Wanderings in Ireland

by Michael Myers Shoemaker

The Island of Achill—Picturesque Scenery—Poverty of the People—"Keening" for the Dead—"The Gintleman Who Pays the Rint"—Superstitious Legends.

The island of Achill lies off the west coast of Ireland. Exposed to the full fury of the North Atlantic winds it is one of the bleakest spots on the globe. The manners and customs of its people change but slightly with the passing years.

Leaving the hotel on a misty morning, we roll off towards the sea. The way is narrow for a car and we pass uncomfortably near sleeping brown bogs whose quiet waters would promptly cover us up and suck us down past all resurrection were our wheels to slip over the brink.

Reaching a hill up which a man is driving cattle, our chauffeur sounds the horn and pushes gently forward, causing the animals to give way, whereupon their owner holds up his hand in indignant protest with a "Would ye dhrive the cattle!" To his thinking we should plod slowly up that miles-long hill behind his herd rather than cause them to move to one side,—to "dhrive the cattle!" being in his eyes little short of sacrilege. Yet his sort does not hesitate to drive other men's cattle off of still other men's land, and consider it their right so to do.

The long muddy road runs on the cliffs over the sea and finally turns down towards the coast, apparently losing itself in the waste. This is not the highway and we so discover in season to prevent an accident. Just then a small boy comes racing after us shouting that we should have turned off higher up. A few half-pennies and our thanks make him smilingly offer to return and show us the route, and a lift in the car completes his happiness,—the first time he has ever ridden in an automobile, I doubt not.

The traveller does not notice anything unusual until, having crossed the Peninsula of Curraun, he enters upon one of the strangest spots on earth. In the foreground, deep in a valley is a mysterious pool, black as night: all around rise the gloomy mountains, while over the peak to the west the sun is sending long shafts of purple and gold into the distant hollows, where brown turf fields stretch away, and low-walled, whitewashed, and thatched cottages spot the landscape, and the scarlet skirts worn by all the women throw splashes of vivid colour here and there. The whole is gloomy and sombre to a degree. The winds blow coldly and we draw our furs closely about us as the car speeds onward over roads not made for such usage. This indeed is ancient Ireland and one hears the Celtic tongue on all sides.

Holiday is held here as in Sligo, and the encounters with cattle and ponies are frequent. Here is a pony drawing a load of heavy timber which he insists upon running off with on our approach. Of course, we halt until we can creep by him. Yonder is a man to whom the fair has proven a not unmixed blessing. He lies upon his face on a bank, blind drunk, and will not take home with him the drinks consumed at the fair. His wife and father stand by trying to hold an old horse, but the bridle breaks and off he goes ahead of us, losing finally both blanket and saddle, and vanishing up a mountain. Another old gentleman, held on his horse by a dutiful son, curses us to the King's taste but in Celtic which we do not understand. Only the women are sober after the day's bout, and many is the beautiful face set off by the scarlet dress, which greets us smilingly or hides its sorrow from our glances.

Now the road grows wilder and wilder,—there is absolutely no sound save the moan of the distant ocean.

As we near the remotest part of the island, where the mountains raise their heads in solemn grandeur, there are no signs of human habitation except one lonely cottage. Its door is open, but there is no evidence of life. Suddenly the air shivers with the weirdest, loneliest cry I have ever listened to,—a sustained, penetrating wail rising and falling on the sad air and then shuddering away into silence, silence, silence rendered all the sadder by the fast approaching shadows of night. It is the famous "keening" or mourning cry for the dead. There are professional keeners and when one is informed of a death she starts for the house of sorrow and commences this melancholy cry as she goes. All the way over hill and dale, by these dark pools and through the bog pathways she goes, her cry bringing the women and children to the doors of all the huts. As she approaches the dead the cry dies away and ceases as she enters the cottage. Walking round the bier she commences anew and passing outward and away fills all the silence of the deepening night with her melancholy plaint. To hear it any place in Ireland is sad enough, to hear it amidst the desolation of Achill is almost terrifying and never to be forgotten. To-night it sounds like the voices of lost souls from the depths of the dark Atlantic.