That Heroine's Modern
Representative Expects Everyone To Take A Dose Of Goat's Milk In Poteen
From Her, And Leave Some Gratuity In Return.
The whole population turned
out to beg under some pretext or another.
One very handsome girl,
bareheaded and barefooted, and got up light and airy as to costume,
begged unblushingly without any excuse. She gathered up her light
drapery with one hand, and kept up with the horse, skelping along
through mud and mire as if she liked it. I noticed that she was set on
by her parents who were the occupiers of a little farm.
Suddenly our car stopped at a house where all sorts of lake curiosities
were exposed for sale. From this point it was four miles, Irish miles,
through the gap to the lake to the point where we took the boat. This
was one circumstance of which we were not aware when we started; it was
therefore a surprize. I am sorry to say that this gap was a
disappointment to me. It was a difficult path among bare mountains, but
nothing startling or uncommon.
What was uncommon was the relays of indefatigable women that lay in wait
for us at every turn. Goats' milk and poteen, photographs, knitted
socks, carved knick-nacks in bog oak; everything is offered for sale;
denial will not be taken. You pass one detachment to come upon another
lurking in ambush at a corner. There are men with small cannons who will
wake the echoes for a consideration; there are men with key bugles who
will wake the echoes more musically for a consideration; there is the
blind fiddler of the gap who fiddles away in hopes of intercepting some
stray pennies from the shower. One impudent woman followed us for quite
a way to sell us her photograph, as the photograph of Eily O'Connor,
murdered here by her lover many years ago - murdered not at the gap but
in the lake. There was a large party of us and these followers, horse,
foot and artillery, I may say were a persistent nuisance all the way.
The ponies, crowds of them, followed us to the entrance of the Gap,
where they disappeared, but the women and girls never faltered for the
five miles. The reiterated and re-reiterated offer of goat's milk and
poteen became exasperating; the bodyguard of these pertinacious women
that could not be shaken off was most annoying. The tourists are to the
inhabitants of Killarney what a wreck used to be to the coast people of
Cornwall, a God-send.
One does feel inclined to lose all patience as they run the gauntlet
here, and then one looks around at the miserable cabins built of loose
stones, at the thatch held on by ropes weighted with stones, the same as
are to be seen in Achil Island, among the Donegal hills, or the long
glens of Leitrim, notices the patches of pale, sickly, stunted oats, the
little corners of pinched potatoes - a girl passed us with a tin dish of
potatoes for the dinner, they were little bigger than marbles - the
little rickles of turf that the constant rain is spoiling, and one sees
that as there is really no industry in the place, of loom or factory,
that want and encouragement have combined to make them come down like
the wolf on the fold to the attack of tourists.
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