Killarney is famed and known all over the civilized world; but there are
places in Ireland where isolated scenes can be found as fair as any in
Killarney. Much has been written about this "Eden of the West," but most
of those who have attempted to describe it have omitted to mention its
chief charm--namely, diversity of scenic attractions within a small
compass. Almost everything that Nature could do has been done within a
tract of country hardly ten miles square.
Except some favoured spots in Switzerland, there is no spot of European
soil more famed for beauty than Killarney. Its very name is beautiful, as
any one can know who has heard Balfe's grand song, "Killarney." No sounds
more harmonious or more fitted for a refrain could be uttered by the
organs of speech. The name signifies in Gaelic the church of the sloe or
wild plum-tree. The real name of the lake, or chain of lakes, which is one
of the charms of Killarney, is Loch Lein, but the latter name is now
almost obsolete.
Before attempting to describe Killarney, it will be well to give the
reader an extract from Macaulay's "History of England." The passage is a
masterpiece of prose. It is a sketch of the scenic characteristics of that
part of Ireland where the famous lakes are situated:
"The south-western part of Kerry is now well known as the most beautiful
tract in the British Isles. The mountains, the glens, the capes stretching
far out into the Atlantic, the crags on which the eagles build, the
rivulets branching down rocky passes, the lakes overhung by groves in
which the wild deer find covert, attract, every summer, crowds of
wanderers sated with business and the pleasures of great cities. The
beauties of that country are often, indeed, hidden in the mist and rain
that the west wind brings up from the boundless ocean. But, on rare days,
when the sun shines out in his glory, the landscape has a freshness and
warmth of colouring seldom found in our latitude. The myrtle loves the
soil; the arbutus thrives better than in Calabria; the turf has a livelier
hue than elsewhere; the hills glow with a richer purple; the varnish of
the holly and the ivy is more glossy, and berries of a brighter red peep
through foliage of a brighter green."[1]
Macaulay, in spite of his Celtic name, was not a lover of Ireland and the
Irish, and there is no reason to suppose that this most wonderful
word-painting was evoked by any liking for the land it describes. He had
seen Killarney, and it must have inspired him to write the greatest
descriptive passage he ever penned.
Those who expect to find in Killarney the grandeur of the Alps, the Rocky
Mountains, or even of the Scottish Highlands, will be disappointed. It is
too small to be sublime, for it could be ridden round in a day. The most
wonderful of its many wonders is variety of scenery in a small compass. In
this respect few parts of the known world can compare with it. Almost
every possible phase of Nature, almost everything she could do with land
and water, can be found in Killarney, and found on a little spot of earth
hardly larger than the space covered by London. Mountains, lakes, rivers,
rocks, woods, waterfalls, flowery islands, green meadows and glistening
strands, almost exhaust Nature's materials for forming the beautiful. But
all are found at Killarney. Man, who mars Nature so often, has helped her
here, for the castles and abbeys he raised of yore still stand, and their
ivy and flower-decked ruins, tenanted only by the bat and the bee, put the
finishing touch on this earthly Eden, and make it one of the scenic
wonders of the world. If Killarney had glaciers and eternally snow-clad
peaks, it would have everything that Switzerland has.
Another wonderful thing about Killarney is the admirable proportion its
scenic features bear to one another. If the mountains were any higher they
would be too high for the lakes, and if the lakes were any bigger they
would be too big for the mountains. Even the rivers and waterfalls are
almost in exact proportion to the other phases of Nature. The monstrous
Mississippi or the thundering Niagara would spoil such a miniature
paradise; but the limpid Laune and O'Sullivan's babbling cascade suit it
exactly. Killarney is the most perfect effort of Nature to bring together
without disproportion all her choicest charms.
Small as Killarney is, it would take at least a week, or perhaps two
weeks, to see it and know all its loveliness. It is only on foot and
without hurry that its beauties can be seen in perfection. Its mountains
may be ascended, and glorious views of sea and craggy heights obtained;
but the charm of Killarney is not grandeur, but beauty. There are mountain
views in Scotland finer than can be had from the summits of Mangerton or
Carn Thual. It would be something like waste of time to climb those
hills. Let the tourist rather wander in the hundreds of shady lanes or
paths that skirt the lakes, or take a boat and navigate that most
picturesque river, for its length, in the world, the Long Range, that
connects the upper with the lower lake. Let him mark the wondrous
luxuriance of grass, leaf, weed and flower. The arbutus grows so large
that it becomes a tree. Ferns of such gigantic proportions may be found in
shady nooks that they seem to belong to some far-back geological age.
Softness, freshness, luxuriance and _beaute riante_ are the real glories
of Killarney. In these it has no rival.
There are two drawbacks to Killarney; there is the guide nuisance and the
rain nuisance. The nuisance of guides is probably no greater than in many
other places of tourist resort, and, by a strong effort of the will, can
be got rid of. But the rain is a more serious matter and must be borne
patiently. Some years come when not a dozen dry days occur throughout the
entire summer, but generally there is less rainfall than on the west
coasts of Scotland or England. There have been quite as many wet days in
Liverpool during the three last summers as there usually are in Killarney.
It does, however, too often happen that tourists are confined to the hotel
for four or five days at a time owing to the rain. It must be borne in
mind that this excessive moisture of atmosphere is what has given the
south-west of Ireland, and England too, their exquisite charm of verdure
and wild flowers. When a fine day comes after rain in summer or autumn all
Nature seems to laugh. Flowers of all hues open their petals, birds in
multitudes begin to sing, and wild bees and hosts of insects make the air
musical with their hum. The American tourist need have no fear when
insects are mentioned, for the mosquito is unknown in Killarney. Midges
are the only insect plague, but they never enter houses, and are
troublesome only before rain, early in the spring or late in the autumn.
Most tourists go to Killarney early in the summer. June and July are
favourite times for Americans to visit it. As it lies almost in the direct
route between New York and Liverpool, they generally visit it before going
to England or the Continent of Europe. But the time to see Killarney is in
the autumn--it is then in all its glory. It should not be visited before
the 15th of August; from then until the 1st of October it is the most
beautiful place, perhaps, on the earth, provided always that the weather
is not wet. There is only one thing that mars the weather in the south of
Ireland--namely, rain. Cold, in the general sense of the word, is almost
unknown. Every day that is not wet must be fine. There is, it must be
confessed, rather more probability of having dry weather in Killarney in
the spring or early summer than in the autumn, but, by visiting it in the
spring, the tourist would gain nothing, and would lose the wild-flower
feast of autumn. No American, or even native of England, no matter from
what part of his country he comes, can form the faintest conception of
what a Killarney mountain is in September, if the weather be fine. The
wild-flower that is the glory of Ireland is the heath. It blossoms only in
the autumn. Next in glory to the heath comes the furze. Both furze and
heath are indigenous in the whole of the south-west of Europe, but, owing
to the mildness and moistness of the climate of Ireland, they grow and
blossom there with a luxuriance unknown in any other country. When a great
mountain becomes a mighty bouquet of purple and gold, a sight is revealed
which surpasses anything on earth in floral beauty. Almost every mountain
round about the "Eden of the West" is clothed from base to summit in a
vast drapery of heath. Some of the Killarney mountains are wooded for a
few hundred feet up their sides, but most of them are entirely covered
with heath interspersed with furze. When a fine autumn occurs, tens of
thousands of acres of mountain and moorland gleam in the sunlight, an
ocean of purple heath and golden furze. Not only do the heath and furze
blossom in the autumn, but myriads of other wild-flowers appear only at
that time of year, or blossom most luxuriantly then. Even white clover,
which rarely blossoms in other countries except in the spring or early
summer, open its flowers widest and sends out its most fragrant perfume in
an Irish autumn. The air is heavy with fragrance of flowers, the mountains
are musical with the hum of bees, and
"Every winged thing that loves the sun
Makes the bright noonday full of melody."
Killarney in a fine autumn becomes not only entrancing, but overpowering
in its loveliness.
The whole country round Killarney is a wonderland. Macaulay's description
of it is true to the letter. In all his works nothing can be found of a
descriptive character equal to the passage quoted from him. He had a great
subject, and he handled it as no other writer of the English language
could. He has described one of the loveliest regions in the world in a few
lines that will stand for ever as one of the greatest efforts of a great
writer. His description is a brilliant gem of composition, just as the
place it describes is a brilliant gem of nature.
No one should visit Killarney without visiting Glengariff. It is only
about twenty miles from Killarney, and can be reached by a sort of
low-backed car peculiar to Ireland. This car is a very curious sort of
conveyance. The occupants sit back to back, with their sides to the
horses. In fine weather there is no pleasanter mode of travelling than on
a low-backed car, but when it rains one is anything but comfortable.
Glengariff is thought by some to surpass even Killarney in beauty. It is a
deep glen surrounded by mountains of the most fantastic shapes, clothed
with a wealth of foliage that would astonish any one who had not seen
Killarney. The lake that is seen at Glengariff is sea-water, and opens
into Bantry Bay. The tourist will find an excellent hotel there, and no
matter how he may be satiated with the beauty of Killarney, he will see
other and more striking beauties in Glengariff.
Killarney is well supplied with hotels. There are four or five, and they
are all good. Most of them are situated in sequestered places, where a
view of some enchanting scene spreads before the door. The village of
Killarney is about a mile from the lake; it is a place of no interest at
all, but there is a very good hotel in it, and many tourists stop there,
for it is just at the railway terminus. Hotel expenses at Killarney in the
tourist season are not so high as at some of the fashionable Continental
summer resorts. Guides are not much wanted, unless mountains are to be
ascended. Then they are indispensable, for mists may suddenly come during
the very finest day, and the tourist without a guide would run a chance of
spending a night on a bleak mountain or being drowned in a lake or
bog-hole. Ponies of a most docile character can be hired cheap. Pony-back
travelling is a favourite mode of "doing" Killarney, especially with
ladies and lazy men, but no one into whose soul the charm of Killarney
really enters would think of travelling through such lovely scenes on
horseback. On foot or in a boat is the way to see Killarney.
[Illustration: ROSS CASTLE.]
There are ruins of the most interesting kind in Killarney. Muckross Abbey
is not so large as some of the ruined shrines of England, but it is a
venerable and imposing building. It was built by one of the MacCarthys,
chiefs of the district, in 1340. Ross Castle is another imposing ruin. It
is situated on a green promontory that juts into the lake. There is some
doubt as to the exact time when it was erected, but it could hardly have
been before the fourteenth century. The most interesting ruin near
Killarney, and by far the most ancient, is the monastery on the supremely
beautiful island of Inisfallan. It was founded by Saint Finian in the
sixth century. It was there the yet unpublished "Annals of Inisfallan"
were compiled. Hardly any of the walls of the old monastery remain. The
arbutus and the hawthorn are growing where once were cloisters, and are
fast completing the ruin of what was one of the first of the ancient
churches that were erected in Ireland.