All this ride to the Causeway is up and down the wildest hills, close beside yet high above the neighbouring ocean, and at times the route lies down such steep inclines that I confess I take them in great trepidation, commanding Robert to go slowly. This he consents to do at the very summit, but half-way down with what a whiz and a roar do we finish the descent, rushing far up the next incline!
There is a safer, far safer, route just inland, but the vote was against that. Yet at times when the wind is roaring past us, as we rush downward and we realise that a break in any part of our car might hurl us over the wall and hundreds of feet downward, we almost wish we had selected the safer route. The road is so close to the cliff's wall that the prospect along the coast is at all times grandly impressive while from far beneath arise the vague, delusive voices of the ocean. Pausing for a space we cross the wall and creep out on to a projecting headland and drink in the superb panorama. Far below us and far out to sea spreads the great floor of the Giant's Causeway, while on either hand away into the hazy distance of this lovely day in June stretch the fantastic cliffs and headlands of this romantic coast, showing by their jagged outlines the effects of their ceaseless battle with the sea. On the headland where we stand green grasses spangled with buttercups roll inland into broad meadow lands and towards distant purple mountains. This world may hold more lovely spots than Erin's Isle, but if so, I have never seen them.
As there are very few signboards in Ireland a motor tour is a constant study of the map and one must come provided with such. Before leaving London I purchased a set of Stanford's, seven in all, covering this island, and very finely gotten up.[3] It is a pleasure to study them and a child could scarcely go wrong, though we have enjoyed the pleasure of getting lost several times.
So far my luck of two years back in France, as to weather, has followed us. Aside from one shower the first day we have had fine weather all the time, not all sunshine but no rains, and the cool grey skies with rifts of sunlight breaking through them, illuminating like a searchlight spots of the land or sea, are beautiful.
The auto has settled down to serious work by now and rushes singing along, working better and better as the hours fly by. Leaving the Causeway our route lies inland through Bushmills, Coleraine, and Limavady.
All this end of Ireland appears prosperous. The highroads and villages are well kept. The land is strongly Protestant, its men and women fine, serious specimens of humanity, and there are no heaps of manure and filth near the tidy houses, while the old mothers go smilingly along through life.
Even the hens in this island have a degree of understanding denied their French sisters. Scarce one has attempted to cross our pathway and none have gotten killed.
