interesting, so we took a car to Cong, a very ancient place lying on
the neck of land which separates Lough Corrib from Lough Mask. St.
Fechin, of Fore, founded a church here in 624, and it is at this place
that Lord Ardilaun has his castle, a large building on the shores
of Lough Corrib, surrounded by an immense park, with fine timber,
Italian sunken gardens, and a pheasantry. In the gardens, in luxuriant
profusion, countless varieties of rare plants, gigantic palms, delicate
ferns, are as much at home as in their native tropics, carefully
nurtured in a climate tempered to their necessities, soft and balmy
from the influence of the Gulf Stream. Lord Ardilaun has many other
attractions besides these at Ashford Castle--_i. e._, steam-yachts,
watch-towers, conservatories, stables, a salmon-river, game-preserves,
and large herds of red and fallow deer, not to mention the Augustinian
monastery built by the king-monk Roderic O'Conor in the twelfth
century. He was the last Irish king, and lived the concluding fifteen
years of his life within these walls as a monk, in the strictest
seclusion; he died in 1198, aged eighty-two.
The Cross of Cong, which was made for Tuam, was brought here, it is
thought, by Roderic O'Conor. It measures two and a half feet high,
one foot six and three-quarter inches across arms, and one and
three-quarter inches thick. It is made of oak plated with copper, and
covered with the most beautiful gold tracery of Celtic pattern. In
the centre of the arms is a large crystal; thirteen of the original
eighteen jewels remain, set along the edges of shaft and arms, while
eleven of those which were set down the centre of arms and shaft and
round the crystal are lost. It was found by the Rev. P. Prendergast
early in the present century in a chest in the village, and after his
death it was purchased by Professor MacCullagh for one hundred guineas,
and presented to the Royal Irish Academy.
[Illustration: CONG ABBEY, COUNTY MAYO]
Loughs Mask and Corrib are connected by an underground river, as the
porous nature of the rock will not permit the water to flow on the
surface. We went down thirty feet into the "pigeon-hole," which is
near the castle, to see the flow of water through the ground. The
arrangements for seeing this place might truly be called hospitality
in a high form, as everything is shown and nothing expected in return
for the courtesy. The solicitude of the old gate-keeper for our welfare
was particularly marked, for when we returned to the gate after a very
peaceful inspection, he doffed his hat and exclaimed, "Glory be to God,
yer honors have returned safe and in good health, too, I see!"
During the Irish famine an attempt was made to dig a canal connecting
the lakes, so as to give the people something to do, and an enormous
amount of money was sunk in the project. The rocky bed absorbed the
water, however, as fast as it flowed in, and the enterprise proved an
utter failure. Every visitor asks what it is when he sees it. It is
called "The Great Blunder."
LEENANE TO RECESS
Next morning, with new car, horse, and driver, we put off for Leenane,
twenty-seven miles away. We drove along the banks of Lough Mask, with
its groups of small, wooded islands, and left it to take the road along
Lough Nafooey, a very picturesque drive. After some hours of driving,
we put up at McKeown's Hotel in Leenane. "Mac" is a Pooh-Bah, a tall,
strapping young Irishman, a "six-foot-twoer," with an intermittent
laugh that takes most of the sting out of his hotel bills, and he holds
the complimentary title of "The Major." He runs an up-to-date hotel,
is postmaster, owns a store, has all the mail-posting contracts, rents
salmon and trout rivers and lakes, ships salmon to London, and owns
ten thousand acres of shooting-land stocked with grouse, hares, snipe,
duck, and cock, which he lets to visitors, as well as seal shooting on
the bay. He also owns a sheep mountain, from which he serves mutton
to his guests in all the ways that mankind has ever known since sheep
were first slaughtered for food. We had on succeeding days, as part of
the menu, roast mutton (hot and cold), stewed lamb, boiled leg, roast
saddle, minced lamb, mutton cutlets, broiled kidneys, lamb chops,
Irish stew, suet-pudding, sweetbreads, French chops, sheep's-head, and
mutton broth. We fancied we could detect wool growing on the palms of
our hands when we left the hotel, and could have forgiven "Mac" if we
could only have found it starting on the tops of our heads instead. At
another hotel in a fishing centre we had an aquarium style of living,
which in time became monotonous: they served up in the course of time
for our delectation, salmon boiled and salmon broiled, cold salmon,
salmon steak, salmon croquettes, salmon cutlets, and stewed salmon,
intersticed with white trout, black trout, yellow trout, brown trout,
sea trout, speckled trout, and gillaroo. But at Recess they combined
such things with chops, duck, green pease, lobster, and Irish sole
right out of the nearby sea. All hail, Recess! And long life to Polly,
the peach-cheeked waitress who served us so nimbly!
Next morning we crossed Killary Bay in a boat, and while doing so we
noticed that the captain held his leg in a very constrained position.
We asked him if it was stiff, or if he was troubled with rheumatism.
"No; to tell your honor the truth, there's a hole in the boat, an' I'm
jist kapin' me heel in it to save her from sinkin'."
After landing we drove to Delphi to see its lake and woods; then
on to Lough Dhu, a long sheet of water from the banks of which the
mountains rise to a height of twenty-five hundred feet. Delphi is one
of the loveliest spots in Connemara, but we can hardly go as far as
the enthusiastic Englishman who wrote: "It may be safely said that if
Connemara contained no other beauty, Delphi alone would be worth the
journey from London, for the sake of the mountain scenery." Delphi
House formerly belonged to the Marquis of Sligo, and at one time he
lived there. We returned by driving round the head of the bay, with a
horse that would have retarded a funeral procession. Within a mile of
the hotel there is a double echo, which we tested by loud whistling
on our fingers. After crossing the bay, the echo came back to us with
great strength, striking our side of the mountain again and thus making
a second echo.
[Illustration: WATER-FALL IN THE MARQUIS OF SLIGO'S DEMESNE, WESTPORT,
COUNTY MAYO]
On the morning before we left, I lay in bed half asleep, and, as the
bedrooms in the west of Ireland rarely have any locks on their doors,
our confidential "boots" stole quietly into the room and, looking at
me, soliloquized in a tender tone, suggestive of a tip if I should hear
him: "Sure, his honor is slapin' loike a baby, an' 'twould be nothin'
short of a crime to wake him up this wet mornin'; I haven't the heart
to do it." And he walked out of the room with his eye on the future.
The following day we "took in" the Killaries, as they are called. This
is a long arm of the sea, surrounded by high, bold mountains, clothed
with very green verdure to their tops. It is a wonderful fiord, which
has scarcely any parallel in the British Isles and much resembles the
coast scenery in Norway. Capacious and fit for the largest ships, it
runs inland to the very heart of the mountains for a distance of
some nine miles. The mountain scenery on the north of the fiord is
incomparably the finest, the enormous walls of Mweelrea, the "Giant of
the West," and Bengorm rising abruptly to the height of two thousand
six hundred and eighty-eight feet and two thousand three hundred and
three feet, while the excessive stillness of the land-locked water,
in which the shadows of the hills are clearly reflected, makes it
difficult for one to believe that it is the actual ocean which he
beholds.
That night, after a drive of twelve miles, we reached Casson's Hotel
in Letterfrack, where we asked for a fire in the dining-room, as it
was cold when we arrived. The maid brought a burning scuttle of peat,
the smoke from which did not subside during the entire dinner, but
it looked comfortable, to see each other through it, reminding us of
cheerful fires and warm nooks at home; the comparison could go no
farther, however. We asked the maid for a wine-list, in order that we
might try to overcome the effect of the smoke, and she responded, with
great _naïveté_, that she had no wine-list, but would bring us a sample
from every bin in the cellar. In a few minutes, sure enough, she
bounced into the room with her arms full of bottles, saying: "Take yer
ch'ice, gintlemen; there's nothin' foiner in all Connemara!" We took
her at her word; she had not deceived us--the bottle we selected was a
good claret.
[Illustration: KYLEMORE CASTLE AND PRIVATE CHAPEL, COUNTY GALWAY]
Next morning the landlady furnished us with the best animal we had on
the trip. She was a stout, bay mare, and when her spirits had rallied
after leaving a young colt of hers behind, she reeled off the miles
like a machine. Our object in visiting this part of the country was
to see Mitchell Henry's famous castle, Kylemore, and the Twelve Pins,
about which we had been hearing all our lives without ever having had
an opportunity to visit them until now.
Mr. Henry was a linen merchant, with houses in Belfast and Manchester;
he made a fortune, purchased fourteen thousand acres of land in
Connemara to give himself a political foothold, and in consequence
became M. P. for Galway, which position he retained for six years.
About forty years ago he began the construction of Kylemore, selecting
as a site a valley between very high mountains, with a lake and
river in front of the spot where his castle would stand. He collected
rare trees and planted the mountain-sides with them, as well as the
valley round his buildings. In addition to the castle, he erected fine
stables, a private chapel, sheltered gardens, and conservatories, and
preserved the salmon and trout in the lake and river. The moist heat
from the Gulf Stream was his main ally, and nowhere else in the world
can more bursting vigor and splendid growth be seen than are exhibited
by his trees, shrubs, and flowers; to see them is a veritable treat to
those who are interested in such things. In the gardens flourish groups
of tropical plants, palms, and rare ferns the year round; they need no
protection in this mild climate. His roads have double fuchsia hedges
twelve feet high, which, anywhere else than in Connemara, would be
worth a fortune. They were in full bloom when we saw them. Mr. Henry is
now a very old man and lives in London; and the sad part of it all is
that he cannot enjoy the glories of his famous property, and it is for
sale. _Sic transit gloria mundi!_
After visiting the castle, church, gardens, and conservatories, we
drove through the extensive, finely wooded demesne, passing vast banks
of rhododendrons and hydrangeas in rare bloom, till we reached the
county road and caught our first glimpse of the Twelve Pins, or Bens,
as they are sometimes called. They were a disappointment; we had heard
too much about them. The Twelve Pins is a group of high mountains
having but little verdure; the highest, Benbaun, is two thousand four
hundred feet above sea-level. The remarkable feature about them is
that they are practically one long mountain with twelve peaks rising
from it at regular intervals. Excepting this startling effect, they do
not compare with Muckish, Dooish, or Errigal, the "peerless cone" of
Donegal.
[Illustration: DEVIL'S MOTHER MOUNTAIN, AASLEAGH FALLS, AND SALMON-LEAP
ON ERRIFF RIVER, COUNTY GALWAY]
The bay mare carried us in gallant style past the long,
romantic-looking Lough Inagh down to Recess, where we put up at the
best hotel we had found since we started.
ACHILL ISLAND
I am writing this from memory and without notes, so I may be pardoned
for having forgotten to introduce in its proper place our trip to
Achill Island, one of the most interesting of our experiences. I shall
start by saying that we crossed over to the island at its nearest point
to the main-land, and, taking our seats on a "long" public car which
stood in readiness, we were pulled by two immense horses the thirteen
miles to the village of Dugort at a steady pace that never "slacked
up" for the entire distance. It rained, but the car was plentifully
supplied with tarpaulins, which were strapped round us in artistic
style, and so we arrived at the Slievemore Hotel dry but benumbed.
"Mine host" of the Slievemore, one Captain Sheridan, is perhaps the
best-known Boniface in the west of Ireland. The iridescent splendor of
his imagination, his contempt for detail, and his facility in escaping
when cornered, place him on a plinth so high that, compared with him,
Baron Munchausen would seem to be a practical monument of truth and
accuracy; indeed, the Baron is his only rival in all the years that
have gone to make up history. He greeted us with: "I saw you coming;
knew by your looks you were the real thing, and wired for a ten-pound
salmon."
[Illustration: THE FISHERY, ACHILL ISLAND, SLIEVEMORE IN THE DISTANCE
(Host Sheridan with the rifle)]
We were stiff and cold after the wet drive, and asked for a nip of
Irish whiskey. "Bad luck to it, anyhow, I haven't a drop in the house,
but my team is hauling a cask of 'Power's Best' from the main-land. But
I have 'Scotch,' boys, as is 'Scotch'; not a headache in a hogshead of
it!" So we had the substitute, and, upon our asking its age, he started
in rather modestly at "five," and when we gave him a drink quickly
raised it to "ten year old." Before the evening was over, he told us,
in a confidential whisper, that the prime-minister had been his guest
some time before and had pronounced it "twenty," so he did not know
how old it really was--we must be the judges. He had a collection of
stuffed birds and horns, and upon being asked what he would take for
a pair of ram's horns, he exclaimed: "'Tis simply priceless they are!
'Twould cost you a thousand pounds to fit out an expedition to get
them, and besides you would have to get permission from the Grand Llama
of Thibet, for 'tis only in his dominions that these rare animals are
found; but still, I have too many horns, and I'll let you have the pair
for forty guineas, packed up and ready for the steamer."
He admitted that he was a first cousin of Phil Sheridan's. "They try to
make out that Phil wasn't an Irishman, that he was born half-way over,
but I tell you the true facts are that he was born before he started,"
was the way he conclusively settled General Sheridan's nationality.
Guests "move on" at the approach of rain in Irish hotels, so our genial
host would pass from room to room if it threatened rain, calling out
to an imaginary guest, "'Twill be a lovely day to-morrow." Pressed to
divulge his sentiments on the landlord-and-tenant question, and not
knowing how we stood, he said: "I'm for 'give and take'; the tenant to
give what he thinks fair, and the landlord to take it or leave it."
He had a supreme contempt for rival attractions, and said that the
Dunfanaghy puffins were corn-fed and the seals were chained to the
bottom to attract visitors. He had a comic-opera, smuggler, weather
predictor, and long-distance-sea-serpent man who turned up every
morning and mingled with the guests. He dressed the part to perfection,
_à la_ Dick Deadeye, and would tell how many whales and seals he had
seen in the bay at daybreak. As for the weather, with him it was always
assured; if it rained while he was talking, he would belittle it by
saying, "Sure, 'tis but a little bit of a shower; 'twon't last ten
minutes"; then he would pilot a schooner over the bar and disappear.
But, after all, our host Sheridan was a kindly, good-natured fellow
and very accommodating; he had told his tales so often that he really
believed them, and was not so much to blame as one would think at first
sight. His wife was a most capable manager, and largely made up for his
shortcomings in the fulfilment of promises. _Cead Mille Failthe_ (a
hundred thousand welcomes) was emblazoned on a large crescent over the
door. The place was well supplied with pets--cats, dogs, and a tame
crow making up the family. The house has four pairs of stairs leading
from the hall vestibule; there is a high mountain close to its rear and
another right in front of it, with the Atlantic to the west; so that it
must be described as a picturesque establishment in every detail. The
weather became foggy, and we were about to leave without trying to see
anything, when the sun suddenly broke through the clouds and we changed
the programme by remaining.
Achill Island is fifteen miles long by twelve miles wide; it is bounded
by Blacksod Bay on the north and by Clew Bay on the south. There is
a small grocery store on the west side of the island which is said
to be the nearest saloon to America, and proud is the owner of this
distinction. The people lead a very peculiar life. The latitude is
high, and consequently in the dead of winter the day is very short, and
they cannot fish in the stormy waters surrounding the island. They save
enough money in summer to carry them through the winter months, and
amuse themselves during the long nights by dancing. Every community
has its fiddler, and it is his business to provide a house with a large
room in which the dances can be held. Each family furnishes the supper
in turn, and all "pay the fiddler." One would suppose that whiskey
would play the leading part in such entertainments; and up to the
latter part of the last century it did, but it is now entirely absent.
Long experience taught the participants that if peaceful family parties
were to be indulged in, the "mountain dew" must be an absentee; so they
took to Guinness's stout, and the piles of "empties," everywhere to be
seen, show clearly that the Guinness shares are a valuable investment.
This dancing is carried on in most of the northwestern counties, where
the winter days are short. The "balls" end at about 3 A.M., and the
dancers sleep till eleven the next morning.
The island contains the cathedral cliffs of Menawn, one thousand feet
in height, hollowed by the long action of the waves through countless
centuries, and having a striking resemblance to stupendous Gothic
aisles.
We started early in the morning for Achill Head, via Keem Bay,
traveling as usual on a car, driven by a boy. We drove through a
unique fishing village, consisting of very small houses laid out in
regular streets, the thatched roofs being secured against the winter
storms by ropes on which were hung large stones about the size of
watermelons. These rows of stones swayed in the wind and produced a
curious effect while in motion. The car stopped at the foot-hills,
where the road changed into a path, and waited under a shed for our
return in the evening. On alighting we were delighted to hear the
sweet, familiar song of a pair of larks that soared up under the clear,
blue sky so far above our heads that they seemed mere specks which we
could see but indistinctly. It was many years since we had seen and
heard the Irish lark in its native element, and we listened to the
notes with keen, reminiscent pleasure.
Here we hired two gillies to help us in climbing Achill Head, which
is quite a high mountain. We climbed up a steep track for about three
miles, and were congratulating ourselves upon our progress, when, on
rounding the hip of the hill, we discovered that we should have to
descend again to sea-level at Keem Bay, in order to commence the real
ordeal. It was easy work going down, and we soon reached the bay. This
is a beautiful spot, an indenture in the headland, with a firm, yellow
strand at the head, and perpendicular, rocky bluffs on its sides. Three
large boats were salmon-fishing, and from the many places where we
rested on our long climb up the mountain we saw them tacking back and
forth all day.
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL CLIFFS AT MENAWN, ACHILL ISLAND (1000 feet
high)]
Near the shore we visited the house and store of Captain Boycott,
both in ruins. This is the gentleman who gave us a new word for our
vocabulary. Notwithstanding his fate, he had many warm friends among
the peasantry.
We started climbing again by following the bed of a brawling stream,
and adhered to it until it turned into a rivulet. Most Irish mountains
are formed by a series of benches, and our plan was to climb briskly
till we reached a bench and there make a recovery for the next assault.
As we rose in the air we felt our clothing becoming burdensome, and
we gave one article after another to the gillies, so that by the time
we reached the top our wardrobes were quite elementary. It seemed to
us that all the benches in Ireland were collected on that mountain;
each one was to have been the last, but still there was another and yet
another. We finally reached the summit and, bathed in perspiration, lay
down on the heather, wrapping ourselves in rain-coats, and, telling the
gillies to wake us in an hour, fell asleep. It would not have been much
of a climb for a mountaineer, but for us, of full habit and totally
untrained, it was exercise to the extreme limit of endurance.
When we awoke we crawled on all-fours to the edge of the head and
looked over, and we shall never forget the sight that greeted our eyes!
Achill Head and Croaghaun Mountain, adjoining it, have the reputation
of being the highest marine cliffs in existence. They are poised above
the Atlantic at an angle of sixty degrees, and the particular point
on which we lay far overhung the ocean. Here lightning-splintered
pinnacles shoot from the mass; savage, titanic rocks lie on the face
of the two mountains in wild confusion, scarred and rent from top to
bottom, and the blue waters surge and break at their base in restless
confusion, throwing up the spray to great heights. Then for a moment
all is calm, only to begin over again. It was as if the grandest
Alpine scenery had the Atlantic breaking on its lower levels, and yet
it retained the charm of the finest verdure. Between the crevices
grew blooming heather, luxuriant ferns, wild flowers, and arbutus in
great profusion, while flocks of wild gulls circled gracefully through
the air in quest of food, the whole being enveloped in the warm,
moist air of the Gulf Stream, rising from the face of the ocean and
suffusing the cliff upon which we rested, giving it practically the
temperature of a hot-house. It was always a struggle between the mist
and the sun; each alternately gained the mastery, and it was this weird
kaleidoscope that held us spellbound and presented wonderland in a new
guise. The Croaghaun Mountain, two thousand two hundred and nineteen
feet in height, lay right beside us, joined to Achill Head by a rocky
bridge. Its grand and peculiar feature is that at the very highest
point it would seem as if the rest of the mountain had been suddenly
cut away, leaving a vast and tremendous precipice descending to the
water nearly one thousand nine hundred and fifty feet. Deep fissures
and rocky furrows have been worn by the torrents which pour down after
heavy rains, and the bottom, where it shelves slightly, is strewn
with bowlders and masses of shattered rock, forming natural bulwarks
against the advancing tide. From where we stood, the view seaward was,
of course, boundless, the nearest land being America. It is doubtful
if such another panorama is unfolded from any other height in the
British Isles. Far out is the Black Rock, on which is a light-house
two hundred and sixty-eight feet high, and to the northward are North
and South Inishkea and Duvillaun. The Mullet peninsula, Erris, and
the ever-varying outlines of Blacksod Bay lie spread out like a map,
and beyond Slievemore is a network of island and inlet, above which
the splendid range of the Ballycroy Hills forms a background. In the
distance is Nephin; far to the south rises the rugged head of Croagh
Patrick and the mountains round Clew Bay; farther off are the summits
of the Twelve Pins; Achill Beg lies immediately below; beyond it,
Clare Island, and farther south Inishturk, Inishbofin, and Inishshark
bound the horizon. Off the Mullet are numerous islands, of which the
principal are Inishkeeragh and Inishglora, where, according to some,
the dead are subject to such extraordinary and preserving influences
that their nails and hair grow as in life, "so that their descendants
to the tenth generation can come and with pious care pare the one and
clip the other." The eagle still haunts these cliffs, and the wild goat
feeds almost secure in his last haunts on these islands.
[Illustration: ACHILL HEAD, COUNTY MAYO]