The driver continued to praise the wonderful landlord, Jonathan Pym, in
a growling kind of tone as if, were I his spouse, he would thwack me
well to cure my unbelief, as we jolted over the stones to the ruins of
the monastery of owls.
There is a lake, the lake of owls, near this ruin, and in it, it is
said, gentlemen anglers can readily obtain leave to fish. I have heard
that amateur anglers give the fish they catch to the person who gives
the permit, retaining the sport of catching as their share; or if they
want the fish paying for them at market price. I think this unlikely,
but it may be so nevertheless.
The monastery was once a splendid place, to judge by the remains of the
carving on window and arched door. One of the skulls of Grace O'Malley
used to be kept here as a precious relic. There was another at Clare
Island and I think I also heard of another. It seems some speculative
and sacrilegious Scotchman brought a ship round the west coast of
Ireland to gather up the bones lying in the abbeys to crush them for
manure, and they took the brave sea queen's bones and skull with the
rest.
Returned to Newport in a very undecided frame of mind whether to go to
Ballycroy or not.
