By the Way: Travel Letters Written During Several Journeys Abroad

by Agness Greene Foster

DUNLUCE CASTLE

We started at nine-thirty in a four-horse coach with a bugler. The road lies along the north side of the lower lake, and it wasn't long before the exquisite mountain scenery came into view. The Purple Mountains grew more interesting at every step. Presently we came to Kate Kearney's cottage, and our Irish guide turned and asked, in the richest of brogues:

"Oh! have you ever heard of Kate Kearney?

She lived at the Lakes of Killarney;

One glance of her eye would make a man die;

And have you never heard of Kate Kearney?"

Further on we struck the mountain pass, where the coach could not go. We dismounted and were placed on ponies. I thought at first I could not ride one, but I soon got used to the saddle, and I would not have missed the wild, weird pass over the mountain for anything. There was nothing "sad" or "tender" about that. It was fearful, awesome and mysterious.

We left the ponies at the foot of the mountains and paid toll into Lord Brandon's estate in order to reach the boats. Lunch was served on the banks of the upper lake.

These lakes have to be explored in rowboats, on account of the narrows, a pass between the rocks not more than ten feet apart. Such varied beauty I have seen nowhere else. The tender grace of the heather-strewn valley against the background of hills, the frequent change from the gentle to the stern, the calm-flowing waters, the smiling cascades turning into dashing cataracts over dangerous piles, are a never-ending source of surprises.