Not far away stands the cathedral, too entirely renovated, in fact rebuilt, to be of interest, save for some curious monuments. One especially, that of a man named Rice, represents his body as they found it a year after death,—a toad sits on his breast, and we turn away with anything but pleasant thoughts. It seems he commanded that his tomb be opened after a year and his monument made, holding a copy in stone of his body exactly as they should find it,—hence this repulsive statue. There are but few who would care to attain earthly immortality in that manner.
Every road in Wexford will lead one to or near some relic of the past. Seven miles out from Waterford we find Dunbrody Abbey, standing serene and stately in the midst of a great meadow and near to an arm of the sea. Dunbrody is called the most beautiful ruin in the county and it has been a ruin for nearly four hundred years, having been suppressed by Henry the Eighth. Its abbots and monks have long since gone the way of all flesh and one must now cultivate the good graces of a little old woman in a neighbouring house if one would enter the sacred precincts, for though ancient, if one door in its outer walls be locked, even an enterprising man of the twentieth century may not enter its courts. We tried it and the great central tower seemed to smile down upon us in derision. All the while the little old lady stood afar off, holding the key, which we did not get until we had paid for it.
The world does not come to Dunbrody very often. The tourist world knows nothing of it—in fact, all this most interesting section of Ireland is as yet unexplored by the tide of travel rushing northward from Queenstown. Certainly to-day nothing comes near us and we spend a delightful hour in the warm sunshine high up on the great tower, and then awakening Robert, who in turn starts the motor to life, we roll off through the shady lanes once more.
The day's work is over and these simple people are resting from their labours. We have just passed one comfortable old dame seated on a chair under the bending boughs of the hawthorn. She wore a great frilled white cap and knitted industriously, while in her lap a white kitten lay asleep. She greeted us with a pleasant smile as we rolled into and out of her life and away toward Bannow House, the home of the Boyse family. I had visited Bannow last year; when leaving the train at New Ross I had expected to find its entrance gateway not more than a mile or two away, and fell back aghast when the boy who met me with the dog-cart quietly remarked that it was a drive of eighteen miles. I must confess that that is farther than I care to live from the railway, and Boyse has acknowledged that that distance home has several times deterred his departure from London—not but what that might have been a mere excuse for London is just London and means much. However, a new railroad is now opened only three miles from Bannow, and to-day our car annihilates the eighteen miles in short order.
Crossing the river at New Ross the road leads towards the sea. There is a fine highway all the distance, winding but well made, and the car appreciates that fact, and makes fair time until we turn into the gates of the home park and roll onward through its avenues of rhododendrons to the entrance. Then the car vanishes around to its quarters for a few days.
Photo by W. Leonard
The Route to Glengariff