"Well, it's a beautiful spot." His eyes and mine wander off over the solitary moorland and up to the more solitary mountains.
"It is indade, sir."
"I have a streak of Irish blood in my own veins," I venture to add.
"Have ye, now, sir, and were ye born in Ireland?"
"No, we left here more than two centuries ago."
"Time you war havin' a wake indade, sir." That turns the laugh on me, and I throw a shilling at the crowd for drinks, which results in a wild scramble down into a muddy ditch and a wilder waving of legs in the air as each and all go head first into the mud.
Quiet restored, my former conversationalist, somewhat the worse for mud, remarks. "And indade, sir, ye seem to have a good time, 'tis wishin' I am that all the people here had the likes," and with an echo to the wish and a wave of the hand we glide off and away into the valley.
This ride has indeed been beautiful, but just as we enter the village of Mallaranny (County Mayo) and are speeding down a steep incline, a little yellow-headed urchin toddles directly across our track; a catastrophe seems unavoidable; women shriek and howl, and men stand paralysed, but one old crone grabs the boy just as Robert brings our car to a halt, with not six inches to spare. The baby, not at all frightened, howls with rage because his progress has been cut short. The old crone proceeds to spank the child until I tell her that if any one deserves punishment it is herself for her neglect. A few more miles brings us to the hotel and in a very sleepy state, as the air all day has been chilly; but we are not so sleepy that we cannot see at once that this is not such a chamber of discomfort, such a cold storage as that place at Bundoran. In point of situation and objects of interest there can also be no comparison. As a centre to explore this beautiful section and study these people Mallaranny could not be improved upon. The house stands high and overlooks land and sea for miles, and in whichever direction the eye roams the prospect is attractive, while Bundoran Hotel stands on a bleak moor over which the howling winds from all the North Atlantic sweep with terrible force. The town is dreary and of no interest, and the mountains too far away, while the climate is raw and unpleasant, whereas Mallaranny, much to the south, is swept by balmy winds and well sheltered on the north. Both places have salt water in the house, but here the bathrooms are large and the tubs are small swimming-tanks. There is a man at the head of that house and a woman at the head of this, and there lies the difference so far as the houses are concerned. Of course I do not mean to state that it is warm here. In fact the air is cold all over the land, and while there have been no rains so far, we wear fur coats and use fur robes all the time, and would be most uncomfortable without them.