I asked for a bit of fish at Castlebar, where I remained some
time, and once succeeded in buying a small herring, for which I paid 2
1/2 pence.
To return to Pontoon; we stood on the bridge in the sunlight and drank
in the scene - broad blue waters, spotted with islands, guarded by the
munitions of rocks, watched over by the eternal mountains, bald and
wrinkled, every wrinkle scored deep on their brows, heather on the
cliffs, ivy creeping some places, ferns waving their delicate fronds in
another; bare, desolate grandeur here, tree-crowned hill tops waving
their magnificence before you there. This was the scene spread out on
either hand.
We came back over the bridge to the police barracks, sitting on a rock
with its back to a grove of trees, and reached by a flight of stone
steps. I was introduced to the sergeant in charge, a fine specimen of
the Donegal men. Tall and straight, strong and kindly are the men of
Donegal. The sergeant took us to a hill back of the barracks where was a
very lonely vale surrounded by steep hills wooded to the top. Down the
perpendicular sides of this hill a waterfall dashes in the rainy
seasons, but it was only a tinkling splash at this time. The sergeant
and I had some conversation about Donegal, and of course Lord Leitrim.
This noblemen has graven his name with an iron pen and lead on the rocks
for ever.
We bade adieu to the kindly sergeant and drove back to Castlebar in the
quiet evening. Opposite the Turlough round tower is the charming
residence of a Fitzgerald, one of the race whose dust moulders in an
aristocratic manner in the ruined abbey of Turlough. This gentleman, not
thinking himself safe even under protection, has left the country. Only
fancy a squad of police marching from their barracks in the dusk, five
or ten miles as the case may be, pacing round a gentleman's house in
rain or snow, sleet or hail, no shelter for their coercion heads, no
fire at which to warm their protecting fingers; pace about from dusk
till dawning, march back to barracks and to a few hours' rest. I was
silly enough to suppose that the protected family would provide a bowl
of hot coffee for their protectors through the silent watches of the
night, or a glass of the handier and very popular whiskey, but dear, oh
no! the most of them would not acknowledge the existence of the Royal
Irish protectors with a word or a nod no more than if they were watch
dogs.
XXXVII.
CASTLEBAR - WASTING THE LAND - CASTLE BOURKE - BALLINTUBBER ABBEY.
Castlebar is not a large town at all. It is, like all other towns which
I have yet seen in Ireland, swarming with houses licensed to sell
liquors of different kinds to be drunk on the premises.
