “To
Connaught with every Irishman.”
The inhabitants of the North of Ireland are also different from the
Irish of the West. They are largely Protestant in religion and of
Scotch descent. Their forefathers were brought to Ireland by James
I., in the early part of the 17th century. Several of the English
rulers had a good deal to do with the history of Ireland. Henry VIII.,
Queen Elizabeth, Oliver Cromwell, and James I., had extensive real
estate dealings in the Emerald Isle in years gone by, and when they
had completed their bargains the map of Ireland was altered and the
feelings of many of the Irish were badly lacerated. It has taken
centuries for these wounded feelings to heal.
It was after four o’clock when we sighted the chimneys of Enniskillen.
This prosperous town is built on Lake Erne, or Lough Erne, as the
natives call it. Lough Erne is another of Ireland’s large fresh-water
lakes. Enniskillen is famous as the city which, like Londonderry
endured victoriously a siege in 1689, the year of the commotion between
James II. and William III. Its defenders manifested the greatest
bravery. The banners captured at the Battle of the Boyne, where William
III. defeated James II., hang in Enniskillen’s Town Hall.
Tired and wet, I seconded heartily Mike’s suggestion that we spend the
night here. I felt that I could not fly another mile. We came down
rather abruptly in a field near town. The water-soaked aeroplane had
become hard to control, and we narrowly missed a big hawthorn hedge. A
farm house was near by, and the farmer came running to us, followed by
a little crowd of children of all ages. After explanations, we turned
the aeroplane over to him for the night, and trudged into town. Walking
seemed pleasant to us both, as we had been flying for a whole day. In
spite of the misty rain, we enjoyed every step of our mile walk to the
Royal Hotel. We had a good Irish supper, or “tea,” as they called it,
and soon afterwards we retired for the night.
The day ended perhaps a little ingloriously, but we were well content.