OUR LAST DAY IN IRELAND SEEING TIPPERARY
We spent the rest of that day around Cork. Going to the steamship
office we found our liner would call at Queenstown on the second day.
We had one more day for sightseeing.
“Mike,” said I, “let us start early tomorrow morning, and spend our
last day seeing Tipperary.”
“Agreed,” said he.
He carefully overhauled the motor, and we had all in readiness for a
second flight from Cork the next morning.
We flew direct toward County Tipperary. Our first place of interest was
Cashel, the former Capital of Munster.
As we entered Tipperary and skimmed over its green acres, I entertained
Mike by quoting to him a description of a Tipperary man:
“Strong is his form, his heart is warm,
His spirit light as any fairy:
His wrath as fearful as the storms
That sweep the hills of Tipperary.
Lead him to fight for Fatherland,
His is no courage cold or wary;
The troops live not on earth could stand
The headlong charge of Tipperary.
But meet him in his cabin rude,
Or walking with his dark-haired Mary,
You’d swear they knew no other mood,
But mirth and love in Tipperary.”
When I had finished, Mike returned me the favor by singing, with the
motor as an accompaniment, a famous Tipperary song. The words of it are:
“Oh, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that’s going round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground;
No more St. Patrick’s Day we’ll keep, his color can’t be seen,
For there’s a bloody law agin the wearin’ o’ the green.
I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,
And he said, ‘And how’s ould Ireland and how does she stand?’
She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they’re hangin’ men and women for the wearin’ o’ the green.”
When he had finished I said:
“Mike, an Irishman could not sing that any better than you.”
“An Irishwoman could, though,” said Mike, and then he continued, “You
ought to have heard Edith sing that very song as we were flying over
Dublin. I thought I was in heaven, and was hearing the angels sing.”
“When you landed after that trip you both looked as though you had been
in the seventh heaven,” I answered.
Just then we sighted the rock of Cashel, and our thoughts were turned
into other channels. Cashel, like Tara, is only a memory. Formerly it
was a place of the greatest importance all over the south of Ireland.
Now it is an unimportant village. The famous rock of Cashel still
stands, crowned with the ruins of the old Cathedral, King Cormac’s
Chapel, and a Round Tower. This celebrated rock is a mass of limestone,
rising steeply out of the plain to the height of 300 feet. Here
formerly the Kings of Munster were crowned, and here, in 1172, Henry
II. was declared King of Ireland. St. Patrick preached at Cashel when
it was a Royal Court.
We circled the Rock twice to the utter amazement of the inhabitants of
the village. I doubt if we made more stir anywhere than in Cashel.
Passing on towards Thurles, we saw one of the finest monastic ruins in
Ireland, Holy Cross Abbey. The ruins are of great antiquity, but are
well preserved, and they are quite extensive. The Cruciform church is
still extant enough to show lines of great beauty. This was a former
Sanctuary of the O’Briens of Limerick.
From Thurles we went directly west to Limerick.
Limerick is one of Ireland’s oldest cities, and it looks it. It is
built on the Shannon river, and Limerick Castle still frowns over that
noble stream. This old castle is well preserved.
Limerick, like so many of the towns around the coast of Ireland, was
founded by the Danes. It has been the scene of some stirring Irish
history. Two famous sieges were endured by this city in the 17th
century.
In 1651, the English besieged and captured Limerick under General
Ireton. On capturing the city, Ireton hung Bishop O’Brien, an outrage
deeply resented by the Irish people.
In 1690 the forces of William II. invested Limerick, after the victory
at the Boyne, and the garrison was compelled to capitulate. The treaty
of capitulation was signed on a large stone, since called the “Treaty
Stone.”
This Treaty afterwards was shamefully violated by the English
Government, and to this day Limerick is known in Ireland as “The City
of the Violated Treaty.” As we flew over the city I saw this famous
stone, on a pedestal, near Thomond Bridge. I also saw the ancient
Cathedral which adorns the city. The present population of Limerick is
only 40,000 as the city has lost heavily in recent years by emigration
to America. The chief business at present is butter-making, but lace
and linen are also produced. There are fine docks and a good export
business, as the Shannon is easily navigable at Limerick.
There was one other spot in Ireland we wished to see. We could not
finish up our aeroplane trip without flying over Glengariff, which has
been called the loveliest spot in all Europe. We made a rapid return
flight from Limerick to County Cork. We sped past the Kerry Mountains,
beyond which lay Killarney, but we did not attempt to cross them. It
was still early in the forenoon when we reached Bantry Bay.
Glengariff means “Rugged Glen” and the scenery is rugged enough in
places but it is undoubtedly one of the finest scenes in the world. A
mountain stream runs through the lovely valley, which is crossed by
many picturesque bridges, before it empties itself into the waters of
Bantry Bay. Thackery said if Glengariff were in England, it would be
one of the world’s wonders. The climate is remarkably mild all the
year and the wild flowers grow in profusion. We passed directly over
the little village of Glengariff, and saw Cromwell’s Bridge. This is a
bridge said to have been damaged, as so much else was during Cromwell’s
visit in the neighborhood.
Our minds, our hearts, our souls were full of the beautiful scenes of
the Emerald Isle, when we turned towards Cork for our final flight.
Before we reached the more level land, beyond the hills of Bantry Bay,
we had one of our worst experiences with the aeroplane. While crossing
a very broken, and hilly stretch of country, covered with stone fences,
small cabins, and mountain garden patches, without any warning, the
motor again stopped suddenly.
[Illustration: “BEGORRA, IT’S A FOINE BURD.”]
I cried out to Mike to land at once. He was compelled to alight, for,
when the motor is dead, an aeroplane is like a bird with two broken
wings. With the rocky ground, stone fences, and little garden-patches,
it was the most difficult descent Mike had to make. He saved the
aeroplane from a smash-up only by lighting squarely on the roof of one
of the little thatched cabins. As we landed on it, a man, his wife
and several children rushed out and gazed at us in silent wonder. We
climbed down as best we could, and explained our plight. While the man
went away to get some of his neighbors to assist us in getting the
aeroplane down on the ground, I looked the cabin over. It was not a
beautiful sight when seen close at hand. A vile-smelling manure pile
was heaped in front of the door, and the rude stone walls were most
unsightly. The thatch looked as ancient as some of the old ruins we
had lately seen. The cabin had only one room. Chickens ran in and out
along with the children, and as I entered inside, I saw “the pig in
the parlor,” for the one room was the kitchen, dining room, parlor and
bed-room combined. Part of the cooking was done outside during fair
weather, and a pot of potatoes were boiling over a peat fire beside the
cottage. There was a baby in the mother’s arms, and I counted six other
children around her. Pallets of straw showed where the nightly rest
was obtained. The floor was nothing but hard mother earth. A table,
two rough chairs, and a stool, with a rough cupboard completed the
furnishings. A few pots lay near the peat fire under the hole, which
was meant for a chimney. There was no window. The one door furnished
all the light and air.
* * * * *
I found out afterwards that such cabins were occupied only by a
comparatively few, even of the poor in Ireland. The Government is at
present working among these poor peasants, and in a few years it is
expected such hovels will be banished forever from the island. This was
a “bog-trotter” cabin, such as is only found in the hilly and desolate
regions, where birds, to say nothing of men, find it hard to get a
living.
* * * * *
The woman was cordial and self-possessed, and did not seem to mind
the squalid surroundings. She offered us some of the cooked potatoes,
and as we ate them outside the cabin, taking them in our hands, they
tasted as good as though they had been cooked in a palace.
A few neighbors soon gathered and helped us get the aeroplane down from
the low roof.
While Mike was getting ready to start again, I talked with the owner of
the cabin. He seemed cheerful and pointed out to me his potato patch,
his “food and drink.”
He told me about the mountains that could be seen from his cabin, and
named several of the more important hills. I noticed that a number of
the names had the “devil” in them. One peak he called the “devil’s
Needle.” Another hill, with a hollow place in its side was the “devil’s
Bit.” I thought I would see if there was any Irish in him, and I said:
“His Satanic Majesty seems to own a great deal of property among these
hills, judging by their names.”
“Indade he does, sor,” said this son of Erin, “but he is like most of
our landlords, he makes his headquarters in London, sor.”
I saw it was no difference where you find him, in palace, mansion,
villa, cottage, cabin or even hovel, an Irishman is always the same.
Everywhere you will find him genial, witty, good-natured. It must be
the effect of the Irish atmosphere.
When Mike had the motor going again we soon made our ascent aloft,
leaving our Irish cabiners watching us in awe.
We reached Cork again shortly after noon. After a brief rest, we spent
the rest of the day in taking the airship to pieces, and re-packing it.
Next morning we were ready for our ocean voyage and took the early
train from Cork to Queenstown. Five days later we reached New York. We
had been absent considerably less than a month.
Mike has since returned to Ireland. He did not take the aeroplane, but
he took along a big trunk. When he returns, as he will in a few weeks,
the Connor house in New York State, will have a beautiful young Irish
girl as its queen, and my good friend, Mr. O’Neill will come out to
America next year to see his daughter, Mrs. Michael Connor. Such was
the strange ending of our aeroplane trip. As I think of it, I often say
to myself: “It was the result of the Irish atmosphere.”
Transcriber’s Notes
Page 28—changed fraid to afraid
Page 31—changed Carntual to Carrauntoohil
Page 47—changed prefect to perfect
Page 53—changed County Fermanaugh to County Fermanagh
Page 60—changed AREOPLANE to AEROPLANE
Page 81—changed Juse to Just
Page 124—changed desmense to desmesne
Page 133—changed seeem to seem