This castle is one of those given to Grace by
her husband of a year, Sir Richard Bourke.
There are still the remains of three buildings; one, said to be the
prison, was loopholed through the solid stone, some loopholes being
quite close to the ground, some straight through, some slanting, so as
to cover a man come from what direction he might, or what height soever,
even if he crept on the ground. Most of the castle, as well as these
buildings attached, had their roof on the floor, but in the square tower
of the castle proper still remains a stone staircase of the circular
kind.
As you go up this stair lit by narrow slits in the wall formed in hewn
stone you find an arched door at three different places admitting to
three arched galleries roofed and floored with stone. These have their
loophole slits to peep out of, or fire out of, stone spouts through
which molten lead or boiling water could be poured on the besiegers. In
one gallery a trap door let down to an underground passage which came
out at the lake some distance off. By this they could send a messenger
to raise the O'Malley clans, or by it could escape if necessary.
The goats of Mayo are inquisitive, and would persist in climbing the
circular stair and exploring the galleries. Whenever they found this
secret passage, for pure mischief they fell down and were killed, to the
great loss of their owners; so the secret passage is filled up, for
which I was very sorry.
We must take our car again and rattle back over the road to Ballintubber
Abbey. Ballintobar (town of the well) near this was one of the sacred
wells of St. Patrick. The abbey gates were locked, and it was some time
before the key was forthcoming. The church part of the abbey is entire
except the roof and the lofty bell tower. The arch that supported the
tower was forty-five feet in height, but I do not know how high the
tower was which it supported. At last the key was found and we were
admitted into the church. The chancel is still roofed, and here in these
solemn ruins, watched over by the crows and the jackdaws, the few
inhabitants still left assemble for mass. There is a rude wooden altar
and a few pine benches; the ivy waves from the walls; the jackdaws caw
querulously or derisively; the dead of the old race for centuries sleep
underneath, and now in a chancel the remnant gather on a Sabbath. I
cannot describe it as an architect or antiquarian, and these classes
know all about it better than I do, but I want to convey as far as I can
the impression it made upon me to others as delightfully ignorant on the
subject.
