It Is Said That The Present Owner Of Old Sir Annesly's
Estate, Who Is Not A Lineal Descendant, However, Feels As Bunyan
Describes The Two Giants To Feel, Who Can Grin And Gnash Their Teeth,
But Can Do No More.
All this and more I hear, as the sun comes up and the frost disappears,
and we sail over bright waters.
One might enjoy sailing over Lough
Swilly, the whole of a long summer day. Everything pleasant comes to an
end, and we land at Fahan, and while waiting for the train my attention
is drawn to the fair island of Inch, with its fields running up the
mountain side, and the damp black rocks through which the railway has
cut its way at Fahan. The train comes along, and we go whirling on past
Inch, Burnfoot Bridge, and into Derry. A Presbyterian doctor of divinity
is in our compartment, and some well-to-do farmers' wives, and again and
yet again the talk is of the land and the landlords. Instance after
instance of oppression and wrong is gone over.
But Derry reached, I must say good-bye to some agreeable travelling
companions, and take the mail car to Moville for a tour round
Innishowen; Innishowen, celebrated for its poteen; Innishowen, sung
about in song, told about in story.
"God bless the dark mountains of brave Donegal,
God bless royal Aielich, the pride of them all -
She sitteth for ever a queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of green Innishowen.
A race that no traitor or tyrant has known
Inhabits the valleys of green Innishowen."
From Derry to Moville is, as usual, lovely - lovely with a loveliness of
its own. Fine old trees, singly, in groups, in thick plantations;
beautiful fields; level clipped hedges; flowers springing everywhere,
under the hedges, in little front gardens, up the banks. The land is
dreadfully overrun with gentry's residences fair enough to the eye, some
of them very beautiful, but one gets to wonder, if the land is so poor
that it is spueing out its inhabitants, what supports all these?
The wide Lough Foyle is in sight of the road most of the way, and a sea-
bound steamer carries me away in thought to Canada. The air is nipping
enough to choke sentiment in the bud. It is bitter cold, and I have the
windward side of the car, and shiver at the nodding daffodils in
blooming clumps at every cottage as we pass along. There are some waste
unreclaimed fields, and the tide is out as we drive along, so that long
stretches of bare blue mud, spotted with eruptions of sea weed, fit well
with the cold wind that is enjoying a cutting sweep at us. Then we come
again to trim gardens and ivy garnished walls. The road follows the
curves of the Lough, and we watch the black steamers ploughing along,
and the brown-sailed little boats scudding before the breeze.
The Lough is on one side, and a remarkable, high steep ridge on the
other, yellow with budded whins, green with creeping ivy, and up on the
utmost ridge a row of plumed pines. When I noticed their tufted tops
standing out against the sky, I felt like saying, "Hurrah! hurrah for
Canada!" the pines did look so Canadian looking. I soon was recalled to
realize that I was in my own green Erin, and certainly it is with a cold
breath she welcomes her child back again.
We knew we were nearing Moville: we saw it on a distant point stretching
out into the Lough. I forgot to mention that the land began to be full
of castles as we drove along the road. We passed Red Castle and White
Castle and when we reached Moville, Green Castle was before us a few
miles further down. Further down I wished to go, for a very distant
relative was expecting me there - Mr. Samuel Sloan, formerly of the Royal
Artillery, who had charge of Green Castle Fort for years; but now has
retired, and lives on his own property. I like people to claim kindred
with me; I like a hearty welcome, the _Cead mille faille ghud_,
that takes you out of hotel life and makes you feel at home. I was so
welcomed by my distant kinsman and his excellent wife that I felt very
reluctant to turn out again to hotel life.
Next day after my arrival we got a car and made an excursion down along
the coast to Port-a-dorus. I thought I had seen rocks before, but these
rocks are a new variety to me. They occur so suddenly that they are a
continual surprise. Along the coast, out in the water, they push up
their backs in isolated heaps like immense hippopotami lying in the
water, or petrified sharks with only a tall serrated back fin visible.
There would occur a strip of bare brown sand, and outside of that row
upon row of sharp, thin, jagged rocks like the jaw teeth of pre-Adamite
monsters. In other places they were piled on one another in such a
sudden way, grass growing in the crevices, ivy creeping over them, the
likeness of broken towers and ruined battlements, that one could hardly
believe but that they were piled there by some giant race.
When we had driven as far as the car could go we left car and driver,
and scrambled over the rocks like goats. Rocks frowned above us, between
us and the sky, rocks all round in black confusion. As we climbed from
slippery rock to slippery rock, over long leathery coils of thick sea
weed, like serpents, on, on through the _Dorus_ to the open sea,
noticing the dark passages, the gloomy caves, the recesses among the
cliffs, the narrow passes, where one could turn to bay and keep off
many, it was natural to think of rebels skulking here, with a price on
their heads, after the '98, or of lawless people stilling illicit
_poteen_ to hide it from the gaugers.
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