Few held such wide views even in that day, and Joe could rarely get any one to talk on that favourite topic of his; but he made various pleasant little discoveries, one of which was that Catholic and Protestant children worked together at school without trouble; but then most of the latter were fathered by English experts working at the Cable Station and were ranked as “visitors.”
His chief enjoyment when not fishing, was in the cabins—when he could find excuse for entrance. There was a weaver of the frieze not far from our inn, and there we went to buy a length for a gift. We were rewarded for a wet walk. The weaver was out—but his wife sat by the peat-fire with a new-born baby in her arms.
As we opened the door the cow that was in the yard thrust in a soft nose to hold it ajar, and lo, we beheld a sow within, rise slowly up and waddle out, followed by ten wee sucking pigs: then the cow stepped over the threshold beside us.
The woman rose asking us our errand, while I edged away from the cow and tried to get out again.
“She’ll not harm ye, lady,” said she with a smile, “It’s her milkin’ time, and sure she knows I’d not take the darlin’ babe out in the rain.”
But it was not often that Joe spared time from serious business for calling and sight-seeing. Once we went to the Cable Station and learned, in an amazing short time, from America, that the weather was fine and dry; and on two occasions I went with him to Lough Coppul (The Horse) away up in the “deep Glenmore”; but that was only allowed so that I might see the sleepy beauty of that tiny, lonely lake, where the water is peat-brown even in the sunlight; here I was introduced to two lovely children with gold-red hair and deep eyes, who dwelt in the schoolhouse of four districts, and were Joe’s special friends. This treat was a great favour granted to me, nor was I admitted into the boat even then, but had to roam about the shores while work was done. Luckily it was fine and warm, and the midges are not nearly so fierce in Ireland; and, with the children’s tales of the plights of scholars coming over the mountains in winter and a shy admission, warily coaxed out of them, as to the presence of fairy horsemen there on All Hallowe’en, many an hour went by like a dream, till the gloaming called us home.
But my lot was more often to sit reading or writing on the terrace of the hotel watching for the boats to round the point of Church Island, as they came in with their catch to meals.
Whether anglers are men or women—and most of the women in the Hotel were anglers—they mind nothing but meals, and rarely the hours of those; so that I was mostly alone, but the excitement of the “basket” was an event each time, and Joe’s was often the heaviest.
Through the gap in the fuchsia hedge, whose tassels lay blood-red upon the lough’s blue background on a fine morning, I would first distinguish his boat in the offing, and walk down to the landing-stage to watch it nearing me between the shallows, where those coal-black little “cross” bullocks stood knee-deep on the emerald marshland. I can see him, skilfully throwing his line on the water to the last instant; then turning towards me with the welcoming smile on his face always, though I generally knew, before he had stepped ashore, whether he had had good luck or not.