No one has ever realized the enchantment of Killarney or fallen under its spell who has not been upon its waters. As the boat glides into the Upper Lake, all that has ever been said of its varied beauty seems poor compared to the reality. The mountains which surround it on every side give indescribable grandeur to its scenery—so much so that, added to the contrasted beauty of its wooded isles, it is on the whole conceded that it bears the golden apple from its sister lakes; certainly, as the boatmen row from point to point, you say so, and memory, bringing back the vision in after days—perhaps in the hot and dusty thoroughfare—confirms the verdict.

The Upper Lake contains twelve small islands, some of them of such a height that at a distance they resemble so many lofty towers standing in the waters, their summits crowned with bright green wreaths of the arbutus and many another verdant shrub and tree. In other aspects they appear to represent the ruins of stately palaces. To add to this effect, their edges are so much worn by the dashing of water against them, and by rains washing away the earth, and “time hath so disjointed these marble rocks,” that some hang in such curious fashion as to represent a rude architectural formation.

The extraordinary verdure, not only of the isles, but of the mountains, is even more striking viewed from these lonely waters than where man has left more perceptible trace of his presence. It seems incredible that giant fern, tree-shrubs, and plants should flourish in tropical profusion at the great heights to which they attain, and without the artificial aid which is impossible.

This wonderful foliage is the glory of all the islands, but here it throws into intense relief the sublimity inseparable from great mountain scenery, and even in point of height the MacGillicuddy’s Reeks can claim greatness. More than a hundred years ago Holmes, in his Tour in Ireland, records his first glimpse of the noble range: “Their peaks immersed in mist and storms, along their prodigious furrows the cataracts, swollen by recent rains, tumbling with fury and glistening like liquid silver; in a little time the peaks piercing through the clouds, the grey mists slow descending like a great curtain, through which the sun darted his rays.”

The Purple Mountain, always beautiful and changeful in aspect as the lakes themselves, looks down from the north, while on the other side rises Torc’s noble outline, and further off great Mangerton.

Many of the mountains are densely wooded to a great height—giant ferns, the rowan, holly, yew, juniper. Above all the arbutus grow in a tangle of profusion, and on rocks where no earth appears. How the steep rocks and crags can give root-hold to this forestry of green is a marvel to the beholder, the roots being simply filaments entwining themselves round crevices in the stone, holding on with a grim tenacity which defies the wildest storm—better even than the forest tree. The birds of the air have dropped their seeds, or the winds carried them to this their home, and they will not let it go. Here will they stay as long, perchance, as the rocks themselves.

“I expected the loveliness I met,” said an English visitor to Killarney lately, “and I believe the strongest impression made on me was by those beautiful tropical shrubs in mid-air, as they seemed, and with no apparent hold on the soil.”

The arbutus is supposed by some to have come from Spain and to have been cultivated in the first instance by the early monks; but the more general belief is that it was indigenous. It is not to be found of spontaneous growth nearer to Ireland than the very south of France and Italy, and only as a shrub, while about the lakes and mountains here it often becomes a large and tall tree. Pliny mentions it as extraordinary that it should thus grow in Arabia, and Petra Bellonus also observes this as occurring on Mount Athos in Macedonia. But it seems to love its Irish home best, and to revel in the luxuriant growth which makes it so noticeable in Killarney’s leafy forests.

The blossoms of the arbutus grow in clusters of white bells, not unlike those of the lily of the valley, in great abundance, and nestling under bunches of bright green leaves. It has, at the same time, ripe and green fruit on its branches, first a deep pale yellow, deepening, as it advances to ripeness, then a brilliant scarlet like that of a strawberry. Autumn and winter are the seasons of its greatest bloom and beauty.

A most beautiful cascade at the western end of the lake tumbles down the mountain side and empties itself in a dazzling sheet of foam into its waters. The music of its fall seems very close as the boat passes the various isles, and you are told the legends connected with them. One in particular, MacCarthy’s Island, is pointed out as the last refuge of one of the great family. We will find other memories of this powerful sept in many a local tradition. Here a battle was fought, a fort taken or lost, triumph or defeat, and then you are pointed to a grave—the end of it all!

But on the Upper Lake it is hard to think of anything but the lovely, lonely scenery—lonelier because of the everlasting hills which compass it around.

Eagle Island was once the haunt of these royal birds, and still the golden eagle has not forsaken it, though less seldom seen. Ronayne Island is named after one who lived there, apart from his fellow-men, in self-chosen solitude. At each point there is something to relate, while every turn produces a change in outline or colour so as almost to form a fresh scene. Many a lovely little bay and channel are explored, till too soon the boat passes the last islet, enters the last bay, rounds the last promontory.

A very narrow part of the passage occurs here where this promontory juts out, leaving a breadth of only about thirty feet. It is called Coleman’s Eye. Some legendary person is said to have leaped across the stream here, leaving his footprints on the rock beyond.

And now, with long look and reluctant farewell, we are on the Long Range, the river connecting the Upper with its sister lakes.

In Holmes’ Tour he thus characterizes the Long Range: “I should distinguish the Upper Lake as being the most sublime, the Lower the most beautiful, and Muckross Lake the most picturesque, the winding passage leading to the Upper containing a surprising combination of the three, probably not to be exceeded by any spot in the world.”

The Long Range is about two miles in length. Its margins are gemmed with water-lilies, snowy and golden. Here the Osmunda regalia is seen growing almost in forests, and of great size, its branches, as well as those of the alder, birch, yew, arbutus, and many another, entwining as if they grew from a common root. Other rare ferns, some peculiar to Kerry, as the Brutle fern (Trichomanes speciosum), completely clothe the wild crags on either side. But it is hopeless to attempt specifying the variety of foliage, the different shades of green, the masses of heather and gorse, which in all stages of their bloom, their first spring glory, or the no less lovely golden and brown tints of autumn, make the most rugged mountain sides beautiful. And let not the little “bog down” be forgotten which around Killarney makes the bogs resemble waving fields of snow. “Light of love” the peasant girls call this bog rush, for a breath sends its down floating lightly away. A little white tuft of silky cotton, from its shortness of no practical use in the work-a-day world, so it lives its life unharmed, gay as the bog-land dwellers themselves.

Very wild and grand is the scenery here. Rocks in a hundred forms appear as the banks are passed, and behind, at nearer or further distance, rise the greater mountain heights.

The boat passes several islets, named from resemblance, real or imaginary, The Jolly Boat, The Cannon Rock, The Man-of-War Rock—a mass like a vessel, keel uppermost. Soon the far-famed Eagle’s Nest is reached, a rugged, precipitous cliff 1,700 feet high. Here the eagles still have their nest, for Nature has secured them from the hand of man. It is a very majestic rock, thickly clothed with evergreens nearly to the summit, where, however, heath and a few scattered shrubs hide the nest, and show the great outline, the rugged mass, in stern sublimity. Here the Killarney Echo is best heard.

Perhaps among the many writers who have tried to describe the effect produced by this echo, Mrs. Hall gives the most vivid impression. She says: “The bugler first played a single note; it was caught up and repeated loudly; softly, again loudly; again softly, and then as if by a hundred instruments rolling around and above the mountains, and dying softly away. Then a few notes were blown, a multitude of voices replied, sometimes pausing, then mingling in a strain of sublime grandeur and delicate sweetness. Then came the firing of a cannon, when every mountain around seemed instinct with angry life, and replied in voices of thunder, the sound being multiplied a thousandfold, first a terrific growl, then a fearful crash, both caught up and returned by the surrounding hills, while those nearest became silent, awaiting the oncoming of those that were distant, then dropping to a gentle lull, as if the winds only created them, then breaking forth again into a combined and terrific roar.”

Soon after passing Eagle’s Nest the end of the Long Range is reached, and the stream divides, skirting round Dinish Island into Lough Leane on the left side, to the right passing under Old Weir Bridge into Muckross Lake.

The Old Weir Bridge consists of two arches; only one affords a passage for boats, and as the water of the Upper Lake rushes into Muckross Lake on its way to the sea through the Laune, the current is extremely rapid, and it is quite usual for tourists to disembark and walk, meeting the boat on the other side. Those with strong nerves, however, enjoy “shooting the rapids.” You then find yourself in Torc (or Muckross) Lake, and opposite Dinish Island, on which is a pretty cottage, where it is usual to halt for rest and refreshment. The chief feature of the latter is salmon, broiled in cutlets on a fire made of arbutus, the slices skewered on a spray of the same, which is said to impart a delicious flavour to the fish.

There are so many objects of interest clustered around the Lakes that it is vain trying to compress them into the description of a day’s excursion. When time is an object, the tourist can manage to “do” the whole three lakes, but if time permits, the point we have now reached should be the limit of his first day, and a row home over the lovely waters of Lough Leane to Ross Island is a fitting close to it. The grand old Castle never looks so picturesque as in the evening glow; let it be his last memory of the day.