ALIGHTING AT THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY
We ascended from Limavady at 8:30. We were once more cheered to the
echo as we left the earth. After leaving Limavady, we came to a low
range of hills, and Mike had to use his raising levers freely as we
climbed their sides. We saw the familiar heather and peat, and even
the little cabins, much the same as we saw in County Mayo. At the
top of the hills we had a magnificent view. We could see Coleraine
clearly, nestling beside the Bann river, and, away in the distance,
we saw again the sea. The surrounding country was like a panorama. We
glided swiftly down the mountain side, and flew around the quaint old
town of Coleraine. Scotch-Irishmen live in Coleraine, and it has the
reputation of having the best bakers in the whole island. Mike and I
did not condescend to test this, although it was perhaps as well for
us not to alight there, for Coleraine is famous for something besides
bread. Fine old Coleraine whisky is known throughout the length and
breadth of Ireland. A Donegal clergyman, on hearing of a sermon against
drink, said: “Sure, I am forever at them about it. It’s the bad stuff
they take that does the mischief. I have told them from the altar that
I never touched a drop myself _but the best Coleraine_.”
Sky-pilots, whether spiritual or atmospheric, have to leave whisky
alone nowadays, so, in spite of its fame, we merely circled over the
city. Coleraine is known for many centuries in Irish history. St.
Patrick built a church here. Columba visited it in 590. Later on the
salmon fishing in the river Bann, which flowed through the city,
made Coleraine a place of some commercial importance. Like Derry and
Enniskillen, Coleraine was besieged in 1689 by the troops of James II.,
and the garrison was compelled to evacuate the town, and retreat to
Derry.
After passing over Coleraine, we came to the seacoast again at
Portstewart. I could see the row of houses along the quay, in one of
which Lever used to live. Lever’s home was in Dublin, but he spent a
year as a dispensary doctor at Portstewart, and did some writing here.
A stiff breeze was blowing along the coast, and Mike was kept busy
handling the airship. Leaving Portstewart, we went along the rough
coast to Portrush. This was formerly a dreaded coast, many a brave ship
going to pieces on the rocks. Portrush is the fashionable watering
place of the North of Ireland, and it is crowded with visitors during
July and August. The town is built on a ridge that projects into the
sea. The strands are beautiful. The ridge on which the town is built
ends in a hill, called Ramore hill, which is a favorite promenade. We
could see the bathers swimming in the surf, as we skimmed along the
strand towards the White Rocks. These are cliffs of a strange white
formation. A little beyond the White Rocks Mike slowed up, and passed
around the picturesque ruins of Dunluce Castle. This ancient ruin
crowns a high cliff, and, before men could fly, was a difficult place
to reach. Right in front of us we could see the headlands above the
Giant’s Causeway. I did not very much enjoy my sail from Dunluce to
those headlands. After leaving the Castle, Mike turned directly out to
sea, instead of following the coast, and crossed a bay of a few miles
to the Causeway. I remembered our experience over the river Foyle, and
I did not altogether appreciate Mike’s daring. I was really relieved
as we rose over the great cliff that over-hangs the Causeway, and
circled around with the earth under us. We were both delighted to reach
the Northern end of the Island. It was not quite ten o’clock when we
arrived.
There are two large hotels on the high cliff, and we could see the
tourists, many with field glasses, watching us in the air. Mike, in the
exuberance of his joy and self-confidence, made three great circles
before landing. In making the last circle he went out over the sea
again, and then alit beside the Railroad hotel as lightly as a bird
could have done. The crowd cheered us as we stepped out, and some of
the men came forward to shake hands and congratulate us. We were asked
if we were the Wright Brothers, and when we said we were not, some of
them suggested Curtiss, Farnam, and other well-known aeronauts. When we
explained we were simply tourists, using the latest and best way of
travel, they looked at each other, and when Mike told how we had come
from Cork, they laughed outright. I do not believe half a dozen in the
crowd thought we had come any further than from Portrush. I expect they
would not have believed we could fly at all had they not seen us alight.
One Englishman laughed so contemptuously that I noticed Mike looked at
him in disgust.
“It reminds me of the Manager of the Chicago Stockyards,” said the
Englishman.
“Why, what about the Manager of the Chicago Stockyards?” asked Mike
hotly.
Not noticing Mike’s rising temper, the Englishman went on to tell of a
couple of Irishmen who went to Chicago, and while there, visited the
Stockyards. One of the managers noticed the interest Erin’s sons took
in the great institution, and thought he would play a joke. Pointing to
a large herd of cattle, which were being driven into one of the lower
buildings, the Manager called attention to them, and when the last
tail had disappeared, he waited a few moments and then pulled a great
freight elevator rope and down came a large elevator loaded with canned
meat.
“There,” said the Manager, slyly winking at an employee near by, “there
are all those cows you saw, hides, horns, hoofs, and every thing, all
canned and ready for market. Did you ever see anything like that in
Ireland, Pat?” he asked.
Pat at once took out his note book and began to write. The Manager
looked over Pat’s shoulder and read on Pat’s note book: “The Manager of
the Chicago Stockyards is the biggest liar I have met yet.”
Mike was furious as he heard the crowd join in uproarious laughter at
our expense.
“Do you call me a liar, sir,” said Mike, squaring himself in front of
the joking Englishman.
The Englishman was taken aback at Mike’s earnestness, and, not knowing
what to say, merely laughed in a foolish kind of way.
“I allow no man to call me a liar,” said Mike, as he stepped closer to
his antagonist. Mike was a Yankee, but I knew there was Irish blood in
his veins, and this rash Englishman had aroused him.
I was afraid our aeroplane trip was going to end in a fiasco, when
something altogether unexpected happened.
“I believe you, sir,” said a sweet, charming, musical voice, “and you
must tell us all about your wonderful voyage over Ireland. It must have
been delightful.”
Mike turned to see the speaker, and, in a moment, every trace of anger
left his face, and he stood like a blushing schoolboy.
At the same time a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked girl, of nineteen or
twenty, clad in a dainty white sailor dress and cap came forward,
holding out her hand.
Mike recovered himself, clasped her hand, saying: “I thank you, Miss—.”
“Edith O’Neill,” added the girl.
“I am glad to meet you, Miss O’Neill,” said Mike, and I never saw him
look more manly.
The crowd burst into applause, and all was good cheer again. That was
the first meeting of Mike and Miss O’Neill, and it was fraught with
more meaning than any of us thought at the time. I found out later in
the day that Miss O’Neill was a descendant of the famous Irish O’Neill
family. Her father was a wealthy Dublin lawyer, and she and her parents
were taking a short holiday at the Causeway.
After seeing that the aeroplane was carefully stored away in a corner
of the hotel yard, Mike and I retired to our room until lunch. Mike
was in splendid humor, and he had every reason to be. Our aeroplane
trip was a success. We had conquered the Irish air. An Irish heiress is
still more difficult to conquer, but it is wonderful what one can do in
the Irish atmosphere.