Church, an old time dependency of the Abbey, and the splendid remains
of the Cistercian Monastery, rising above the meadows by which the
Campile Stream flows. The monastic church in general style is Early
English, and is fairly preserved. It dates from the twelfth century, and
was founded by Henri de Montmorenzi, Marshal to Henry II.--the same who
was killed at the Curragh.
There is a severe simplicity about its lines which gives an impression
of great dignity. The crenelated Tower springs from the nave and
transept. The Abbots of Dunbrody sat as Lords in Parliament, and
exercised civil jurisdiction. Above Dunbrody, on the river opposite "The
Little Island," where was an ancient hermitage, in a straight line is
Ballinakill House, where James II. spent his last night in Ireland, on
the day before that celebrated in the ballad, which tells:--
"Righ Shemus he has gone to France,
And left his crown behind,
Ill luck be their's, both day and night,
Put running in his mind."
~Passage East~ (seven miles), now a fishing village, with spider-legged
spit light, was reduced by Cromwell in 1649. The old mole still stands.
At Ballyhack, across the ferry, a strong, square castle is well
preserved. "New Geneva," in the vicinity, was garrisoned with Hessians
during the Rebellion of '98. It is mentioned in the well-known Irish
song, "The Croppy Boy." The place received its name in 1786, when a
colony of Genoese exiles were established there. On the Waterford coast,
from the city to where the Blackwater kisses the sea, beside a range of
noble cliffs, there are many points of interest. The Tower of Hook,
standing one hundred feet high, on the promontory of the same name on
the Wexford side, is attributed amongst others to Reginald the Dane,
Ross MacRume, the founder of New Ross, and Florence de la Hague (1172).
Its circular walls are of great thickness and strength. When Strongbow
heard of this Tower of Hook, with Crook (Norse, Krok a nook) on the
western side, he is alleged to have said "He would take Waterford by
Hook or Crook," and thus originated a common saying which has come down
to our own days. The Saltees, two islands off the Wexford coast, were
the refuge to which Colclough and Bagnall Harvey hastened in vain after
the suppression of the Rebellion in '98. Helvick Head, the name of which
also betrays its Danish origin, marks the entrance to Dungarvan Bay. The
line running from Waterford to Limerick Junction contains many places of
interest, from which short tours may be made. As we come near to
~Carrick-on-Suir~ the castle comes into view. The present building was
mainly erected by the former Earl of Ormonde, "Black Tom," as he is
known in history. He was one of the many Irish gallants who found favour
in the eyes of Queen Elizabeth. From Carrick, a drive of eight miles
brings us to Lough Coumshinawn, a lonely tarn lying high among the
Comeragh mountains, on one side of which the cliff rises perpendicularly
to a height of seven hundred feet. The railway from Carrick runs through
the beautiful valley of the Suir to Kilsheelan, and then passes to the
left of the Knockmealdown mountains to ~Clonmel~, the capital of the
"premier county." The town is pleasantly placed in a thriving centre of
local trade. It figured largely in the fights between Cromwellian and
Confederate, and some of the old battlements still stand witness to its
strength in bygone times. The peasantry have a tradition that a cloud
will ever hang above the town since Father Sheehy's death in the last
century. The tradition is hinted at in the beautiful emigrant ballad
"Shameen Dhu," by Katherine Tynan:--
"Now, God watch over you, Shameen,
An' His blessed Mother Mary!
'Twas you that had the lightest heart
In all sweet Tipperary--
'Twas you could sing the blackbird's song,
In dry or rainy weather:
Avic, the long-road wasn't long
Whin we thravelled it together.
Sure, scores of times in the mornin' bright
You sung this very road,
You med the mare's heart bate so light
She never felt her load;
'Twas you could lilt wid the thrush's trill,
Ah, well, avic machree!
God grant you may be singin' still
In that lonely far counthrie!"
[Illustration: _Photo, Roche, Dublin._ Holy Cross Abbey at Thurles.]
The name of Laurence Sterne, author of "Tristram Shandy," and of the
gorgeous Countess of Blessington, are both associated with Clonmel as
their birthplace. Through a mountain cut, appropriately called "The
Wilderness," the railway line runs aside to Thurles. The little church
of Rathronan, standing high on the hill, was the scene of the
sensational Arbuthnot abduction in the last century. Those who wish for
details of that unhappy love affair will find the story told in faithful
words elsewhere. The demesne lands between Clonmel and Fethard are many.
~Fethard~ was an old walled town, it defied the Cromwellians, and
surrendered with all the honours of war. After treaty and terms were
agreed on, the Roundheads found that what they had mistaken as gaping
mouths of cannon on the fortress were nothing more dangerous than
innocent churns placed in positions of pretence, not defence. The
bogland from Fethard to Thurles is uninteresting; the intermediate
stations are Farranalleen, Laffan's Bridge, and Horse and Jockey, at
which collieries are still being worked. At Thurles we meet the main
line of the Great Southern and Western. ~Thurles~, originally a Danish
town and the scene of the battle between the Norsemen and Irish,
afterwards became a fortalice of the Knights Templars. Here, by the
bridge across the Suir, the remains of the old settlement are still to
be seen. Four miles distant, standing by the banks of the river,
surrounded by tall trees, are the remains of the once great Cistercian
~Holy Cross Abbey~. It was built in 1168-69 to house the relic of the
True Cross sent by the Pope to Brian Boru's grandson, Donald, King of
Thomond. This interesting relic, after centuries of vicissitudes, is now
enshrined at the Convent of the Ursulines, in Blackrock, Cork. On the
feasts of the Finding of the True Cross (May 3rd), and of the Exaltation
of the Holy Cross (September 14th), and on every Friday in Lent, it is
presented for public veneration. Thurles is the seat of Episcopal
residence of the Archdiocese of Cashel. On the main line higher than
Thurles is Templemore, founded by the Knights Templars. Between Thurles
and the Limerick Junction is Goold's Cross station, six miles from
Cashel. The noblest evidence of the early civilization of Ireland is to
be found in ~Cashel Of the Kings~. Generally the buildings date from the
early twelfth century, the Round Tower being much earlier and the
Cathedral later. Cormac's Chapel was consecrated in 1134, being built by
the Saint King of Munster. It is rich Norman work, comprising nave,
chancel, and towers at the transepts. The doorways and chancel arch are
elaborate. The Round Tower is unique when compared with the other
buildings, as it is of sandstone. It is connected with the transept of
the Cathedral. The pointed windows, choir, transepts, and tower are very
beautiful. In the burial-ground outside is the famous Cross of Cashel,
with a sculptured effigy of St. Patrick. The whole group gathered
together on the massive Rock of Cashel, whose firmness is a proverb in
Ireland, presents an imposing array. This Cathedral was the one burnt by
the Earl of Kildare in 1495, when his excuse was that he thought the
Archbishop was within. Here, in 1647, a bloody tragedy fell out.
Murragh-an-Theathaun, "Murrough of the Burnings," as the peasantry still
call Lord Inchiquin, massacred a number of women and children, who
sought sanctuary here when Cashel had fallen before his siege train. At
the foot of the rock are the cruciform remains of the Abbey of the
Cistercians. If, instead of diverging from Clonmel to Thurles, we
continue to the Limerick Junction, we pass Cahir, a military station
with an ancient Castle in excellent repair. From Cahir, tourists can
drive to Cashel, to Ardfinane, or to ~Mitchelstown~ _via_ Clogheen. The
Caves at Mitchelstown may be visited from Fermoy, Lismore, or Clogheen,
and if the visitor is sojourning at any of these places he should find
his way to these wonderful formations. Besides the caves, Mitchelstown
contains Caherderinny Castle, Kilbehiny, and Mitchelstown Castle, the
residence of the Kingston family. Leaving the village of Kilbehiny we
cross to Skereenarinka, "the height for dancing," and follow a narrow
hilly road on the Galtee side which leads to the caves, in the townland
of Coolagarranroe. The different chambers of the larger caves, of which
the Kingston gallery is most beautiful, have been named: "the House of
Lords," "the House of Commons," "the Cross of the Four Roads," "the
Scotchman's," "O'Leary's," and "O'Callaghan's" caves, "the Altar," "the
Closet," "the Cellar," and "the Garret." The smaller objects of interest
within have been called: "Lot's Wife," "Mary Queen of Scots," "the Bed
of Honour," "the Cat and Kittens," "the Flitch of Bacon," &c. From
Clogheen to Tipperary we cross the Suir, and follow the foot of the
Galtees. The surrounding country is picturesque and contains some of the
finest pasture land in Ireland, being part of what is known in Munster
as the "Golden Vale." Four miles away by a beautiful road, through the
rising-grounds, the Glen of Aherlow can be reached. The glen is richly
wooded, and from Newbridge over the Aherlow river, Galteemore (3,015
feet), the highest peak of the range may be reached. Tipperary town is a
good market place, and is pleasantly situated beneath Slievenamon. The
only relic of its former grandeur is that of the Augustinian Friary, a
foundation of Henry the Third's reign.
[Illustration: _Photo, Roche, Dublin._ Rock of Cashel.]
For information as to Sport to be had in the Waterford District,
see end of this volume, where particulars are given as to Golf,
Fishing, Shooting, Cycling, &c.
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Dungarvan.]
[Illustration]
Killarney and Glengarriff.
Killarney.--From Limerick Junction to Mallow, where the branch line runs
into Kerry, the tourist to Killarney runs by many places of interest.
~Emly~, now a dwindled village, was once a diocesan city. During the
wars of the Commonwealth, Terence Albertus O'Brien, Bishop of Emly, was
executed in Limerick by Ireton. His stole and pectoral cross are still
in the possession of representatives of the family to which he belonged
at Mitchelstown.
In the rich plain under the Ballyhoura hills, "the land flowing with
milk," is the ancient town of ~Kilmallock~. It was the citadel of the
Earls of Desmond when they held high their crests, and every stone in
the place is historical.
Two of its four gates still remain, and among the ruins, which have
secured it the name of the "Baalbec of Ireland," are those of the old
Dominican Priory and Abbey Church. In the former is the mutilated grave
of the White Knight, a name still loathsome in the peasant's ear, and on
whom the bards have let fall their choicest curses.
Lough Gur is of interest to the antiquary. It is ten miles to the north,
and was the centre of the Desmond country. Here of old, the Kings of
Cashel kept their Grenan or "Sunny Place" for feasting. The cyclopean
structure in the vicinity points to the place as being of importance in
pre-historic times. From Charleville, a thriving town, runs a line of
railway direct to Limerick. Buttevant and Mallow are particularly
referred to elsewhere. Millstreet is the border town on the mearings of
Cork and Kerry.
Beyond the bogland country outside Millstreet is the village of Cullen,
where tradition says no smith has been known to thrive. Saint Lateerin,
a virgin of early Christian days, near here made her recluse, and every
day she walked across the bog, and took "living fire" in her kirtle from
the forge to her home. The smith once remarking the prettiness of her
white feet, she momentarily forgot her vow of chastity, and the fire
burnt through the homespun and blistered her feet. She went back to her
cell, and prayed that no smith should ever thrive in Cullen, and none
has ever tried to do so!
~Rathmore~ is on the high road to Gneeveguillia mountain, and to the
north of the station, and at Christmas time, 1896, occurred the fearful
_débâcle_ of the bog, which struck terror into the simple inhabitants,
and, not unnaturally, was attributed by them to super-natural causes.
Two hundred acres of Bogach-na-Mine formed a landslip and rolled in a
huge mass southwards, sweeping away several little farmsteads and
suffocating the inhabitants and cattle. At ~Headford~, the junction for
Kenmare, the scenery is very wild, and all around
"Kerry is pushing her high headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting."
At last, after about a four hours' run, if we came by the special
tourist train from Dublin, we have completed our one hundred and
eighty-six miles, and are in sight of
KILLARNEY,
the home of lakes, which has well been called "the Gem of the Western
World": its magnificent mountain peaks, its green swards and gushing
cascades, all surrounded with an atmosphere of romance and tradition.
Outside the railway station, we are face to face with the finest hotel
in the south of Ireland. Well placed, well managed, it combines all the
comforts of a home with the convenience of a well-appointed hostelry. It
is within easy reach of the principal points of interest.
[Illustration: Boating at Killarney]
[Illustration: Great Southern Hotel--Killarney.]
[Illustration: _Photo, Guy & Co., Cork._ Lakes of Killarney.]
The grounds adjoin Lord Kenmare's beautiful demesne and Deer Park, which
skirts the lake shores, and contain the splendid Golf Links.
Killarney, or "the Church of the Sloetrees," lies on a flat plateau,
within a mile from the shores of the far-famed Lough Lene, as the three
lakes, popularly known as the Lakes of Killarney, are called in Irish.
The town possesses an Episcopal Palace, a cathedral and churches of
interest, besides a monastery and School of Arts and Crafts. Otherwise
it deserves little attention; but on fair days, when the peasantry from
the neighbouring parishes crowd in, it presents a lively and varying
aspect. If the town is insignificant, not so its surroundings, for
nowhere else in the wide world is there such a combination of charms and
variety of beauty, in mountain and lake scenery, thrown together.
"For how could river, lake, and sea
In softer sister hues agree?
Or hills of passionate purple glow
Far and near more proudly flow?
And when will summer kiss awake
Lovelier flowers by lawn or brake?
Or brighter berries blush between
Foliage of a fresher green?"
There is a story of a tourist who, lingering long in the Holy Land, was
pained at the irreverent hurry of an American, who arrived there one
afternoon, scurried over the sacred places, and prepared to depart
betimes on the morrow. He timidly inquired of the swift-foot why he, who
had come so far, rushed away so quickly. "Sir," said the American, "I am
timed to do Europe in a fortnight. I have thrown in the Holy Land, but
if I stay here longer than one night I cannot see Killarney, which takes
three days." He was a wise man in his generation. Although enterprising
people have attempted to do the tour of the Lakes in a day, they have
always gone away more than satisfied with what they saw, but with hearts
hungry to return at a future date, and behold the beauties they had
left unseen.
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ On the Upper Lake, Killarney.]
The ~Lakes Of Killarney~ are three in number, connected by a
swift-flowing stream, the Long Range, and emptying their waters through
the river Laune into Castle Haven, on the Kerry coast. The entire
journey can be performed by boat, but in the suggested tours given, both
car, and boat, and ponies are pressed into our service.
The divisions of the Lough Lene are:--The Upper Lake (extreme length,
two-and-a-half miles; extreme breadth, half-a-mile); the Torc, or Middle
Lake (extreme length, two miles; extreme breadth, seven-eighths of a
mile); and the Lower Lake (extreme length, five and one-eighth miles;
extreme breadth, three miles). The first glimpse caught of the lakes,
lying like broad mirrors beneath the high mountains, is a vision of fair
delight. Like tall clansmen, Mangerton, Carnthoul, and the gathering
Cruacha dhu M'Gillicuddy--the black reeks of the McGillicuddy--muster
around, as it were, to re-tell us
"The tale of the spell-stricken band,
All entranced, with their bridles and broad swords in hand,
Who await but the word to give Erin her own"--
that old legend of the sleeping warriors garrisoned within the
mountain's sides, which is met with in more than one Irish county. The
Upper Lake is characterised by an untamed, peerless outline, and so near
to the mountains does it lie, that the fissures in their rugged sides
are almost countable, and the fingers of fancy almost touch the gorse on
their slopes. Gliding over its waters, we readily see in them a
land-locked sea. A ridge of the Glena mountains shuts it out from the
north, the many-peaked reeks guard the passes to the west, and to the
south stands up Derrycunnihy--"The Oak Wood of the Rabbits"--between
which and Torc is the fair bend of a Glen Coumagloun. Between the lips
of the Lakes and the feet of the hills there appears no distance
"Save just a trace of silver sand
Marks where the water meets the land."
Muffling the boatmen's oars for a moment, we can realise that
indescribable solemnity with which silent nature hushes everything. Even
the countless streams that have lost their way across the highlands, in
their hurry to join the Lakes, seem to cease from babbling. But
following the sinuous Long Range when we reach the still water beneath
the Eagle's Nest, Nadanullar, is the psychological moment to awaken the
echoes that eternally haunt the frowning eyry. A bugle-call sounded here
is taken up by the barricades of rock, and is repeated even ten times
over. Small wonder that the fairy hosts are credited with passing it
along their lines! The mountains take up their dying tones of sweet
sounds, and answer it one to the other until the ear can no longer
follow it through space. The ferns and rich foliage of the mountain side
trail their long fingers in the water, and cluster and quicken among the
crevices of the rocks. Recently the Laureate visited Ireland for the
first time; hitherto this land of poetry had been to him but "the
damnable country" of the politician. He came, he saw, but Killarney
conquered; and he, like all others who have gazed upon its beauty,
renders tribute where it rightly belongs. "Damnable" is not the
adjective to apply to a heavenly land, of which he truly says:--
"Such varied and vigorous vegetation I have seen no otherwhere; and when
one has said that, one has gone far towards awarding the prize for
natural beauty. But vegetation, at once robust and graceful, is but the
fringe and decoration of that enchanting district. The tender grace of
wood and water is set in a frame-work of hills--now stern, now ineffably
gentle, now dimpling with smiles; now frowning and rugged with impending
storm; now muffled and mysterious with mist, only to gaze out on you
again with clear and candid sunshine. Here the trout leaps; there the
eagle soars; and there beyond the wild deer dash through the arbutus
coverts, through which they have come to the margin of the lake to
drink, and, scared by your footstep or your oar, are away back to
crosiered bracken or heather covered moorland. But the first, the final,
the deepest and most enduring impression of Killarney is that of beauty
unspeakably tender, which puts on at times a garb of grandeur and a look
of awe, only in order to heighten by passing contrast the sense of soft
insinuating loveliness. How the missel thrushes sing, as well they may!
How the streams and runnels gurgle, and leap, and laugh! For the sound
of journeying water is never out of your ears; the feeling of the moist,
the fresh, the vernal, is never out of your heart. My companion agreed
with me, that there is nothing in England or Scotland as beautiful as
Killarney--meaning by Killarney its lakes, its streams, its hills, its
vegetation; and if mountain, wood, and water--harmoniously
blent--constitute the most perfect and adequate loveliness that nature
presents, it surely must be owned that it has all the world over no
superior."
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Shooting the Rapids.]
Leaving the ~Upper Lake~ behind, and bidding adieu to the green islands
that stud its breast with arbutus and the cedars of Lebanon, the Old
Weir Bridge meets the eye. 'Neath its arch the waters come down with
foam and force, the oars are shipped, and we shoot straight through the
eye of the rapid, thanks to the strong arm and sure nerve of the
oarsmen. The beautiful reach here is the bosom "where the bright waters
meet." Amid exquisite combination of colour, a Vallambrosa strewed with
ferns, lichens, mosses, rich green hollies and arbutus with many
coloured berries, we tread our way by a passage of beauty round Dinis
Island into the ~Middle~ or ~Torc Lake~, sheltered by the broad breast
of the mountain from which it takes its name. Like "Muckross," the
"Pleasant Point of Wild Swine," the name Torc is called after the wild
boars, which in former years went "gerasening" over its slopes. Rising
abruptly, the mountain stands clear between Mangerton and Glena, the
lower sides well wooded. ~Innis Dinish~, the island at the "beginning of
the waters," is the port for boats. The Cottage may be visited. The
Whirlpool, between the waters of the lake and river, has been called
O'Sullivan's Punch Bowl. Drohid-na-Brickeen, "The Bridge of Little
Trout," or Brickeen Bridge, and Doolah, where the disused marble
quarries and copper mines are still pointed out, are within a short
distance. At the estuary of the Devil's Stream, which flows through the
ravines on the mountain side, is the Devil's Island--almost
inaccessible--on which a few stunted trees manage to secure a precarious
existence. Within the little bay of Dundag is Goose Island. The rocks
and caves along the lake shores are shrouded with traditions of
O'Donoghue, Chieftain of the Glens. A long cave is called "The Wine
Cellar"; at the end is "O'Donoghue's Arm Chair"; his Butler, a solitary
crag, is called "Jackybwee." The most interesting of the fissures made
by the waters in the rock side are what the enterprising boatmen have
agreed to call "Colleen Bawn Rock." By the beautiful Glena Bay, we enter
the Lower Lake, which is the largest and most charming of the group. It
sleeps beneath the guardian heights of the Toomies Hills, and a vision
of more loveliness is nowhere to be found. Low-lying shores, to the east
and north, are jungled with the fronds of the hill ferns.
"Oh, the Fern! the fresh hill Fern!
That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to Lough Erne;
That waves on the crags, like the plume of a King,
And bends like a nun, over clear well and spring;
The fairy's tall palm-tree, the heath birds fresh nest,
And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and best;
With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem,
Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem!"
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Eagle's Nest Mountain,
Killarney.]