All the way stations in small places are
wooden houses built American fashion, either clapboarded or upright
boards battened where they meet. The road is through a hilly country and
therefore lies mostly through deep cuttings that shut out the scenery.
There is one long tunnel not far from Cork that educates you into a
sense of what utter darkness means. It is pleasant to look over rich
pastures back to the city crowding its lofty hills, and to notice what a
grand steeple-crowned city it is.
The train crawls along through deep cuts, past these little wooden
stations where everything is more primitive and backwoods looking than
anything I have seen before in Ireland. The porters are civil and
obliging, ready to answer the questions of the ignorant, even of those
who travel third-class. The vast majority of the passengers are small
traders, market-women and farmers' wives, who have been away making
purchases.
By the time we reach Dunmanway we had our allowance of light served out
to us, a lamp being thrust through the ceiling of the car from the top,
and by its light we steamed into Skibbereen. I expected Skibbereen to be
a small assemblage of mud huts, but was surprised to find it a large
town of tall houses. As the bus rattled along through one gaslight
street after another, I kept asking myself, is this really Skibbereen.
