lofty brow, "crowned with tiaras fashioned in the sky." On its summit an
outlaw, known in Munster as the "Shon" or Hawk, after many sleepless
nights, footsore and weary, slept here with a prayer, "Thank God, at
last I am above all my enemies." The peasantry pronounce the name
"Carntwohill," which translated means, the left-handed or inverted
sickle. The expansiveness of the Lower Lake appears at first to minimise
its beauty, when compared with its smaller companions. But the more its
loveliness is explored, the greater the revelation of the harmony and
luxuriance of the landscape. No less than thirty-five islands, like
beauty spots of a fairy "drop scene," bedeck the silver sheen of its
surface. The largest of these, ~Innisfallen~, almost midway between the
eastern and western shores, is some thirty acres in extent, and is
engirdled by leafy bowers of green trees. Shaggy sheep are couched in
repose, or are busy with its verdant lawn. In the early morning, or
tender gloaming which closes the Munster day, the holy place is
"Quiet as a nun,
Breathless with adoration."
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ The Turnpike Cap of Dunloe.]
Shafts of the dawning or waning sun, as the hour may be, illumine the
fair pageant. The wavering outlines of the hills make the turret-tops
to the dark green of the woods and the emerald of the meadows. The
richest of colours from hill, tree, and rock accumulate on the surface
of the Lake, burnished like silver. To-day the natural scenery is the
same as of old, and few will wonder that here a saint found delights to
prepare him in some degree for the pleasures stored in eternity. Of St.
Finian Labra we know little beyond that he was a native of Ely
O'Carroll, then a part of Munster, and was a disciple of St. Brendan.
But his spirit loiters around Innisfallen, and the most casual of
travellers will tread lightly on the ground hallowed by his footsteps.
The monastic remains are many, but by the enthusiastic antiquary alone
can their fragments and chief features be traced. "_The Annals of
Innisfallen_," which form one of the chief sources of Irish history,
were written here 600 years ago. Leaving the "Holy Island," we cross the
lake and land at the foot of the Toomies Mountains, famous in
pre-historic myths, to visit the O'Sullivan Cascade. The legend, which
is too often wasted on sceptical ears, tells that O'Sullivan, a captain
of his people, renowned amongst them for fleetness of foot and prowess
as a hunter, on one occasion went to hunt the red deer. The faint yellow
rays of morning were lighting up the eastern sky as he went forth. Gaily
the deep-mouthed dogs obeyed, sniffing the fresh breeze across the
mountain purpled with heather. Scarce had he left home when a
magnificent stag bounded across his path. Swift as the lightning flash
the dogs sprung upon the track--away across the moors and down the
glens, on the scent they went. Throughout that livelong day O'Sullivan
followed the chase, weary, tired, and thirsty, but still determined to
make the prize his own. At length night, and darkness with it, came; the
stag could be seen no more, the dogs, too, were at fault, and the scent
was lost. Disappointed, and spent with the labour of the chase, the
huntsman blew a shrill blast on his horn to call the dogs to him, and
faced for home across the hills. But there was a voice that, loud and
clear, called upon him--"O'Sullivan, O'Sullivan, turn back!" Brave and
fearless, like his race, he turned round, to behold before him the
centre of so many cycles of romance--Finn MacCool. "Why do you dare
chase my stag?" asked Finn. "Because it was the finest that man ever
saw," answered O'Sullivan. The answer pleased Finn MacCool.
"O'Sullivan," said he, "you are a valiant man, and have been wasted in
the long chase. You thirst, and I will give you to drink." So saying, he
stamped his huge heel upon the hard rock, and forth burst the waters,
seething and dashing as they do to this day. O'Sullivan quenched his
thirst and sped on his way.
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Meeting of the Waters,
Killarney.]
From the innermost recess of the glen the water flows down, in one of
the most fascinating spots to be found within all the delicious realm of
Kerry. The ivy hangs in dense draperies from the rocks, a sweet disorder
of arbutus, evergreens, and all the flowers that grow in a radiant land,
daringly lean across the canyon, and vainly try to trip the rushing
stream, which, in cascade after cascade, flings itself with passionate
energy, and a ceaseless murmur, over the rocks. The placidness of the
huge lake is in strange contrast to the noisy stream which so excitedly
hastens to meet it, and, as if awed by its dignity, as it comes nearer
and nearer the mountain stream, sinks its voice, until in a subdued sigh
it falls into the breast of the lake. Underneath the projecting rock,
and overhung with luxuriant herbs, O'Sullivan's Grotto offers a quiet
retreat. Following the wooded shores of Glena Bay, we pass Stags, Burnt,
and other islands, and come to Glena Cottage, hiding in the foliage of
leafy trees. Glena means "the valley of good fortune," and a name more
suggestive of happier thoughts than weird Glownamorra across the
lake--"the glen of the dead."
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Muckross Abbey, Killarney.]
A mile's drive through the pleasant demesne lands of Muckross brings us
to the water's edge at Castlelough Bay, in the middle lake, on a
promontry of which the ruins of ~Muckross Abbey~ are to be seen. Here,
in the fifteenth century, Donald M'Carthy founded an Abbey for
Franciscan friars. The quiet cloisters in the northwest transept, with
their varying pointed and rounded arches, are unique. The recessed
doorway by which we enter is very beautiful. The towers and east window
are in fair preservation. The monuments within the ruined pile tell us
that it
"contains
In death's embrace M'Carthy More's remains,"
and also reminds us that
"If Erin's chiefs deserve a generous tear,
Heir of their worth, O'Donoghue lies here."
In the centre of the cloisters there grows a great yew tree, spreading
its many branches and shade over them, and above the side walls, forming
a dark cowl, which overshadows the old house of the monks. In ancient
Erin the yew tree was regarded as sacred, and in its shade the Druids
performed their mystic rites. With the early Christians, as an
evergreen, it was a symbol of Life Eternal.
The peasants still inherit some of the awe with which the sacred tree
was held in former days, and they are loth to hurt it with the loss of a
single leaf. All impressive is the desolate majesty of Muckross,
whatever time it is visited!
"But the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey."
At night, when the pale ghost of the moon looks across the lake, when
the mountains are shrouded in shadows, when the waters are lulling the
slumbering land,
"And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave,"
the solemnity of the scene surpasses even that of fair Melrose, by the
distant Tweed, of which Sir Walter Scott tells.
Driving past the modern mansion in the demesne, along ~Torc Lake~, by
the groves of Dinis, and through the arches of the Old Weir Bridge, the
river glistens and sparkles in the sun, while the distant calmer water
lies deep in sleepy shadows. Beyond the peculiar rock known as the
White Deer we pass through the Tunnel cut under the huge slope of the
mountains. Here is a point of view which fascinates all visitors, and
from which an ample picture of the surroundings may be secured. A mile
further we cross the Galway river, rushing down a well-worn channel
through Cournaglown, the valley sides of which are covered with oak
trees. Already the ceaseless chorus of Derrycunnihy Cascade fills our
ears. With tumult and cries of havoc, the water springs from an altitude
on the mountain side, dividing its force into many minor cataracts, as
it forces the passage barricaded by rocks and boulders, to unite them
again in a deep pool, and after a second's rest, it musters its full
strength, and falls in a torrent towards the Middle Lake. Colman's Leap,
across the stream beneath the Eagle's Nest, is shown here, and of it a
legend similar to others in many parts of Ireland is told. A mile
eastward, along the Kenmare road, we come to ~Torc Waterfall~, lovely as
a capricious _colleen_, whose modes are all the more "deludering" for
their uncertainty--Torc, whether tripping gently or rushing angrily, "to
one thing constant never," makes its bed in a fairy realm, a leafy
garden of ever-changing beauty. Larch and alder, arbutus, oak, and hazel
thickly curtain the Fall from the passing glance. But a sylvan path
o'erstrewn with leaves, and bordered with many fronded ferns, discovers
the fountain in full bearing. White with foam, and angry for its long
delay in the grip of Mangerton, and the hollow of the Devil's Punch
Bowl, the flood breaks through the wall of rocks seventy feet high, and
spits a shower of spray on every futile thing which attempts to stem its
course or stay its purpose. The panorama spread out beneath the rocks of
Torc comprehends, in all their glory of colour and contrast, the Middle
and Lower Lakes beneath the mountains.
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Torc Waterfall, Killarney.]
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Ross Castle, Killarney.]
Two and a-half miles northwards by the King's Bridge, or about one mile
direct from Killarney, within sight of the ~Lower Lake~ and the Purple
Mountains, are the ruins of Aghadoe, the "Church of the two Yew Trees,"
founded under the blessing of Saint Finian. The remains of the Round
Tower and Abbot's Castle can still be seen, but these and the eighth
century doorway of the old church are all that have weathered the wind
of centuries. The summit of the old tower is a vantage point for a
vista. Dr. Todhunter has written a beautiful ballad, in imitation of the
passionate Irish laments, for an outlaw who was buried there.
AGHADOE.
There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,
Where we met, my love and I, love's fair planet in the sky,
O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,
Where I hid him from the eyes of the redcoats and their spies
That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.
Oh! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;
On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son, in Aghadoe!
When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth,
For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!
For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
When the price was on his head in Aghadoe;
O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food,
Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.
But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;
With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,
There he lay, the head--my breast keeps the warmth where once
'twould rest--
Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!
Oh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!
Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,
Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
[Illustration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ The Gap of Dunloe.]
The nearest boat place for Innisfallen is at ~Ross Castle~. We approach
it from the high road across the moat, where once the drawbridge was let
up and down. The old keep, wearing a cotamore of ivy, still guards the
water's edge. By a spiral stone staircase we reach the battlements and
look out across the lake.
The Castle held out for Charles the First, but was dismantled by Ludlow.
It was originally a fort of "The O'Donoghue," the chief who centres in
the many traditions which the boatmen weave around every object of
interest in Killarney. He lies enchanted beneath the lake, with a city
full of his people. But at times he has come across the water on his
fiery steed, or danced to the Rincead-fadda on the shores. Whoever sees
him is fortunate, because he gives "good luck, which is better than
money," to all whose eyes meet his.
The ~Gap of Dunloe~ is a gloomy mountain pass cut through the rough
rocky slope in the hills between the Toomies and the Macgillicuddy's
Reeks. It is a magnificent defile, four miles long. The rough
bridle-path running through it, at times almost on the edge of
precipices, beneath which the wild goats flock. It is approached by a
winding road, embroidered on one side by a shady little grove of fir,
larch, stunted oaks, and mountain ash. Through the little windows
between the trees, when the sun shines, the reflection of the river Loe
is caught, as it creeps humbly on its way to the lakes. On the other
side, the mountains throw up a huge wall. Bidding good-bye to the little
grove, vegetation seems to fear to enter the desolate, sterile places in
the throat of the Gap. Where the river widens, at Cushvalley Lough, the
industrious echo-makers most usually greet the visitor. One has scarcely
recovered from the warmth of their courteous welcome, when some
suggestive volunteer, aborigine to the place, with a "Mr. Bugler, God
spare you your wind," secures their services; although you do not call
the tune, you are expected to pay the musicians. But the trifle spent
on the gunpowder for their cannons, or the breath from their lungs, is
well repaid by the mighty mass of air they start into waves of music.
Here, too, the "auxiliary forces," or pony boys, besiege us with their
sure-footed, shaggy "coppaleens." They have come galloping down the pass
at break-neck speed to lend us the assistance of their light cavalry.
Wonderful creatures they are, these horses and riders. The peasant boys
are for all the world the modern prototypes of those "rake-helly horse
boys" of Queen Elizabeth's reign, who filled so many pages of the State
papers. Sinew and muscle knit their loose limbs together, and, in their
eyes, mild and calm as those of the quiet cattle in the field, but like
the surface of their native lakes, covering unfathomed depths, they
conceal souls swept by deep thoughts, and minds clouded by many
memories. The long unrenewed, but still to be distinguished, Spanish
strain is shown in many of their olive-tinted faces and dark features.
But guides safe, and true, and courteous are they, who know every perch
of the dark Pass, where at times the craggy cliffs shut out the canopy
of the sky, and attempt to precipitate themselves across the track. The
point where the path is narrowest, the peasants have called the "Pike."
From it onward the mountains begin to recede, and the Pass is more open
until, crossing a shoulder of the ~Purple Mountain~ past the three great
expansions of the Commeen Thomeen Lakes, into which St. Patrick is said
to have driven the last serpent, we suddenly come on a surprising
spectacle of magnificent scenery. Here, from the head of the Gap, we see
the Upper Lake spread beneath, to the west, Coomeenduff, or the Black
Valley, dark as the valley of the shadow of death, in charming contrast
with the stern grandeur of the mountains. Their melancholy seems to
reign supreme; the long valley is steeped with shadows in which several
lakes are set, the light upon which only heightens the sublime darkness
of the surroundings. The longest of these lakes is called Lough
Nabricderg, or the "Pool of the Red Trout." Far and wide beneath us lies
what, in the old times, was MacCarthy More's country, and into which so
often the Fiery Cross was sped, when the chief of the great clan went
into action.
Ruskin's ideals of mountains as the great cathedrals of the earth, with
their gates of rock, pavements of cloud, choirs of stream and stone,
altars of snow, and vaults of purple, traversed by the continual stars,
can nowhere be realized more readily than in Killarney. Here the
mysterious summits, warm with the morning tints or evening's glow, will
delight and refresh again and again, and reflect to us imperishable
memories. Crossing the Flesk, if ~Mangerton~ be the desired point, seven
good miles are to be traversed. From the Muckross, a short detour will,
if desired, lead to Flesk Castle, standing on a finely wooded hill above
the wide sweeping river. Eastward, along the Kenmare road, and southward
for a mile, the mountain path is met. From here, either on foot or on a
pony, the ascent of Mangerton may be made. The first important object
that comes in view is Lough Kittane, at the eastern base of the
mountain. It is nearly five miles in circumference, and its waters
contain four islands. The ravine behind the lake, with Mangerton on the
west and Crohane mountain on the east, is the "mustering place of the
winds," Coomnageeha. In this ravine the Blackwater flows. There are two
small lakes, Loughnabraude and "the Lake of Beech-crowned Rock," Lough
Carrigaveha. Away in the bed of the mountains is Keimva Lochlin--the
pass of the Danes--reminding the historian of "Stern Lochlin's sons of
roving war," and Dereenanawlar, or "the little oakwood of eagles."
Moving still higher, eastward the mountains melt into the distant
counties of Cork and Limerick, and beneath, the smaller highlands recall
the Psalmist's description of
"The hills like the lambs of the flock."
[Illustration: McCarthy More's Castle--Lake Hotel Landing Stage.]
To the left, Glown-a-Coppal, the "Horse's Glen," invites the adventurous
to fathom its depths. The dark lakes lying in its shadows are shoreless,
but for the gloomy rocks which overhang the water's edge. Where the
ground becomes more broken and rugged, suddenly a less inaccessible path
arises, and leads to the Devil's Punch Bowl, a dark tarn, beset with
strange echoes that strike a death-song on the heart-strings of the
superstitious. The view from the summit is very wonderful; in the
foreground of the huge picture, the forest of mountain tops, while
westward in the distance is the fabled and saint-blessed Mare
Brendanicum of the old writers, where the fiords embroider the coast
line.
Descents from Mangerton may be made due south from the eastern angle
along the Oubeg to Kilgarvan, five miles east from Kenmare; by the
"Horse's Glen," from Lough Garagary, across the moor to the commencement
of the bridle-path. Neither way is recommended in the afternoon or
without a guide. The best route to Carntuol is from the entrance to the
Gap of Dunloe. There is a beaten track by the side of the waterway of
the mountain stream, called "Giddagh," the bed of which is filled with
glacial moraines, leading into a romantic valley, the Hag's Glen, which
is shut in by the Reeks and Knocknabinaneen. The dark tarn in the Glen,
as well as every object of prominence, has been seized upon by the
imaginative peasants, and associated in some wise with the witch who
here had her local habitation and left it its name. The track across the
heather leads to the junction of two rivulets from Lough Gonvogh on the
right, and Lough Callee on the left. The beginning of the summit is
reached by the rough moraine pavement, and with a little perseverance
the "parkeen," or "little pasture," on top is reached. Here on the
wind-swept height it is interesting to find the _London Pride_, or _St.
Patrick's Cabbage_, and the common _Thrift_ flourishing The view is
indescribable. Like the jaws of some huge monster, the teeth of the
Reeks close in everywhere, each with its own blue lake behind. Of
Killarney we see little; but seawards "everything between this end of
the world and America," descent may be made, either following the flank
of the hill, and half way between the two largest lakes beneath,
striking for the Gap of Dunloe road, or through Coomduff to the shores
of the Upper Lake.
When the tourist's time is limited, the following excursions, extending
over three days, will enable him to see a good many of the points of
interest:--
TOUR NO. 1. FARE, _8s._ ESTATE TOLLS, _1s._
Well-appointed coaches, or other conveyances, leave the Hotel
(weather permitting) at about 9.30 a.m., for a visit to the
celebrated Gap of Dunloe and the grand tour of the Lakes. The route
lies along the northern side of the Lower Lake for about six miles,
when the exquisite mountain scenery comes in full view, rapidly
assuming more interesting features until "Arbutus" Cottage is
reached. Here the party must alight, and proceed on ponies, or on
foot, at discretion, through the Pass to Lord Brandon's Cottage, at
the head of the Upper Lake, where the boats will be in readiness.
Arrangements can be made with the Manager of the Hotel, before
starting, to provide ponies for _3s._ each to this point. Some
wonderful echoes are produced in various parts of the Pass.
Luncheon will be served, before entering the boat, on one of the
adjoining islands, after which the party will proceed by the Upper
Lake and Long Range to the Eagle's Nest Mountain. The boat will
then shoot the Rapids under the rustic Old Weir Bridge; stop a
short time at the "Meeting of the Waters"; pass through the Middle
Lake, and across the Lower Lake to "Sweet Innisfallen Island," to
enable the party to view the ruins of the old Abbey, Abbot's Grave,
and Bed of Honour; thence to Ross Castle, where the party will
resume their drive to the Hotel, which is usually reached about
5.30 p.m.
TOUR NO. 2. FARE, _4s. 6d._ ESTATE TOLLS, _2s._
The conveyances leave the Hotel about 10 a.m. for the drive through
Mr. H. A. Herbert's beautiful demesne. The ancient ruins of
Muckross Abbey are soon reached, and, after a short delay to
inspect them, the party proceed by the shore of the Middle Lake,
over Brickeen Bridge, pass the Colleen Bawn Rocks for Dinis
Island; thence, passing the Torc Mountain, to the Cottage and
Waterfall of Derrycunihy (Queen's Cottage), the property of the
Earl of Kenmare, where luncheon is usually served. Returning, the
party will pass under the tunnel on the Kenmare Road, and through
fine scenery by road, mountain, and lake to Torc Cascade, where, by
an easy footpath, fine views can be obtained of the Waterfall and
Lakes; thence to the Hotel, which is usually reached about 3 p.m.
TOUR No. 3. FARE, _4s. 6d._ ESTATE TOLLS, _1s._
The conveyances leave the Hotel at about 9.30 a.m., passing through
the Earl of Kenmare's Deer Park to the Heights of Aghadoe,
obtaining grand views of the Lower Lake, Macgillicuddy's Reeks, and
Carran Tual (the highest mountain in Ireland), as also the ruins of
the round tower of Aghadoe Church, thence through the Earl of
Kenmare's beautiful West and Home Parks, which skirt the
north-eastern shores of the Lower Lake, round Ross Island, and to
the Hotel, which is usually reached about 2.30 p.m.
KENMARE AND GLENGARRIFF.
The coach drive from Killarney to Kenmare is over a fine broad mountain
road, and from Mulgrove Barrack, about half way, a splendid view of the
lake country can be obtained. Kenmare, as its name signifies in Irish,
is at the head of the sea or beautiful bay to which it gives its name on
the Roughty river. Sir William Pettie, in the seventeenth century,
founded the town on lands confiscated from the O'Sullivan More. It is a
market place of importance, and the Convent of the Poor Clares is famous
the world over for the beautiful lace made here. The town stands on the
highway between Killarney and Glengarriff, known as "The Prince of
Wales' route." The coach drives through the town past the Lansdowne
Arms' Hotel and into the beautiful spot which has been selected for the
new hotel belonging to the Southern Hotels Company. Already young groves
and plantations teem about the mansion, which is built on a natural
terrace overlooking the bay, and facing the high hills of Glenaroughty,
behind which the Red River rises, and the bare mountain slopes of
Mucksna.
No visitor should fail, if time permits, to visit the Convent of the
Poor Clares, and see the lace-makers at work. From Kenmare the train or
coach may be taken to Killarney.
DRIVING EXCURSIONS IN THE VICINITY OF KENMARE.
No. 1.--Car to Goulane on old road to Killarney, walk to summit of
mountain, from which a magnificent view is obtained, returning by
Inchamore Cross Roads, Roughty Falls, and Suspension Bridge. _6s._
No. 2.--Car to Kilgarvan, thence to the Bird Mountain, on the
Borlin Road, returning by Lounihan and Letter. Grand panoramic
views of the Mangerton Mountains and Roughty Valley. _10s._
No. 3.--Car to Windy Gap on the Killarney Road, view of Gap of
Dunloe and M'Gillicuddy Reeks, thence by Dirreenfeenlahid Lake and
Bouchill Mountain, returning by Slieveaduff and Templemore Road.
_10s._
No. 4.--Car to Blackwater Bridge and Waterfall, thence by Old
Dromore and Valley of the Blackwater, returning by old road over
Coomnakilla; magnificent sea and mountain scenery. _12s._
No. 5.--Car to Clonee Lakes and Glen of Inchiquin, thence to
cascade at head of glen; beautiful drive along the southern shore
of Kenmare Bay, affording splendid views of mountain, lake, and
river. _15s._