[Illustration]
ON AN
IRISH JAUNTING CAR
Through Donegal and Connemara
BY SAMUEL G BAYNE
[Illustration: "THE REAL THING"]
On An
Irish Jaunting-Car
Through Donegal and Connemara
BY S. G. BAYNE
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1902, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published November, 1902.
PREFACE
In the compiling of this little book, I am deeply indebted for
historical data, etc., to John Cooke, M.A., the Messrs. Black, Lord
Macaulay, the _Four Masters_, and many others, from whose writings I
have made extracts; and for photographs to Messrs. W. Lawrence, T.
Glass, and Commissioner Walker.
I sincerely hope I may be forgiven for the shortcomings and errors
which can doubtless be found in this brief sketch of a few weeks' tour
through the north, west, and south of Ireland.
S. G. BAYNE.
NEW YORK CITY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
NEW YORK TO LONDONDERRY 1
LONDONDERRY TO PORT SALON 9
PORT SALON TO DUNFANAGHY 14
DUNFANAGHY TO FALLCARRAGH 23
FALLCARRAGH TO GWEEDORE 36
GWEEDORE TO GLENTIES 40
GLENTIES TO CARRICK 46
CARRICK TO DONEGAL 49
DONEGAL TO BALLYSHANNON 53
BALLYSHANNON TO SLIGO 57
SLIGO TO BALLINROBE 65
BALLINROBE TO LEENANE 67
LEENANE TO RECESS 70
ACHILL ISLAND 78
RECESS TO GALWAY 92
ARAN ISLANDS 106
LIMERICK 117
CORK AND QUEENSTOWN 128
ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE REAL THING" _Frontispiece_
RATHMULLEN ABBEY, COUNTY DONEGAL _Facing p._ 10
CARNISK BRIDGE AND SALMON-LEAP
(IN LOW WATER), NEAR RAMELTON,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 12
OUR FIRST CAR " 14
IN THE GREAT ARCH, "SEVEN
ARCHES," PORT SALON, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 16
DUNREE FORT, LOUGH SWILLY,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 18
TEMPLE ARCH, HORN HEAD, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 24
"MCSWINE'S GUN," HORN HEAD,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 26
GLEN VEIGH, COUNTY DONEGAL " 34
A TURF BOG " 38
NATIVES OF COUNTY DONEGAL " 44
A TURF CREEL, CARRICK, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 50
DONEGAL CASTLE " 54
SALMON-LEAP, BALLYSHANNON, COUNTY
DONEGAL " 60
GOING TO THE BOG FOR TURF, BUNDORAN,
COUNTY DONEGAL " 62
LORD ARDILAUN'S CASTLE, CONG,
COUNTY MAYO " 66
CONG ABBEY, COUNTY MAYO " 68
WATER-FALL IN THE MARQUIS OF
SLIGO'S DEMESNE, WESTPORT,
COUNTY MAYO " 72
KYLEMORE CASTLE AND PRIVATE
CHAPEL, COUNTY GALWAY " 74
DEVIL'S MOTHER MOUNTAIN, AASLEAGH
FALLS, AND SALMON-LEAP
ON ERRIFF RIVER, COUNTY GALWAY " 76
THE FISHERY, ACHILL ISLAND,
SLIEVEMORE IN THE DISTANCE " 78
CATHEDRAL CLIFFS AT MENAWN,
ACHILL ISLAND " 81
ACHILL HEAD, COUNTY MAYO " 88
BOYS FISHING, NEAR RECESS, COUNTY
GALWAY " 94
A CONNEMARA TINKER " 102
THE LANDING OF THE COW, ARAN
ISLANDS " 106
ON OUR WAY TO DUN AENGUS, ARAN
ISLANDS " 108
"WE TAKE TO THE WATER IN A
CURRAGH." ARAN ISLANDS " 112
CURRAGHS, ARAN ISLANDS " 114
THE CLOISTERS, ADARE ABBEY,
COUNTY LIMERICK " 126
SHE SAT AND DROVE ON A LOW-BACK
CAR " 134
THE KETTLE IS BOILING FOR OUR
TEA " 136
ON AN IRISH JAUNTING-CAR
THROUGH DONEGAL AND CONNEMARA
NEW YORK TO LONDONDERRY
At New York, on the 26th of June, we boarded the SS. _Columbia_, the
new twin-screw steamer of the Anchor Line. Every berth was taken, and
as the passengers were a bright set, "on pleasure bent," there was an
entire absence of formality and exclusiveness. They sang, danced, and
amused themselves in many original ways, while the _Columbia_ reeled
off the knots with a clock-like regularity very agreeable to the
experienced travellers on board.
As our destination was Londonderry, we took a northerly course, which
brought us into floating ice-fields and among schools of porpoises and
whales; in fact, it was an uneventful day on which some passenger
could not boast of having seen "a spouter, just a few minutes ago!"
We celebrated the morning of the Fourth of July in a very pretentious
way with a procession of the nations in costume and burlesques on
the conditions of the day. The writer was cast to represent the Beef
Trust, and at two hundred and twenty-five pounds the selection met with
popular approval; but he found a passenger of thirty-five pounds more
in the foreground, and thereupon retired to the side-lines. Attorney
Grant, of New York, made a striking "Rob Roy," with his colossal
Corinthian pillars in their natural condition. A long list of games
and a variety of races for prizes gave us a lively afternoon, and the
evening wound up with a "grand" concert, at which Professor Green, of
Yale, made an excellent comic oration.
W. A. Ross, of New York, was my companion on the trip; A. B. Hepburn,
ex-Comptroller of the Currency, intended going with us, but was
prevented at the last moment by a pressure of business, which we very
much regretted.
The steamer soon sighted Tory Island, rapidly passed Malin Head, and
then turned in to Lough Foyle. When a few miles inside the mouth
of the latter, we stopped at Moville and the passengers for Ireland
were sent up to Londonderry on a tender. We were so far north and the
date was so near the longest day that we could easily read a paper at
midnight, and as we did not get through the custom-house until 4 A.M.,
we did not go to bed, but went to a hotel and had breakfast instead.
The custom-house examination at Derry, conducted under the _personal_
direction of a collector, is perhaps the most exasperating ordeal of
its kind to be found in any port in existence. The writer has passed
through almost all the important custom-houses in the world, and has
never seen such a display of inherent meanness as was shown by this
"collector." He seized with glee and charged duty upon a single package
of cigarettes belonging to a passenger, and he "nabbed" another man
with a quarter-pound of tobacco, thereby putting an extra shilling
into his King's pocket. He was an Irish imitation Englishman, and his
h's dropped on the dock like a shower of peas when he directed his
understrappers in a husky squeak how best to trap the passengers.
The owner of the quarter-pound of tobacco poured out the vials of
his wrath on the "collector" afterwards at the hotel: "I would give
a five-pound note to get him in some quiet place and pull his parrot
nose," was the way he wound up his invective. Neither were the ladies
allowed to escape, their clothing being shaken out in quest of tobacco
and spirits, since those are about the only articles on which duty is
charged. The very last cigar was extracted by long and bony fingers
from its cosey resting-place in the vest-pocket of a passenger who
shall be nameless--hence these tears! All other ports in Europe vie
with one another in liberal treatment of the tourist; they want his
gold. The writer landed both at Southampton and Dover last summer, and
at the latter place, although there were over five hundred trunks and
satchels on the steamer, not one was opened, nor was a single passenger
asked a question. Smuggling means the sale at a profit of goods brought
into port for that purpose; nothing from America can be sold at a
profit, unless it be steel rails, and they are much too long to carry
in a trunk.
We are now in "Derry," as it is called in Ireland, and every man in it
is "town proud"; and well he may be, as Derry has a historical record
second to but few cities in any country, and its siege is perhaps
the most celebrated in history. At this writing it has a population
of thirty-three thousand and is otherwise prosperous. Saint Columba
started it in 546 A.D. by building his abbey. Then came the deadly Dane
invader, swooping down on this and other Foyle settlements and glutting
his savage appetite for plunder. Out of the ruins left by the Danes
arose in 1164 the "Great Abbey of Abbot O'Brolchain," who was at that
time made the first bishop of Derry. The English struggled and fought
for centuries to gain a foothold in this part of Ireland, but to no
purpose until Sir Henry Docrora landed, about 1600 A.D., on the banks
of the Foyle with a force of four thousand men and two hundred horse.
He restored Fort Culmore and took Derry, destroyed all the churches,
the stones of which he used for building fortifications, and left
standing only the tower of the cathedral, which remained until after
the siege.
In 1608 Sir Cahir O'Doherty, of Inishowen, who at first had favored the
settlement, rebelled, took Culmore fort, and burned Derry. His death,
and the "flight of the earls" Tyrone and Tyrconnell to France, left
Derry and other vast possessions to English confiscation, over two
hundred thousand acres alone falling to the citizens of London. The
walls were built in 1609, and still remain in good condition, being
used as a promenade; the original guns bristle from loop-holes at
intervals, and "Roaring Meg" will always have a place in history for
the loud crack she made when fired on the enemy. She sits at the base
of Walker's monument now, silent, but still ugly. This monument is
erected on a column ninety feet high, starting from a bastion on the
wall, and has a statue of Walker on its summit. One of the earliest
feats in sight-seeing which the writer ever accomplished was to climb
to its top, up a narrow flight of spiral stairs. (There would not be
room enough for him in it now.)
James I. granted a new charter of incorporation to Derry in 1613, and
changed the name from Derrycolumcille to Londonderry. James II. laid
siege to the town in person in 1689, but failed to capture it. It was
defended for one hundred and five days by its citizens under George
Walker, but two thousand of them lost their lives from wounds and
starvation. On the 28th of July, the ships _Mountjoy_ and _Phoenix_,
by gallantly rushing in concert against the iron boom laid across
the Foyle, broke it, and relieved the starving people with plenty of
provisions; and so the siege was ended.
There are seven gates in the walls of Derry--viz., Bishop's Gate,
Shipquay Gate, Butchers' Gate, New Gate, Ferryquay Gate, Castle Gate,
and the Northern Gate, a recent addition. Those favorites of fortune
who live near New York know that George Washington had some two
hundred and fifty "headquarters" and places where he "once stopped,"
in and about that city, and that he sat in over two thousand armchairs
in them--or, at least, that number has been sold with the genial
auctioneer's guarantee of their authenticity. It is estimated that
it would require a train of twenty freight cars to carry the chairs,
desks, haircloth sofas, saddle-bags, guns, and pistols that have been
sold as relics from his headquarters at Madame Jumel's alone, Harlem
absorbing seventy-five per cent. of this output. But for all that,
King James runs George a close second. The writer is only one man, yet
he has slept in three Honduras mahogany four-posters in which James
preceded him, has eaten with many knives that swept the royal mouth,
and to-day owns a bone-handled razor that is said to have scraped the
face of royalty; and yet, after all, he is only comparatively happy!
LONDONDERRY TO PORT SALON
We leave Derry with regret, and take the train for Fahan. This brings
us to the shore of Lough Swilly, where we embark on a ferry-boat and
cross the lough to Rathmullen. While crossing I saw Buncrana, a short
distance down the lough. This is a pretty village containing the castle
of the O'Dochertys, now in ruins, and near it the castle erected by Sir
John Vaughan at a later period. Half a century ago the latter became
dilapidated, but it was restored and has ever since been rented "for
the season," as an investment by the owner. One of my pleasantest
recollections is the week's-end visit I made many years ago to its then
tenant. It had fine, terraced gardens, its outer walls were skirted by
a trout and salmon river, and there was a vast court-yard behind it
with cell-stalls for the cavalry horses, and even a gallows on which
to hang captured invaders--and many of them were hanged on this same
gallows. It was not a pleasant outlook from one's bedchamber window,
but then the victims had been a long time dead, and no trouble came
from their ghosts.
We soon arrived at Rathmullen, a historic spot where many things
happened in the days of yore. It occupies a sheltered position at the
foot of a range of hills that intervene between Lough Swilly and Mulroy
Bay, of which the highest point is Crochanaffrin, one thousand one
hundred and thirty-seven feet. It is worth while to make an excursion
either up this hill or Croaghan, one thousand and ten feet, which is
nearer; for the extraordinary view over the inlets and indentations of
this singular coast will put the traveller more in mind of Norwegian
fiords than British scenery. Close to it are the ivy-clad ruins of
a priory of Carmelite friars, consisting of two distinct buildings
erected at an interval of nearly two centuries. The eastern portion, of
which the tower and chancel remain, was constructed by the McSweenys
in the fifteenth century. It exhibits considerable traces of pointed
Gothic architecture. Over the eastern window there still remains a
figure of St. Patrick. The architecture of the remainder of the
building is of the Elizabethan age, a great part of it having been
rebuilt by Bishop Knox, of the diocese of Raphoe, in 1618, on obtaining
possession of the manor of Rathmullen from Turlogh Oge McSweeny. The
_Annals of the Four Masters_ (to which we will refer later), states
that in 1595 it was plundered by George Bingham, son of the Governor
of Connaught. McSweeny's castle is supposed to have stood west of the
priory, but it was destroyed in 1516. It was from here that the young
Hugh O'Donnell was carried off in 1587, and kept a prisoner in Dublin
until he made his romantic escape in 1591. In 1607, the Earls of Tyrone
and Tyrconnell took their "flight" from Rathmullen in a small vessel.
"The entire number on board was ninety-nine, having little sea-store,
and being otherwise miserably accommodated." After a hazardous voyage
of three weeks, they landed at the mouth of the Seine.
[Illustration: RATHMULLEN ABBEY, COUNTY DONEGAL]
There is a monument in the churchyard to the memory of the Hon. William
H. Packenham, captain of the British man-of-war _Saldanha_, wrecked
on Swilly Rock in 1811. Every soul on board was lost; the only living
thing that reached the land was the captain's gray parrot, which the
wind carried in safety to the rocky shore.
Here, too, Wolfe Tone was taken prisoner on board the French frigate
_Hoche_, in 1798. Tone was a talented young Irishman, and pleaded
the Irish cause so eloquently in Paris that a fleet of forty-three
ships, with fifteen thousand men, was sent to Ireland in 1796, Hoche
commanding. A tremendous storm scattered the fleet on the Irish coast,
and the ships returned to France in broken order. Nothing daunted, Tone
again persuaded the French to give him a trial with a new fleet. They
gave it, but this expedition was even more unfortunate than the first
one, and the end of Tone's tragic career dated from his arrest on the
shores of Lough Swilly.
A few miles above, Lough Swilly divides into two forks, one running
up to Letterkenny and the other to Ramelton, a little town located
at the point where the river Lennon meets the tidal salt water. This
interesting place is celebrated for the fine views it affords and
for its salmon and trout fishing. I was exceedingly anxious to visit
it, but time would not permit the shortest deviation from our rigid
itinerary, as we had purchased a state-room on the _Etruria_, sailing
from Queenstown on July 28th.
[Illustration: CARNISK BRIDGE AND SALMON-LEAP (IN LOW WATER), NEAR
RAMELTON, COUNTY DONEGAL]
It was at Rathmullen that we hired our first jaunting-car; and it
might here be said that of all the vehicles ever invented the modern
Irish jaunting-car holds first place for the use of the traveller; it
is unique and there is nothing that can take its place for an easy
and comfortable lounging ride, when balanced by two passengers and a
driver. It is now improved with a circular back and rubber tires, while
the very latest has a driver's seat behind, like a hansom cab. We can
speak truthfully of the jaunting-car, after having tested its qualities
for three hundred and fifty miles on this trip; but would add that care
is requisite in arranging for and selecting a car, as many of them are
old and worn out.
PORT SALON TO DUNFANAGHY
Leaving Rathmullen, John, our driver, took us a short cut over the
Glenalla Mountains to Port Salon, through Mr. Hart's demesne of fine
timber. As we drove along, our interest was excited by the masses of
furze to be seen on all sides. This shrub grows about five feet high
and is thickly covered with sharp, dark-green prickles and innumerable
flowers of the brightest yellow known to botanists. Its popular name
is "whin," and it is extensively used as food for their horses by
the farmers, who pound the prickles into pulp in a stone trough, and
when so prepared the horses eat them with great relish. "Whins" grow
all over the north of Ireland in wild profusion, and the startling
blaze of their bright yellow bloom may be seen for miles; to those not
accustomed to their beauty they are a most interesting novelty.
After driving about twelve miles through this kind of country, we
arrived at Colonel Barton's handsome hotel on the bluffs of Lough
Swilly, at the point where it opens into the Atlantic. I can hardly
describe the beauty of this spot--its hard, yellow strand, its savage
mountains covered with blooming heather, its sapphire sea in strong
contrast to the deep, rich green pines. The Atlantic was booming into
the numerous caves that line both sides of the lough, and so seductive
was the influence of this sound that at our first view we lay down,
tired and happy, in the deep heather, and fell asleep for an hour,
undisturbed by fly, mosquito, or gnat. A British iron-clad was anchored
a little above, which gave a note of distinction to the charming scene;
we were told it was the celebrated _Camperdown_, that did the ramming
in the Mediterranean disaster.
[Illustration: OUR FIRST CAR]
We stayed overnight, and made an excursion next morning to the "Seven
Arches." This is a short and interesting trip, about a mile and a half
north of the hotel. Here is a series of fine caverns scooped out of the
limestone rock by the action of the waves, which can be easily reached
by land, but the approach by water is grander and more imposing. From
the strand where the boat deposits the visitor, a cave with a narrow
entrance runs one hundred and thirty feet inland, and beyond this are
the "Seven Arches," one of which, forming a grand entrance from the
sea, one hundred yards long, divides into two. Beyond the left-hand
cave is another, one hundred and twenty feet long. The right-hand cave
is again divided into four beautiful caverns, through any one of which
a passage may be made to the bowlder strand, whence another arch leads
towards the north.
We left Colonel Barton's and drove along the coast for a few miles to
Doaghbeg, where we stopped to admire a magnificent sea-arch called
"Brown George," the most remarkable natural feature, perhaps, on the
whole coast of Lough Swilly. Doaghbeg is a very primitive, native
village and is the capital of the district called Fanet (sometimes
Fanad). This was the birthplace of the Honorable P. C. Boyle, who
has made his mark in Pennsylvania. Further driving brought us to
Fanet Head, one of the most northerly points in Ireland, on which is
erected a large light-house, one hundred and twenty-seven feet above
high-water. This has a group of occulting lights showing white to
seaward and red towards land. After inspecting the light-house, we took
our last look at Lough Swilly, that lake of shadows with its marvellous
scenic splendor, almost unrivalled also as a safe and deep harbor. I
have seen the British fleet manoeuvered in its confines, and it could
easily anchor every man-of-war in commission to-day, giving them all
enough cable to swing clear of one another on the tide.
[Illustration: IN THE GREAT ARCH, "SEVEN ARCHES," PORT SALON, COUNTY
DONEGAL]
We coasted the Atlantic for a few miles, and then turned into the hills
that surround Mulroy Bay, which soon came into sight. When we reached
the shore a council of war was held, and it was decided to save some
twenty miles of driving up round the head of the bay, by crossing, if
possible, at the lower end; so a broad, heavy, but unseaworthy boat was
chartered, and we took Bob, the horse, out of the car and rolled the
latter into the stern of our marine transport. It was no easy task to
get Bob to face the water; however, after beating about the bush for
half an hour, he suddenly grew tractable, and we pushed him into the
boat by main strength. The passage was ludicrous in the extreme; at
every high wave Bob would lash out his heels and prance. The captain
of the boat (who, by the way, was an Irishwoman) would berate John for
owning a horse "whose timper was so bad that he might plounge us all
into etarnity without a minit's notice!" John kept whispering in a loud
voice into his horse's ear promises of oats, turnips, and a bran-mash
by way of dessert, if he would only behave himself. The tide was
running strong, and when we were swept past our landing we each became
captain in turn without appointment, and a variety of language was
indulged in that would have made the Tower of Babel seem like a Quaker
meeting. The farce was suddenly ended by Bob's breaking loose from his
owner and jumping ashore like a chamois. We then ran the boat aground,
took out the car, and, after capturing Bob with the promised oats, were
soon on our way again.
In a short time after again starting, we ascended a hill and could
clearly see the spot where Lord Leitrim was assassinated in April,
1878. It lay up the bay in a clump of woods, close to the water.
Lord Leitrim had been very harsh with his tenants and had evicted
large numbers of them from their farms; they therefore determined to
"remove" him, and a select band of them lay in ambush along the road
and succeeded in killing his lordship, his driver, and his secretary
while they were driving to Derry. There were many trials in court, but
those arrested could never be convicted. As a boy I have been more
than once startled by the appearance of a pair of cars with eight
men on them, each having a couple of double-barreled shotguns. Lord
Leitrim was one of them; the others were his guards, going to Milford
to collect the rents. His temper was so violent that the government
removed him from the office of magistrate. His son, the late Earl, was
a very different kind of man; he did everything within his power to
advance his tenants' interests. After his death, a few years ago, the
tenantry erected a fine monument to his memory in Carrigart Square. We
later read the inscription upon it, which was, "He loved his people."
[Illustration: DUNREE FORT, LOUGH SWILLY, COUNTY DONEGAL]
After a pleasant drive we reached Carrigart and had a good lunch there;
we tried the Carrigart "perfectos" afterwards, and their memory clings
to us still! We then started for the Rosapenna Hotel, which was not
far distant--less than two miles. This hotel was built of wood, after
the Scandinavian fashion, by the trustees of the late Earl of Leitrim,
and opened in 1893. It was designed in Stockholm, whence the timber
was shipped to Mulroy. It stands at the base of Ganiamore Mountain,
on the narrow neck of the Rossgull peninsula, between Mulroy Bay and
Sheephaven. Fine golf links have been laid out with eighteen holes, the
circuit being three miles and a half. For visitors there is excellent
fishing in the adjacent waters, by permission of the Countess of
Leitrim, and good bathing on the strands of Sheephaven, which afford a
smooth promenade of six miles. From the top of Ganiamore a good view is
obtained of the coast from Horn Head round to Inishowen peninsula, and
from its hills a fine sweep inland to Errigal Mountain. At Downing's
Bay there is one of the finest views in Donegal, looking up and down
Sheephaven, the woods of Ards and the tower of Doe Castle backed up in
the distance by the ponderous mass of Muckish. Within a short distance
of the hotel are three caves which can be entered, one from the brow of
the hill and the others at low water. Near it also is Mulroy House,
the residence of the Countess of Leitrim.
From Rosapenna we drove to Doe Castle, built on the shores of
Sheephaven. This was a stronghold of the McSweenys, which has been, to
a certain extent, modernized and rendered habitable by a late owner,
who in doing so pulled down some of the walls. It consists of a lofty
keep with massive walls, which enclose passages and stone stairs. It
is surrounded by a "bawn," or castle-yard, defended by a high wall,
with round towers at intervals. The rock on which it stands is not
very high, but from its almost insulated position it was difficult to
approach. It was garrisoned by Captain Vaughan for Queen Elizabeth, but
was betrayed to the followers of Sir Cahir O'Doherty. It was besieged
in 1608, and Davis says: "Being the strongest in Tyrconnell, it endured
one hundred blows of the demi-cannon before it surrendered."
A little to the north, but separated by a prolongation of the marsh
at the head of Sheephaven, is Ards House, owned by Alexander J. R.
Stewart. This demesne is fenced with a cut-stone wall which we skirted
for many miles. It is a great show place, with its extensive mansion,
fine gardens, and beautiful woods, fronting on the bay where the
Lackagh River runs into it. We drew rein on the Lackagh bridge to see
Mr. Stewart's men draw a net with eight hundred pounds of salmon in it;
there were about eighty in the haul. William Wray, the old master of
Ards in the eighteenth century, had a strange history. He lived here in
luxurious state and "dispensed hospitality with true regal splendor."
His ambition, indeed, appeared to be to see daily as much eaten as
possible; and to facilitate the arrival of guests, he engineered a road
over Salt Mountain. Extravagance, however, at last told its tale, and
the old man, broken down, went over to France, where he died, "poor,
unfriended, and forgotten."
After crossing the bridge, we took up the road to Creeslough, where
Balfour is building a narrow-gauge railroad for the purpose of giving
employment to the poor; and by driving till quite late we reached
Dunfanaghy. "A great day's work," as John put it while cracking his
whip during the last half mile.
DUNFANAGHY TO FALLCARRAGH
We put up at the Stewart Arms, and next morning when we looked over
the town we came to the conclusion that Paris had nothing to fear
from Dunfanaghy. It hasn't even a Moulin Rouge to boast of, but it's
a first-class place to sleep in when you're worn out on the road, as
we were. We engaged a large boat with four men to row us out into
the Atlantic to see the famous Horn Head from the sea. The sight has
really no equal anywhere. The writer, having seen it many times since
boyhood, is more impressed with it on each occasion, and this last time
it seemed more entrancing than ever. Horn Head is a range of beetling
mountains projecting into the Atlantic, and covers in extent some
ten miles. The crags and horns are six hundred and twenty-six feet
high, and are of all the colors of the rainbow, from deepest black to
red, yellow, gray, purple, and green. The formation is vast galleries
or amphitheatres, broken by the nature of the rock into rectangular
shelves, on which perch myriads of birds, which are as the sands of
the sea for multitude. Some of these birds migrate from Norway, lay
one egg, and when the young are able they return home, only to come
back again each succeeding summer. There are many varieties of them, in
part consisting of guillemots, sheldrakes, cormorants, the shag, the
gannet, the stormy petrel, the speckled diver, and the sea-parrot. One
variety will fly with greater ease under a boat when pursuing fish than
it can in the air, and in the clear water they may be seen at great
depths, using their wings in this way. They have seen but few men, and
do not rise when approached. Their cawing and cries are fearful and
awe-inspiring, owing to the vast numbers of birds that are always in
the air or on the rocks, the whole panorama as seen from the boat is
something the beholder will remember as long as he lives.
We also saw many seals close to the boat; these live on salmon. Mr.
Stewart used to pay a crown each for their scalps, but since retiring
he has withdrawn the bonus and they are now increasing in numbers.
The sea is very lumpy at the head, owing to the squalls that blow down
over the cliffs; we encountered half a dozen, and any one of them would
have put a sailboat out of commission in a few minutes. They keep a
great ground-swell in constant motion, and the boat rose and fell on
these waves like a cork in a whirlpool. When rowing home we passed
a salmon net at a jutting point, with one end of its rope fastened
to the rocks. We asked why had such a place been selected when there
were so many others easier to get at, and the man replied: "Salmon are
queer fish; they have a path round the headlands when going to the
spawning-grounds, and never leave it. If that net were moved out fifty
yards it would never catch a salmon." Two men were perched on a small
ledge close to the water, watching the net against seals, as the latter
will tear the fish out of the nets with the ferocity of a tiger. These
men had six hundred feet of sheer rock above them, and we asked how
they ever got down or up again. "Oh, they're used to it; they've been
at it since they were boys, and they can scale the rocks like monkeys."
[Illustration: TEMPLE ARCH, HORN HEAD, COUNTY DONEGAL]
We again slept at the Stewart Arms, and we felt so much impressed by
what we had seen from the sea that we determined to go on the head
itself and view the surroundings; so next morning we started on the car
and were soon driving over the long stone bridge with its many arches.
On the way over the bridge we passed Horn Head House, the residence
of C. F. Stewart, a property that has been in the possession of the
present family since a Stewart raised men to fight for King James
against the O'Neills, in the Irish wars. The road winds up between vast
sand-hills, the sand being of a remarkable orange color, fading into
pink in the distance, while large tufts of rich, deep green bent-grass
are dotted over its surface, making such an unusually striking contrast
that we stopped the car for full five minutes to admire it. These hills
are alive with rabbits; they scampered off in all directions at our
approach and quickly disappeared into their holes.
One mile to the west in a direct line is "McSwine's Gun," concerning
which marvellous fables are told. The coast here is very precipitous
and perforated with caverns, one of which, running in for some
distance, is connected with the surface above by a narrow orifice,
which is very difficult to find without a guide, or very specific
directions and the close observance of landmarks. Through this,
in rough weather, the sea dashes, throwing up a column of water
accompanied by a loud explosion or boom, which is said to have been
heard as far as Derry.
[Illustration: "McSWINE'S GUN," HORN HEAD, COUNTY DONEGAL]
To the south of the rocks lies the fine stretch of Tramore Strand. A
little to the northeast of this spot is a circular castle. Continuing
by the shore, Pollaguill Bay is reached, joined by cable with Tory
Island. As seen from the land, the coast is rocky, broken, and
indented, and in about two miles rises into the precipitous mass
of Horn Head, over six hundred feet high. This headland somewhat
resembles in shape a double horn, bordered on one side by the inlet of
Sheephaven, though on the other the coast trends away to the south.
The cliffs present a magnificent spectacle of precipitous descents,
shelving masses of rock and yawning caverns lashed by the furious
waves of the Atlantic. The view from the summit of the head is one
of boundless ocean, broken only on the northwest by the islands of
Inishbeg, Inishdooey, Inishbofin, and Tory, and on the northeast
by the different headlands of this rugged coast--_i. e._, Melmore,
Rinmore, Fanet, Dunaff, and Malin heads, while on the east is seen in
the distance the little island of Inishtrahull.
As we drove down from the head, a drizzling rain began to fall and we
were glad to reach the shelter of the hotel and fortify the inner man
by a substantial dinner.
At this stage in our tour we were quite undecided as to our route.
We did not like to give up a visit to Glen Veigh, Gartan lakes and
the "Poisoned Glen," as these are considered the finest things of
their kind in Ireland, but finally decided that a détour which would
cost us two days of driving would be impossible, owing to pressure of
time; so after sleeping another night in Dunfanaghy, we pressed on to
Fallcarragh. Inasmuch, however, as I often visited and fished in these
glens and lakes, I may be pardoned for attempting to give the reader a
short description of their principal features.
Lough Veigh lies to the east of the Derryveigh Mountains, occupying
the opening to Glen Veigh. It is a long, narrow sheet of water; on the
north side, and running into it, a rocky, almost perpendicular, wall
rises to over twelve hundred feet, covered with Alpine vegetation. Over
the top of this wall several large streams fall and break into cascades
as they find their way to the lake below. Back of this and framing the
whole, rises the majestic Dooish, the highest ridge in the Derryveigh
range, standing two thousand one hundred and forty-seven feet above the
tide. In old times I have counted a dozen eagles that built their nests
on the topmost crags overhanging the water, their majestic, circling
flights giving life and interest to the scene. The south side is a
steep hill on which grow in riotous profusion the wild rose, bracken,
creeping plants, ferns, lichen, moss, the primrose, the bluebell, the
yellow gorse, and hazel; while in trees, it abounds in the gray birch,
mountain-ash, larch, yew, juniper, white hawthorn, and laburnums with
their glorious rain of gold--a mass of teeming harmonies and contrasts.
But by far the finest display is its panoply of purple heather, which
in some places reaches a height of ten feet; nowhere else can such
heather be found. This is the beauty spot of Ireland; the lower part of
the lake equals the best bit of Killarney, while the upper reaches of
the glen surpass it in grandeur; it is indeed the wildest mountain-pass
in Ireland. It may be described as, one might say, a salad of scenic
loveliness, made up of countless varieties of color, form, and
garniture; for I could pick out parts of it that resemble spots I have
seen at the base of the Himalaya Mountains in India, and others where
I have noticed a similarity to some places I visited near the Hot
Springs of Hakone, in Japan. A comparison with the Trosachs of Scotland
will result in no reflection on Glen Veigh; in fact, there is a close
resemblance between them, and I cannot do better than quote Sir Walter
Scott's celebrated description in _The Lady of the Lake_. Sir Walter,
the greatest word painter of them all, the wizard of the pen, the man
who could pick the magic word and almost paint a scene with it:
"The western waves of ebbing day
Rolled o'er the glen their level way;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravines below,
Where twined the path in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass.
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement
Or seemed fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,
Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd,
Or mosque of Eastern architect.
Nor were these earth-born castles bare,
Nor lacked they many a banner fair;
For, from their shivered brows displayed,
Far o'er the unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen,
The brier-rose fell in streamers green;
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.
"Boon nature scatter'd free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child.
Here eglantine embalm'd the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale and violet flower,
Found in each clift a narrow bower;
Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.
With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft, the ash and withe of oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung
His shattered trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced,
The wanderer's eye could barely view
The summer heaven's delicious blue;
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem
The scenery of a fairy dream."
The "Poisoned Glen" lies to the southwest, and is a startling contrast
to Glen Veigh. It has no vegetation of any kind, and is a weird, savage
cañon ending in a _cul-de-sac_. It looks uncanny and forbidding, and
seems as though it might be possessed, giving the visitor a creepy
feeling as he drives through its gloomy defiles. No animal or bird is
ever seen within its confines, as its barren sides will not support
life in any form.
Gartan Lough is seen a few miles to the south. It is celebrated for its
fine views and its fishing, and as the birthplace of St. Columba, who
was born just where a ruined chapel now stands and which was originally
erected, it is said, to mark the spot. St. Patrick made a pilgrimage to
this place in 450 A.D..
Twenty-three thousand acres, covering Lough and Glen Veigh and the
Gartan lakes, were originally owned by the Marshall brothers, one of
whom, John, was brother-in-law to the writer. Owing to the agricultural
depression of the times, the Marshalls could not collect their rents,
and rather than evict their tenants they sold the estate to Mr. J. G.
Adair. Mr. Adair had visited the place and become so enthusiastic about
it that he not only bought it but built a splendid castle near the lake
and constructed an imposing avenue, eight miles long, of which he was
very proud. Soon afterwards he stood for a seat in Parliament, as a
tenant-right candidate. Notwithstanding his politics, he had troubles
with the tenantry, his manager and one of the shepherds being killed in
one of the numerous affrays that occurred on the property. Conditions
went from bad to worse, till at length Mr. Adair decided to clear
his estate of tenantry by evicting them. Upon this, such strenuous
resistance and threats were made that the matter attracted public
attention and became a source of anxiety to the British government;
so troops were sent down with tents and military equipments, and
after a time a general eviction took place. The tenants had no means
of support, and national sympathy went out to them. Finally, the
government of Victoria offered to take all of them out to Australia,
free of charge, and as most of them accepted the offer, this closed the
unfortunate incident.
Personally, Mr. Adair was a gracious and upright man, but he contended,
as a matter of principle, that he owned the land and could do as he
liked with it. This was precisely the same ground that Mr. Morgan took
when being examined in New York recently on the witness-stand, with
regard to his connection with American trusts.
Since Mr. Adair's death, his wife has resided at the castle a part of
each year, and has recently entertained some eminent personages there,
as the following item from the Londonderry _Sentinel_ of September 13th
will show:
"Lord Kitchener and the distinguished party forming the guests of Mrs.
Adair at Glenveigh Castle have enjoyed an excellent week's sport.
Several fine stags have been killed in the deer-forest. There was a
very successful rabbit-shoot at Gartan on Wednesday. On Thursday,
Lord Brassey's famous yacht _Sunbeam_, which has been at Londonderry
since Monday, left for Lough Swilly, and yesterday the house-party
embarked for a cruise round Horn Head. The house-party consisted of
the following: Lord Kitchener, Lord and Lady Brassey, the Duchess of
St. Albans and Lady Alice Beauclerk, Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace,
the official historian of the voyage of the _Ophir_; Lady de l'Isle,
Captain Arthur Campbell, Captain Butler, and the Duke and Duchess of
Connaught. The departing guests were conveyed to the _Sunbeam_ and to
the railway station in Mrs. Adair's powerful motor car."
[Illustration: GLEN VEIGH, COUNTY DONEGAL]
FALLCARRAGH TO GWEEDORE
We are now on the road to Fallcarragh, seven miles distant, and we
pass his Majesty's mail, northbound from Letterkenny, a crimson car
loaded with mail-bags and luggage, and a driver wearing a bright-yellow
sou'wester. Everything was drenched and the horse in a steaming
lather--truly a novel sight for a denizen of Broadway.
Fallcarragh is the place from which you take a boat to visit Tory
Island, some eight miles out in the Atlantic. It has been called "the
Sentinel of the Atlantic," and it is well named, being the first land
one sees when nearing Ireland. Its name means "the island of towers,"
and it looked from the deck of the _Columbia_ as though it had been
built up by some titanic race of old. It did not seem to us that it
could be of much value, but it was considered important enough to fight
for in the early days "when giants were in the land." The _Book of
Ballymote_ states that it was possessed by the Fomorians, a race of
pirates and giants who inhabited Ireland twelve centuries before the
Christian era. Their chief was "Balor of the Mighty Blows," and two of
the rocks on the east coast of the island are called "Balor's Castle"
and "Balor's Prison." One of their number, named Conaing, erected a
tower on the island, as recorded in the _Book of Lecan_:
"The Tower of the Island, the Island of the Tower,
The citadel of Conaing, the son of Foebar."
It contains a portion of a round tower, built of undressed boulders
of red granite. It was never more than about forty feet in height, is
seventeen feet two inches in diameter, and the walls at the base are
four feet three inches thick; the doorway is five and a half feet high
and is eight feet from the ground. There are also ruins of two churches
(a monastery having been founded here by St. Columba), and a peculiar
tau-cross. On the northwest end of the island is a fine light-house,
illumined by gas, and it has also a fog-siren and a group-flashing
light; it stands a hundred and thirty feet above high-water. Near
it is the new signal station of Lloyd's, which is in telegraphic
communication with Dunfanaghy. There are a chapel, school-house, and
post-office also on the island. The rock scenery of the northeast coast
is very fine and characteristic; the southwest coast is low and flat,
and fringed with treacherous rocks. It was here that the gunboat _Wasp_
was wrecked on the 22d of September, 1884, and all its crew except six
drowned. Fishing is the chief industry, and the islanders are good
fishermen, pursuing their avocation now chiefly in Norway yawls instead
of "curraghs." The Congested Districts Board have aided the inhabitants
by supplying these vessels, the cost to be repaid by small instalments,
also in building a curing station and teaching the people how to cure
fish. Quantities of lobsters and crabs are caught, and a Sligo steamer
calls once a week for fish. There is a lack of fuel, which has to be
supplied from the main-land. The inhabitants have paid no rents since
the loss of the _Wasp_, which was sent to enforce payment or evict the
tenants. St. Columba, the patron saint of the place, is reported to
have landed here in a curragh.
From Fallcarragh you get a fine view of Muckish, with its twenty-two
hundred feet of altitude. While not the highest mountain in the
Donegal highlands, Muckish is longer and of greater bulk than any of
its rivals, and is also more imposing. Its name in Irish means "a pig's
back," which it very much resembles. Here is Ballyconnell House, seat
of Wybrants Olphert, Esq., where the "Plan of Campaign" was originated,
so well known in connection with the landlord and tenant troubles in
Ireland.
[Illustration: A TURF BOG]
We now took the shore-road through a district known as Cloughaneely,
where English is rarely spoken and we had to make our way by signs,
spending a few minutes en route at a national school and hearing them
teach the children both Irish and English. Continuing, we passed close
to Bloody Foreland, a head one thousand and fifty feet high, so called
because of its ruddy color. Arriving at Bunbeg, we stopped to feed
the horse and take some lunch ourselves, and then "made play" for the
Gweedore Hotel. Our road took us past the spot where Inspector Martin
was clubbed to death when executing a warrant for the arrest of the
Rev. James McFadden, P.P., in February, 1889, in connection with the
Gweedore evictions.
GWEEDORE TO GLENTIES
The Gweedore is a famous inn, built over fifty years ago by Lord
George Hill on the river Clady; it has held its supremacy as a centre
for salmon-fishing and grouse-shooting for half a century. The guests
supplied the table so bountifully with fish in the early days that
the writer has recollections, as a boy, of thinking that scales were
growing on his back after having been at the hotel for a week. Many
celebrities have fished and shot there--Thackeray, Dickens, Lord
Palmerston, Carlyle, and a host of others have had their feet under
its mahogany and have looked out of its windows at Errigal, popularly
known as the "peerless cone," the base of which is not over a mile
distant. This mountain rises to a height of two thousand four hundred
and sixty-six feet, scarred and naked to its peak. Slieve Snaght, two
thousand two hundred and forty feet, is another fine peak near it.
The name of Lord George Hill, the late proprietor of the estate, is
so thoroughly identified with that of Gweedore that it will not be
amiss to retail a few facts concerning him. He first settled in this
part of the country in 1838, purchasing twenty-three thousand acres
in the parish of Tullaghobegly, which he found in a state of distress
and want so great that it became the subject of a parliamentary
inquiry. Although there appeared to have been a considerable amount
of exaggeration in the statements made, enough remained to show
that famine, pestilence and ignorance were lamentably prevalent.
The prospects of the landlord were far from encouraging, on account
of the stony nature of the ground, the severity of the climate,
and the difficulty of collecting his rent; but, more than all, the
extraordinary though miserable system of rundale, which was universal
throughout the district. By this arrangement a parcel of land was
divided and subdivided into an incredible number of small holdings, in
which the tenant very likely held his proportion or share in thirty or
forty different places, which had no fences or walls whatever to mark
them. The utter confusion and the hopelessness of each tenant's being
able to know his own land, much less to plant or look after it, may
well be imagined. And not only to land was this system applied, but
also to portable property. With much perseverance and many struggles,
Lord George Hill gradually changed the face of things. He overcame and
altered the rundale system, improved the land, built schools, a church,
and a large store at Bunbeg, made roads, established a post-office,
and, what is perhaps of more importance to the traveler, a hotel. He
took a direct and personal interest in the good management of the hotel
and in the comfort of the guests who patronized it, frequently stopping
at the house himself, dining and spending the evening with them. Since
his death, in 1879, the hotel has kept up its traditional reputation
for comfort and general good management.