From the grand castle of
Lismore the road wound along between low range walls, ivy-covered and
moss-grown, that fenced in extensive woods, clothing bold hills and deep
valleys with wild verdure. The wildness of these woods and their thick
growth of underbrush reminded me of far off Canadian forests.
We overtook a decent-looking country woman, who was toiling along the
road with a big basket; the car man took her up; she seemed an old
acquaintance. On one side of the road below the range wall a shallow
little river ran brawling among the stones. I tried to find out its name
from the woman with the basket but she could only tell its name in
Irish, a very long name, and not to be got hold of hastily. "Her son was
in America - God bless it for a home for the homeless! - and he had that
day sent her L120, which she was carrying home in the bosom of her
dress." "She had good boys who neither meddled with tobacco or drink,
and not many mothers could say that for their sons." "Her boys were as
good boys to their father and mother as ever wore shoes, thoughtful and
quiet they were." "They had good learning and did not need to work as
laborers." I asked her why she did not go out to America. "Ould trees
don't take kindly to transplanting," she said, "I will see the hills I
have looked at all my life around me as long as I see anything. I want
the green grass that covers all my people to cover me at last."
At a turn in the road the woman left us to climb a steep _boreen_
that led to her home among the hills, with her heavy basket and her
son's love gift of L120 in her bosom, and I sat in the car dreamily
looking at the wooded hills and wondered how dear a hilly country is to
its inhabitants.
The most beautiful thing which I saw in Killarney was the feeling of
proprietorship and kinship that all the people felt in and for the
mountains and lakes. It takes a lifetime to get thoroughly acquainted
with the eternal hills. They have ways of their own that they only
display upon long acquaintance. You can see shadowy hands draw on the
misty night cap or fold round massive shoulders the billowy gray drapery
or inky cloak when passing rain squall or mountain tempest is brewing.
They wrinkle their brows and draw near with austere familiarity; they
retreat and let the sunshine and shadows play hide-and-seek round them,
or lift their bald heads in still summer sunshine with calm joyfulness.
The dwellers among them learn to love them through all their varying
moods.
As I dreamed dreams the car driver, the surliest of his class which I
have met, was urging a tired horse up a gradual ascent higher and higher
among the hills, until we left houses, holdings, roads - except the
gamekeeper's or bog rangers' track - far below us. These wild places, he
told me, had no deer, but unlimited grouse, hares and rabbits. I was
inclined to think very slightly of rabbits, especially when told of land
that had formerly supported inhabitants having been given over to small
game of this kind; but a gentleman landholder told me of a nobleman's
estate (I will not name him for fear I mistake the name) which averaged
1,000 rabbits weekly, which were worth one shilling and sixpence a
couple after all expenses were paid. I have respected rabbits as rivals
of human beings ever since.
We got up among the bleak mountains at last, high and bare, except where
their rocky nakedness was covered with ragged heather. Silent and awful
their huge bulk rose behind one another skyward. After we had long
passed sight or sound of human habitation, we suddenly came to a
whitewashed cosy police station in the shelter of the mountains, with a
pretty garden in front, and a pleasant-faced constable came down for the
mail. It was such a lovely place for a man to wear a cheerful face in,
that I could not help saying, "You have a nice place here, sergeant."
"Yes," he smilingly answered, "but lonely enough at times." The car man
was very sullen, and seemed eager to pick a quarrel with the policeman,
which the other evaded with dexterous good nature, while another
policeman, pipe in mouth, hands in pockets, gloomed at the driver from
behind him.
I should not wonder if my driver resented me speaking to the policeman,
for feeling runs high against them in these southern counties for a long
time now; he was still more sullen, at all events, after we passed the
station. I was told that from these Knock-me-le-Down Mountains, I could
see a glimpse of the Galtees, but the mountains began to array
themselves in, what the sullen driver called fog, cloaks of gray mists
that fell in curling folds down their brown sides. Up and up we climbed,
along a road that twisted itself among the solemn giants of the hills
sitting in veiled awfulness. We passed a boundary ridge that separated
the Duke of Devonshire's lands from the next landlord, and I thought we
were at the highest point of the pass, and here the storm came down, and
the mountain rain and mountain winds began to fight and struggle round
every peak and through every glen. I have never ventured among the
mountains yet without rousing the fury of the mountain spirits. The
jaded horse got himself into a staggering gallop, and so, chased by the
storm, we threaded our way about and around on the downward slope of the
mountains.
