Wanderings in Ireland

by Michael Myers Shoemaker

One does not see the outer ocean at all at Glengariff. The whole prospect is that of an enclosed lake, where one might drift for ever without danger from the tempests which howl around this coast at times.

Not until we reach Bantry Bay does the outer ocean show itself. After all, what is there in a name? That of Bantry Bay had always attracted me, and I had expected to find such a spot as Glengariff, but it is far from that in all ways, being tame and unattractive, though evidently a much better harbour for shipping.

Here our route leaves the coast and turning inland passes beneath the shadow of the Boggeragh Mountains, where there are so many ancient towers and castles that to visit or relate the tales of each would be to rewrite the folklore of Ireland.

One of them, however, cannot be passed in silence, or the spirits which inhabit it might execute dire vengeance for the slight. The gloomy castle of the MacCarthys of Duishane, Carrig-a-pooka, rears its dark towers on a steep rock close to our route, and it is the reputed abode of that spirit of evil, the Pooka, which in all malice and mischief has no equal in the fairy lore of Ireland. He has many forms which he may assume at will,—sometimes a bull, sometimes an eagle, but more often a horse spouting fire, as he tears through the darkness. He does not show his demon qualities until he has secured a rider, but on gloomy nights is met with in the shape of a docile nag, browsing on the highway and almost inviting you to mount and ride,—but do so and at once he changes into the wildest and most terrible charger man ever mounted and fairly flies over castle, lake, and river, into deep valleys and over the highest mountains and even far out over the ocean. What becomes of the rider is not told for he does not return, though 'tis said that one Jerry Deasy did get the best of a Pooka and by the means of spur and whip reduced even this "divil" into a quiet trot.

Downward from the mountains our road winds once more through the fair green country in the valley of the Sullane. We pause a moment before Macroom Castle, the ancient fortress of the O'Flynns, not because of its beauty, which from its mantle of ivy is great, but because it was the birthplace of the father of William Penn, who gave peace to all with whom he came in contact in life and undoubtedly has found peace in Heaven.

The old castle has seen more of war and its horrors than should fall to the lot of any one spot. It has been destroyed by fire several times, and at one execution nine outlaws were hanged within its court for murder. It is not a place which the superstitious seek, after dark or when winds wake and the chains clank. From Macroom onward the route lies through a smiling valley until finally the silver toned bells of Shandon welcome us to the city of Cork.

The Imperial Hotel in Cork is crowded with people and dirt. I think the latter will prevail, as it is of the mouldy order. The floors seem sinking, and en route to the dining-room one walks as upon the deck of a rolling ship with danger of sharp collision against passing waiters. True Irish gentlemen, who look not upon the wine when it is red but drink straight old Irish whiskey in unlimited quantities, are encountered with the result that between the floors and themselves one has difficulty in navigating and takes to port several times en route to dinner.

This is the week of a cattle and horse show—the viceroy is here and incidentally most of the rest of Ireland, not that the viceroy's presence has anything to do with their coming, they give you to distinctly understand that, but that wherever a horse is to be shown, there come the sons of Erin. I think there is something in the profession or tastes of a man which stamps his face and figure. One could never mistake any man here for other than horsey,—all clean, yet the air is fragrant with the smell of the stalls and aroma of much good whiskey. Where they stow away all the latter is a puzzle to me, for their bodies most certainly cannot carry such amounts of ballast as I have seen poured into them all day long. Not to be horsey completely ostracises a man, but as that gives one an opportunity to escape the drinks and so watch the crowd, it is not to me objectionable.

While Cork is "a place of advanced ideas" and probably less favourable to the powers that be than any other section of Ireland, still she does not approve of change in the city or its manners or customs. This hotel has not had a thing done to it in more than a quarter of a century. I believe it makes money all the time, hence improvements are not necessary, certainly they are not made, as witness those floors. One is still beset by the importunate boys with their "cars" at its doors and all over the town, but the driver of a jaunting-car is a jolly beggar full of laughter and fun and thereby puts many an extra shilling into his pocket.

Rags and tatters many of them, that is as to themselves, but this does not extend to their horses,—he is indeed a poor Irishman and not of pure blood who neglects his horse, and with him it is love me, love my nag. He will meet your smile with one brighter, and kindness to him does "butter the parsnips" of the traveller.