CIRCLING OVER LONDONDERRY IN AN AEROPLANE
We were almost an hour in reaching Omagh, the county seat of County
Tyrone. As we flew over the city we were surprised to see how
new-looking it was in appearance, as it is one of Ireland’s oldest
towns. I learned later that the old town had been destroyed some two
hundred years ago, and that Omagh of today is comparatively modern. It
is a neat and prosperous city, with streets, some of them very steep,
running in every direction. A beautiful Cathedral adorns the hillside,
and an old barracks, now used as a police station, is an imposing
structure. There are several large Presbyterian churches which show
every sign of progress and prosperity. There were only a few people on
the streets when we winged our way across the city at 6:00 o’clock.
These stared up at us and we could see them running to the high places
to keep us in sight. The farms in County Tyrone looked large compared
with the microscopic farms of Connaught and Kerry, but they looked very
small to an American. The macadamized roads are models in the way they
are kept up, but they are narrow and winding. When the wagon roads
cross a railroad, there is never a grade crossing. Generally the wagon
road runs over the railroad, but occasionally dips under it.
[Illustration: LONDONDERRY, IRELAND.]
We had another exciting experience with an early train from Omagh to
Derry. We caught up with this train at Newtonstewart, a picturesque
little place. The engineer saw us, and, like his fellow-Irishman in
County Kerry, he tooted his whistle in our honor. We flew alongside the
train for several miles, about 100 feet from the side of the track,
and 30 feet high in the air. As the race continued, every passenger
grew more and more excited. They cheered and shouted. Mike, with both
his hands on his levers, could only look down and grin, but I was able
to wave my handkerchief and cap. The engineer gave one long, farewell
toot, as he stopped at a station, while we flew on our way.
At Strabane, a good-sized town, some twenty miles from Londonderry, we
created wild excitement. A number of people were around the station,
as we whizzed past, just about 20 feet in the air, directly over the
railroad tracks. We rose to a height of 75 feet just after passing the
station, and we could hear their loud cheering, as we rose like a bird.
The river Foyle formed at Strabane by the junction of the rivers Finn
and Mourne, flows from Strabane to Derry (as Londonderry is called by
the natives) a wide and noble stream.
Mike turned the aeroplane directly over the river after we left
Strabane, and we flew above it for many miles. This Foyle Valley is a
rich agricultural country, and I could see the crops of oats, flax,
turnips, and potatoes, growing in luxuriance in the fertile little
fields. About half way between Strabane and Derry our motor gave us the
first serious trouble. While we were sailing along over the river, all
at once it stopped, like a balky horse.
“Start the motor, Jack,” Mike yelled, thinking I had shut her off.
“It stopped itself,” I answered.
“Gee-whitaker,” said Mike, and I could see him tug at the levers in
order to turn the airship towards the shore and bring it safely to the
ground. Fortunately we were quite high in the air, fully 200 feet, and
we were only a short distance from the east bank of the river. In a few
seconds Mike had brought us down safely, a few yards from the river’s
edge, on the flat embankment. Mike soon remedied the trouble—a screw
had loosened. How to get started again was now our problem, as we
needed some kind of starting rail. Some men around a group of houses
a short distance away, saw us, and came running with all speed. They
stared and gaped at us without saying a word. Mike spoke to one of
them, and explaining our trouble, asked him to get a long stout board,
to use as a starting rail. The rustic ran back to the cottages, and
soon returned with a good board, which Mike soon turned into a starting
rail. Meanwhile, his companions began to make remarks, in true Irish
style, about the aeroplane.
“Isn’t that a new way to ‘_hoof it_’?” said a fellow with an Irish cast
of countenance.
“Let us get one, and then we can fly to America,” said one of the
youngest of them, a lad about eighteen years of age. The young fellows
in rural Ireland all look upon America as the Eldorado of the world.
One of them said to me: “I should think, sor, your air-boat would be
lonesome in Ireland.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” said Erin’s son, “it’s the only one in the whole country,
sor.”
“Come back again, sors,” one of them shouted as we arose from the earth
to continue our journey. We noticed this is a familiar parting phrase
in Erin.
It was seven o’clock when we saw the smoke of Derry. In spite of our
recent mishaps, Mike steered right into the middle of the Foyle, as we
came close to the city. At Derry the river is spanned by a fine iron
bridge. As we passed over this bridge, about twenty feet above it, we
frightened a passing horse into a runaway, and attracted the attention
of a crowd of laborers, who were crossing the bridge. Speeding on down
the Foyle, we saw below us the masts and funnels of a number of ships,
for Derry is an important seaport. Along the docks crowds of working
men greeted us with shouts, and some of the steamers sent us a scream
of whistles. I was much interested in old Derry. I had visited it often
before, and, when we reached the end of the docks, I asked Mike to
circle clear around the city. We rose to a height of 300 feet, and the
famous city lay under us, like a picture. We could see the historic
walls which enclosed the ancient city, about a mile in circumference,
and still adorned with many antique cannon. The well-remembered
siege of Derry happened in 1689, when James II. besieged the city
for 105 days, and the gallant defenders were reduced to the greatest
extremities. To make matters worse, Colonel Lundy, who commanded the
garrison, turned traitor, and opened negotiations with the besiegers.
His treachery was discovered, and he made his escape in disguise. Rev.
Geo. Walker, one of the heroes of the siege, has been remembered with
a fine monument, built on one of the bastions of the wall. On this
monument, every December 18th, an effigy of the traitor, Lundy, is
burned amid great cheering by the descendants of the old defenders of
Derry. Derry Cathedral has interesting relics of this famous siege, but
it is not a noteworthy building from an architectural viewpoint.
Derry is now quite an educational centre. Foyle College is a prosperous
institution with a pleasant location, overlooking the river. Magee
College, a Presbyterian institution, is beautifully located on a high
hill north of the city. The architecture of the building is stately,
and this seat of learning is an important part of modern Derry. A large
number of the Irish Presbyterian ministers are educated here.
We could see the large shirt factories, which bring much wealth, and
lots of women into Derry. Most of the employees are women.
The town on the east side of the Foyle is called Waterside. There is
a high bluff, just south of Waterside, which is covered with villas
owned by prosperous Derrymen. We passed over a large military barracks
at the north end of Waterside. Evidently, some of the officers in
the barracks had been watching our flight around the city, and they
were ready for us. As we swept over the barrack square, three large
guns were suddenly discharged, in our honor, we suppose. Mike was so
astonished at the sudden reports that he unconsciously pulled a lever,
making the aeroplane veer sharply so that it began to rock. He had it
under control again in a moment, but we could hear the cheering of the
red-coated soldiers, as they noticed our maneuvers.
We sailed on, sorry to leave the historic Maiden City (as Derry is
proudly called because it was never captured.) Shortly after passing
the barracks, we turned east, sailing over a number of delightful
country homes. Two miles east of Derry we passed over the lovely valley
of the Faughan river. This beautiful spot was one of the finest scenes
we found in the whole north of Ireland. It was a valley filled with
peace, quietness and sunshine that morning. We went as far east as
Dungiven, a small country town about the centre of County Derry. Many
modern mansions adorn the countryside, and the fertile soil well repays
its careful cultivation.
“Look at the rain,” said Mike, as we turned north from Dungiven.
And raining it was. While I was gazing down on Derry’s green fields
and lovely rivers, the clouds were hastily gathering overhead, and
threatening all kinds of things. Soon the rain was pattering down upon
our aeroplane, but it fell harmlessly on our rain-coated airship. It
was only a shower, but while it lasted the rain came down in a hurry.
As an Irishman would put it, some of the drops were “as big as a
shilling or eighteen pence.” In a little while the sudden tempest had
spent itself, and the sun was shining as though nothing had happened.
We followed a small stream, called the Roe, to Limavady, which we
reached a little after eight o’clock. We had planned to stop here for
some refreshments for ourselves, and our faithful “bird,” and Mike was
delighted to see a large level field near the town, where he made a
good descent, alighting without a jar. In five minutes, people were
running towards us in all directions. We had circled the little town
before alighting, and had aroused everybody. They crowded around us as
at Kilkee, and soon began asking all kinds of questions. We satisfied
them as best we could, hired a watchman to guard the aeroplane, and,
accompanied by a motley following, we walked into Limavady.