GWEEDORE TO GLENTIES
The Gweedore is a famous inn, built over fifty years ago by Lord George Hill on the river Clady; it has held its supremacy as a centre for salmon-fishing and grouse-shooting for half a century. The guests supplied the table so bountifully with fish in the early days that the writer has recollections, as a boy, of thinking that scales were growing on his back after having been at the hotel for a week. Many celebrities have fished and shot there – Thackeray, Dickens, Lord Palmerston, Carlyle, and a host of others have had their feet under its mahogany and have looked out of its windows at Errigal, popularly known as the "peerless cone," the base of which is not over a mile distant. This mountain rises to a height of two thousand four hundred and sixty-six feet, scarred and naked to its peak. Slieve Snaght, two thousand two hundred and forty feet, is another fine peak near it.
The name of Lord George Hill, the late proprietor of the estate, is so thoroughly identified with that of Gweedore that it will not be amiss to retail a few facts concerning him. He first settled in this part of the country in 1838, purchasing twenty-three thousand acres in the parish of Tullaghobegly, which he found in a state of distress and want so great that it became the subject of a parliamentary inquiry. Although there appeared to have been a considerable amount of exaggeration in the statements made, enough remained to show that famine, pestilence and ignorance were lamentably prevalent. The prospects of the landlord were far from encouraging, on account of the stony nature of the ground, the severity of the climate, and the difficulty of collecting his rent; but, more than all, the extraordinary though miserable system of rundale, which was universal throughout the district. By this arrangement a parcel of land was divided and subdivided into an incredible number of small holdings, in which the tenant very likely held his proportion or share in thirty or forty different places, which had no fences or walls whatever to mark them. The utter confusion and the hopelessness of each tenant's being able to know his own land, much less to plant or look after it, may well be imagined. And not only to land was this system applied, but also to portable property. With much perseverance and many struggles, Lord George Hill gradually changed the face of things. He overcame and altered the rundale system, improved the land, built schools, a church, and a large store at Bunbeg, made roads, established a post-office, and, what is perhaps of more importance to the traveler, a hotel. He took a direct and personal interest in the good management of the hotel and in the comfort of the guests who patronized it, frequently stopping at the house himself, dining and spending the evening with them. Since his death, in 1879, the hotel has kept up its traditional reputation for comfort and general good management.
Carlyle visited Lord Hill at Gweedore in 1849, and this is the way in which he described his host afterwards: "A handsome, grave-smiling man of fifty or more; thick, grizzled hair; elegant nose; low, cooing voice; military composure and absence of loquacity; a man you love at first sight." This was indeed high praise from a man of Carlyle's cantankerous temper. Lord Hill was so popular with his tenantry that when his horse broke down they would take the animal out of the shafts, fasten ropes to the car, and pull it home triumphantly with the owner seated in state, no matter how many miles they had to cover. He was a most courteous and obliging man. I well remember how, in the early sixties, he walked a considerable distance and took particular pains to show me the best fishing spots on the river.
They tell a joke at the hotel, on an English dude who asked Pat, the gillie, "Aw, my good man, do you mind telling me what – aw – sort of fish you catch here?" "Well, to tell ye the truth," was Pat's quick reply, "ye niver can tell till yez pulls 'em out!"
There was a big fishing crowd there, and when I announced at dinner that it was more than forty years since I had sat at that table and fished in the river, they all doffed their caps to me – metaphorically – and gave me more salmon and other good things than I could eat or drink.
We hadn't time to fish, and so we pushed on next day through the Rosses district, with all its innumerable fresh-water lakes and salt-water inlets. So intermingled were they that it was hard to decide which was which, and we finally got to know that where wrack grew on the shore the water was salt and connected somewhere with the sea. We stopped at Dunlow for lunch and then descended into the Gweebarra River valley and crossed the large, new steel bridge of that name, erected by the Congested Districts Board to give the people employment on that and the roads connecting with it at both ends. The way lies through an untamably wild country, but with such constant and shifting panorama of mountain scenery that the attention is never fatigued. You see in review the Dunlewy Mountains, Slieve Snaght, Errigal, Dooish, and the Derryveigh chains; in fact, if the weather is fine – and it all depends on that – there is scarcely such another mountain view in the kingdom.
The head of Gweebarra Bay, where the river joins it, is a queer-looking place; we skirted its shores for miles and enjoyed its peculiarities. When the tide is out the water is of a seal-brown color, due to the peat; when it is in, the color is bright green. Where the tides meet is a mixture of both colors, and frequently some of the shallows, side by side, will be of either brown or green, making a checkered appearance. While all this is going on, water-falls from the hillsides pour their brown waters into the bay and very often into pools of green. This phenomenon, in connection with the pleasing picture formed by the numerous small islands which dot the surrounding waters, makes it well worth while to wait and witness the tide in its changing stages.
We finished our twenty-five mile drive in an hour or so, and put up for the night at O'Donnell's, Glenties.
GLENTIES TO CARRICK
In some Irish hotels they set apart a room for the drummers to write and eat in, at lower prices than the public tariff, and this is as sacred ground as a Hindoo temple; for an ordinary personage to desecrate it by his presence is simply an unpardonable crime and is resented by the drummers accordingly. The doors are not always marked, and so it happened that I innocently wandered into this "reserved" room in the O'Donnell Hotel at Glenties and began to write a letter. I had hardly got as far as "Dear Sir," when the intrusion was noticed and promptly reported to the proprietor, who came in and apologetically asked me, "What line are ye in, sur?" to which I promptly responded, "Selling Power's Irish whiskey." He reported my vocation to "the committee," all were satisfied and I was allowed to finish my letter. Afterwards Mr. O'Donnell came to me and said with a wink: "It's all right, Mr. Bayne; your bluff went through with the boys, but 'tis my private opinion that ye're buyin' more whiskey than ye're sellin'."
Next morning when the sun rose we were off for Carrick, a scenery and ruin centre, the forts, etc., dating back to the sixth century. This was a favorite resort of Sir Frederick Leighton, the artist, who frequently spent his summers there. We took a noon rest at Ardara and then pushed on to complete our twenty-eight miles.
Before reaching Carrick we traversed the Glengesh Pass, a deep and beautiful ravine, "with verdure clad," the hills on both sides rising one thousand six hundred and fifty feet above sea level, their slopes ornamented with many water-falls, all joining to make up a brawling stream which rushed headlong down the valley. Altogether the place was a most charming one.
The pass was four miles long, and poor Bob could not make it with the load, so we got off and climbed the road on foot, while he fed and followed us with the empty car up the steep incline. We nursed him into Carrick, but he had to have a rest, and after getting it his owner drove him home. And so we parted with John, our worthy Jehu, and his good nag, Bob, both of whom had helped us well along on our pilgrimage.
As we were approaching Glengesh, we met a young Donegal girl on the road. She was dressed in black serge, and, although her feet were bare, her figure was erect and her carriage very graceful. She swung along the road with charming abandon, and might have shone at a "drawing-room" in Dublin Castle, the embodiment, the quintessence of unconscious grace.
CARRICK TO DONEGAL
We put up at the Glencolumbkille Hotel in Carrick. Here we hired a new car, with a stout, white horse to draw it, which took us to the base of Bunglass Head and waited for our return. It is a hard climb of over three miles to reach the summit, over rocks, bog, and heather, but we were well rewarded for our trouble. Bunglass fills the rôle of a grand-stand, as it were, from which you get a good view of Slieve League Mountain, whose base rises abruptly out of the sea, which breaks against it with great violence. We had heard that the golden eagle builds its nests on this headland, but we did not succeed in finding any of the birds, and concluded that they had flown over to see King Edward's coronation.
A view of singular magnificence here bursts upon you – a view that of its kind is probably unequalled, in the British Isles. The lofty mountain of Slieve League gives on the land side no promise of the magnificence that it presents from the sea, being in fact, a mural precipice of one thousand nine hundred and seventy-two feet in height, descending to the water's edge in one superb escarpment,
" … around
Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves,
Bursting and eddying irresistibly,
Rage and resound forever."
And not only in its height is it so sublime, but in the glorious colors which are grouped in masses on its face. Stains of metals – green, amber, gold, yellow, white, red – and every variety of shade are observable, particularly when seen under a bright sun, contrasting in a wonderful manner with the dark-blue waters beneath. In cloudy or stormy weather this peculiarity is to a certain degree lost, though other effects take its place and render it even more magnificent. This range of sea-cliff extends with little variation all the way to Marlin, though at nothing like the same altitude.
Having feasted our eyes on the beauties of the precipices, we then ascended, skirting the cliffs the whole way. Near the summit the escarpment cuts off the land slope so suddenly as to leave only a sharp edge with a fearful precipice of above fifteen hundred feet on the side towards the sea, and a steep slope on the landward side. This ledge is termed the "One Man's Path," and is looked on by the inhabitants of the neighborhood in the same light as the Striding Edge of Helvellyn, or the Bwlch-y-Maen of Snowdon. There is a narrow track or ledge on the land slope a little below this edge, facetiously called "The Old Man's Path" by the guides. At the very summit are the remains of the ancient oratory of St. Hugh McBreacon. The view is wonderfully fine; southward is the whole coast of Sligo and Mayo, from Benbulbin to the Stags of Broadhaven; while farther in the distance are faintly seen Nephin, near Ballina, and Croagh Patrick Mountain at Westport. Northward is a perfect sea of Donegal mountains, reaching as far as Slieve Snaght and Errigal, with all the intervening ranges near Ardara, Glenties, and Dunloe.
Coming down was almost as bad as going up had been, but we finally reached our car and were driven home for a late dinner. On the way we were shown the place where Prince Charlie the Pretender embarked when he fled from the English forces.
DONEGAL TO BALLYSHANNON
Next morning, in a blinding rain, we got up behind a stout, black horse, driven by Charley, a conversational soloist of unrivaled garrulity, who under these conditions told us entirely too much about Fin McCool's and Red Hugh's feats and what they did to their neighbors. We passed through Killybegs, but our destination was Donegal (town), and after we reached it we discharged Charley, took dinner, and aired ourselves round the city, taking what base-ball players call a "stretch."
The principal objects of interest here are the ruined abbey and the castle of the O'Donnells. The monastery was founded for Franciscan friars in 1474 by Hugh Roe O'Donnell and his wife, Fingalla, daughter of Conor O'Brien of Thomond, and in it they were both buried. His son, Hugh Oge, finally took the habit of St. Francis, and was buried here in 1537. Red Hugh O'Donnell having taken up arms against the English, his brother-in-law, Niall Garbh, sided with them and took possession of the monastery. It was besieged by O'Donnell, and during the siege some barrels of gunpowder which had been stored took fire and the explosion destroyed the building. Red Hugh, after the fiasco of the Spanish landing at Kinsale, to which he went, sailed to Spain for further assistance and died there at the early age of twenty-eight, being buried in Valladolid. Niall Garbh, having lost the confidence of the English, was imprisoned in the Tower of London, and died after eighteen years of captivity. The O'Donnells, or Cinel Conall, were descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages, who became king of Ireland in 379 A.D.. Of his sons, Eoghan, or Owen, was ancestor of the O'Neills, and Conall Gulban of the O'Donnells. The country of the former was called Tir Eoghan (Tyrone), or Owen's territory, and extended over the eastern part of Donegal and the counties of Tyrone and Londonderry. The peninsula of Inishowen also received its name from him. Tyrconnell, the territory of Conall, extended over County Donegal. Between these races, bound together as they were by common descent and frequent intermarriages, wars were of constant occurrence through many generations.
The Cathach of the O'Donnells is a cumhdach, or box, made, as its inscription says, by Cathbhar O'Donnell towards the end of the eleventh century. It contains a portion of the Psalms in Latin, said to have been written by St. Columba and which led to the battle of Drumcliff and his subsequent exile to Iona. It was carried by a priest three times in front of the troops of the O'Donnells before a contest, hence its name, "The Battler." The silver case enclosing the box was made by Colonel O'Donnell in 1723. It was presented by the late Sir Richard O'Donnell to the Royal Irish Academy, where it now is.
Either in the monastery or in some building near it were compiled, between 1632 and 1636, the famous Annals of Donegal, better known under the title of the Annals of the Four Masters– Michael and Cucogry O'Clery, Fearfeasa O'Mulconry, and Cucogry O'Duigenan. The object of this compilation was to detail the history of Ireland up to the time in which they lived, including all local events, such as the foundation and destruction of churches and castles, the deaths of remarkable persons, the inaugurations of kings, the battles of chiefs, the contests of clans, etc. A book consisting of eleven hundred quarto pages, beginning with the year 2242 B.C., and ending with the year 1616 A.D., thus covering the immense space of nearly four thousand years of a nation's history, must be dry and meagre of details in some, if not in all, parts of it. And although the learned compilers had at their disposal or within their reach an immense mass of historic details, still the circumstances under which they wrote were so unfavorable that they appear to have exercised a sound discretion and one consistent with the economy of time and of their resources when they left the details of the very early history of Ireland in the safekeeping of such ancient original records as had from remote ages preserved them, and collected as much as they could make room for of the events of more modern times, particularly those eventful days in which they themselves lived. This interesting record, which was originally written in native Irish, has in later times been translated by Mr. Eugene O'Curry, who has given to the world of general literature a very able translation of this monumental work.
BALLYSHANNON TO SLIGO
With a fresh horse we started for Ballyshannon, some fifteen miles ahead of us. The surrounding country was interesting and appeared to be prosperous, containing many fine seats, the great feature of which was their magnificent timber. Ballyshannon seems a busy town, with two thousand five hundred inhabitants. Its castle, of which scarcely any traces remain, belongs to the O'Donnells and was the scene of a disastrous defeat of the English under Sir Convers Clifford in 1597. The castle was besieged with vigor for three days and an attempt made to sap the walls, but the garrison having made a desperate sally, the English retreated in haste, and, pursued by Hugh Roe O'Donnell, they lost a great portion of their force in an unsuccessful attempt to cross the Erne.
The two portions of the town, the lower one of which is called the Port, are connected by a bridge of twelve arches about four hundred yards above the celebrated falls, where an enormous body of water is precipitated over a cliff some thirty feet high and ten feet above high-water, with a noise that is perfectly deafening. This is the scene of the "salmon-leap." The salmon that come down the river in the autumn return again in the spring months, and this can only be accomplished by ascending the falls. Traps with funnel-shaped entrances are placed in different parts of the falls, in which the salmon are caught, and taken out for market as required. Between the traps are intervals through which the fish can reach the top of the falls by leaping, and as at low water the spring is about sixteen feet, the scene is singularly interesting. Below the falls is the island of Inis-Saimer, on which are buildings connected with the fishery. The fishery is very valuable, and is owned by Messrs. Moore & Alexander.
On the bridge is a tablet to William Allingham (1824-1889), a native of Ballyshannon. I give Allingham's own description of his home; it can hardly be surpassed in the English language for simple, graceful, and yet direct diction. I also quote a few lines from a poem he wrote before he sailed for America; they are not Miltonian in their style, but Milton could not have touched the spot as he did.
"The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low, solemn, persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter. Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice. The river which makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide. Before spreads a great ocean in sunshine or storm; behind stretches a many-islanded lake. On the south runs a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green, rocky hills, rise peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens, or cluster near the river; gray rocks and boulders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night and long processions of clouds blown from the sea, but also, in the childish memory where these pictures live, to deeps of celestial blue in the endless days of summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town ours, on the extreme western verge of Europe, our next neighbors, sunset way, being citizens of the great new republic which, indeed, to our imagination seemed little, if at all, farther off than England in the opposite direction."
"Adieu to Ballyshannon! where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn;
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own.
There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn,
So adieu to Ballyshannon and the winding banks of Erne!
"Farewell, Coolmore – Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach and tempt the gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn —
And I must quit my native shore and the winding banks of Erne!"
Near here are the ruins of Kilbarron Castle, an ancient fortress of the O'Clerys, a family renowned in their day for their skill in science, poetry, and history, of whom was Father Michael O'Clery, the leader of the illustrious quartet of the "Four Masters." It stands on a precipitous rock at the very edge of the coast.
In the vicinity of Ballyshannon can be seen Ballymacward Castle, which was built during the famine of 1739. This was the home of the "Colleen Bawn," famous in song and story, who was one of the Ffolliott girls, and eloped with Willy Reilly.
Now we are on the road to Bundoran, and we had hardly cleared the skirts of Ballyshannon before it began to rain so hard that even had old Noah been with us he could not have bragged much about the Flood. It came in at our collars and went out at our boots. Our new driver could not be induced to say a single word except yes or no; he was neither a historian, a botanist, nor a geologist, and he took no interest whatever in ruins; but we forgave him for all these shortcomings, for he drove his horse steadily onward through the torrent with an unswerving perseverance that covered a multitude of sins. When we arrived at Bundoran's fashionable watering-place hotel, The Irish Highlands, the guests received us with shouts of laughter, in which we good-humoredly joined. No more weary pilgrims ever drew rein at inn in such a sorry plight.
Our clothes were dried during the night, and with a new steed we started for Sligo. It was clear weather and we had a pleasant ride along the coast-line. The feature of the day was skirting the base of Benbulbin for about seven miles. This is a most peculiar mountain, almost eighteen hundred feet high. Its base starts in with patches of yellow and sage-green verdure, then turns to streams of broken rocks. From these, regular pillars of stone start like the pipes of an organ, which can be seen for fifty miles, these again being covered by a flat crown of green growth. The whole looks like a vast temple in India. A large water-fall, consisting of three separate cascades, cuts its side and adds greatly to its beauty and attractiveness.
We passed through the village of Drumcliff, situated on the bank of the river of the same name which here enters Drumcliff Bay from Glencar Lake. A monastery was founded here by St. Columba, the site for which was given in 575, and it was made into a bishop's see, afterwards united to Elphin. This village was anciently called "Drumcliff of the Crosses," and of the remains of these the "Great Cross" is a fine example. It is thirteen feet high and three feet eight inches across the arms, which are connected by the usual circular segments. It is of hard sandstone and consists of three sections, the base, shaft, and top. It is highly sculptured, showing human figures, animals, and fine, interlaced scrollwork. There is also the stump of a round tower, about forty feet high, of rude masonry of the earliest group. The door is square-headed, six feet from the ground, and the walls are three feet thick.
Near Drumcliff was fought a great battle in 561, arising out of a quarrel over the possession of a copy of a Latin Psalter made by St. Columba from one borrowed of St. Finnian, of Moville. St. Finnian claimed the copy, and the case was brought before Dermot, King of Meath, who decided, Brehon fashion, that as "to every cow belongs its calf, so to every book belongs its copy," a judgment from which St. Columba appealed to his tribe. The party of St. Columba was victorious, three thousand of the men of Meath being slain. St. Columba was advised by St. Molaise to go to Scotland and convert the pagans as penance for the blood he had shed, which he did, and founded a missionary establishment in Iona.
Lord Palmerston took a great interest in this part of the country, laying out plantations in 1842 and building a harbor, which we saw from the car. It cost him over £20,000.
While riding along we noticed a tower on a distant hill, and said to the driver, "Is that a round tower?" "Yis, sur." "Are you sure it's round?" "Yis, sur, I am; it's square it is."