After twelve miles’ driving we stopped at a post-office. There were no houses. The country looked like open moorland covered with bracken. The post-office was a square box about as big as a tea-chest. It stood at the side of the road on four stout legs in amongst the bracken. It was painted sky-blue, and on it was written, in very large letters, ‘V.R. Matanabe Letterbox.’
The V.R. brought such vivid pictures to my eyes of the chairs in a British Consulate, that I had to turn my head from Mac and hide my sorrow.
A great deal of the land along the road is wire fenced. If it was put upon wooden posts or electrically insulated tests would tell the squatter where it was broken.
This would be convenient for travellers who had lost their bearings. They might break a wire and then sit down until a shepherd came to repair the damage.
Inside the fences I saw a lot of fat cattle. They were all red and had white faces. Ti-trees and bracken appear to suit cattle.
After twenty-one miles we stayed at a solitary inn, where there was an Irish landlord, and many pictures of O’Connell, Parnell, and other Hibernian celebrities.
When we looked at Dan with his thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat, we thought of his famous address to a mob of his supporters:
‘Will ye live for yéer Dan?’
‘We will, we will.’
‘Will ye fight for yéer Dan?’