Westport is the most westerly town in Ireland, and is only 1,600 miles from Nova Scotia. At one time it was proposed to run a line of steamers from here to America, but the project fell through.
We would like to have spent a day or two around Westport, but we still thought we could reach the Giant’s Causeway that evening, although I was beginning to think that Antrim was quite a long ways off.
The Steward showed us around the gardens and grounds, and even offered to drive us over the town, but we were anxious to get started in the air again and we declined. It was 2:00 o’clock when we had the starting rail in place and had everything in readiness for another flight.
An immense crowd had gathered around the aeroplane. They made few remarks, evidently restrained by the presence of the steward, for whom they showed much respect. One or two did volunteer an Irish farewell.
“Ah, then,” said one old woman, “it’s not often we have the blessing of such fine company, good luck to your honors, and God send you safe back again.”
“Good-bye,” said a good-natured Son of Erin, with the map of Ireland all over his face. “Good-bye, and I hope ye can kape on your feet until you land agin.”
“God bless you, sors,” said the Steward, “and keep you safe and bring you back.”
One gets used to hearing the name of Deity in Ireland, but it does not shock you. The Irish use God’s name familiarly, but reverently; not lightly, as in France; or vulgarly, as so often in America. No one calls on God to damn you in Ireland. God is appealed to for blessing.
“Good-bye,” Mike and I shouted, as we rose in the air. The crowd broke out in cheers, as we sailed away toward County Sligo.
We crossed several lakes and much enjoyed the rest of our flight over County Mayo, but it is not a desirable part of Ireland in which to till the soil. We passed over a pretty little town on a railroad, called Castlebar. We entered County Sligo near Swinford.