The upper lake is more placid and less changeable, but the lower has every change, from smooth, glass-like waters to the rapids, which we "shoot" in no fearless manner. Finally we alight on Innisfallen Island to see the ruins of the abbey; then we cross to Ross Castle. Here another coach and four was in waiting to carry us home. After ten miles by coach, five on horseback and thirteen by boat, I actually dress for dinner.
We were up with the larks this morning, packed everything very carefully, sent the basket off by carted luggage, and nearly came to blows with the stupid paddy at the station over the settlement.
After breakfast the coach came dashing up, and away we flew again, over the purple hills, through shady lanes, past the wee farms and the hovels, catching glimpses of castles, churches and ruins. The most beautiful of all is Muckross Abbey. I had no idea we could possibly repeat the pleasures of yesterday, but in some respects we exceeded them. Our road today wound up and around Eagle Nest Mountain, in the dark recesses of which the eagle builds its nest. Here, too, is the home of the famous Killarney echo. The effect produced by the notes of a bugle is almost supernatural.
The coachmen have a clever manner of talking to the echoes. For instance, ours called out, "Pat, were you drunk last night?" and the confession came back from a thousand hills, "Drunk last night, drunk last night, drunk last night."
The literary Killarnian claims for this beautiful region that it was the ruins of the old castle on the shores of the Middle Lake which called forth Tennyson's masterpiece, "The Bugle Song."
The Purple Mountains take their name from the purple of the heather. One can see every shade, from the light pink-lavender to the dark, almost red, purple.
We arrived at Glengariff just as the sun was sinking. The valley, the lakes, the mountains, the red coach, with its four big horses darting in and out of the winding road, and finally galloping up to the exquisite little inn at Glengariff, high on a knoll overlooking the blue waters of the Bay of Bantry, are among the delightful details of today's picture.
The shore line of this attractive bay can be appreciated only when one is taken in a small boat, threading one's way through the numberless private yachts that dot its waters. One of the gentlemen of our party, thinking to have some sport with the boatman, said that only one lady could go in each boat, and that he must choose the one he wished to go with him. After a critical survey the answer came, "Divil a step will I go without the both of yez!" and he handed us both into the boat, and left the gentlemen to seek a boat by themselves.