  Around about Lough Swilly TO a tired New Yorker who has sixteen days at his disposal I would recommend a day on Lough Swilly at Rathmullan. It is separated from the island of Manhattan by little else than the Atlantic, and every one knows that a sea voyage is good for a wearied man. Take a boat for Londonderry from the foot of Twenty-fourth Street, and then for the mere cost of a shilling (if you travel third class, and that is the way to fall in with characters) you will be railroaded and ferried to Rathmullan, where you'll find as clean an inn and as faithful service as heart could wish. And such scenery! And every one will be glad to see you, because you are from America. ("Welcome Of course a day is a short time in which to get the full benefit of the peaceful atmosphere of the place and perhaps you will stay on as we are doing for several days. Then you can return for a shilling to 'Derry, take Saturday's steamer to the foot of Twenty-fourth Street, New York, and you'll soon be walking the streets of the metropolis filled with pleasant memories of one of nature's beauty spots. Lough Swilly is an arm of the Atlantic and its waters are salt. At Rathmullan the lough is surrounded by lofty green hills, mostly treeless, gently sloping to the water, and for the better part of the time softened in tone by an Indian summer haze indescribably beautiful. We came down according to the program I have outlined, and traveled third class for the reason I have stated, but as the only other occupant of the coach was We were ferried from Fahan in a side-wheel steamer, and soon the painfully neat-looking white houses of Rathmullan lay before us and we disembarked, and carrying our own grips unmolested (a sure sign of an unusual place) we made our way up the stone pier between restless steers who were waiting for us to get out of the way so that they could go to the slaughter house. There had been a cattle fair that day in Rathmullan. We knew little of the town save what Stephen Gwynn says of it in his delightful "Highways and Byways in Donegal and Antrim." There is a most picturesque and ivy-grown We bent our steps to the plain-looking little inn, and entering the taproom we asked for lodgings for the night. The inn is kept by a widow who still bears trace of a beauty that must have been transcendent in her girlhood. As it is, she could serve as a model to some artist for an allegorical painting representing "Sorrowful Ireland"; the arched eyebrows, the melting eyes, the long, classic nose, and the grieving mouth—very Irish and very lovely. We have seen many pretty women here in Ireland, but in her day this inn keeper must have been the peer of any. Her husband kept the inn formerly, but as an Irishman told me, "He died suddenly. Throuble with the head," said he, tapping his own. "'Twas heart disease, I think." This is the first Irish bull I've heard. To the Men of '98 OLIVER SHEPHARD, SCULPTOR My companion thought he would like a room fronting Lough Swilly and so did I. The maid who had taken charge of us said that that wouldn't be possible, as the only available rooms having such an outlook had been engaged by wire. "But," said my insistent friend, who is the type of American who gets what he wants by smiles if possible, but who certainly gets it, "they won't be here to-day, will they?" "No, not to-day; to-morrow." "Well, let us have the rooms for to-night." "But, will ye give them up when they come?" said she, still hesitating. "Surely. Depend upon it. Count on us to vamoose just as soon as you give the word." "But these people come every year," said she tenaciously. "I don't wonder at it," said O'Donnell. (My friend is of Irish descent.) "I There was something delightfully quaint in the notion that because people were coming to the rooms to-morrow night we ought not to have them to-night—the girl was perfectly sincere. She evidently knew the lure of sunrise on the mountains and the lake and feared her ability to oust us once we were ensconced. "We're passing on to-morrow and will be just as careful of the rooms," said O'Donnell in the tone of one who talks to a child, and the pretty maid succumbed, and our valises were deposited in the coveted rooms. But just as she left us she said once more, "You'll go when they come, won't you?" "We sure will," said O'Donnell, with a solemnity that carried conviction with it. "Now about dinner," said he; "we'd "We haven't begun to serve dinners at night yet," said the maid. The summer season had evidently not begun. "Oh, that's too bad," said O'Donnell, "but you'll make an exception in our case now, won't you?" She thought a minute, and O'Donnell smiled on her. I can imagine ice banks melting under that smile. "I suppose we could give you hot roast chicken," said she. "Why, of course you could. Roast chicken is just what you could give us, and potatoes with their jackets on——" "And soup," said the girl, evidently excited over the prospect. "Yes, we'll leave the rest to you." So we went out and walked through the lovely countryside, noting that in Ireland fuchsias grow to the proportions of our lilac bushes and are loaded with the pretty red flowers. We were unable to name most of the trees we saw (but that sometimes happens in America), yet we were both sure we had not seen their like at home. And the freshness of them all, the brilliant quality of their green, fulfilled all expectations. We took a long walk and arrived at the inn with appetites sharpened. Friends in America had told me that I'd not fare very well in Ireland except in the large towns. I would like to ask at what small hotel—New York or Chicago or Philadelphia—I would get as well cooked or as well served a dinner as was brought to me in Londonderry for three shillings and sixpence. If one is looking for Waldorf magnificence and French disguises he'll not find them here unless it is at Dublin, but if one is blessed with a good appetite and is willing to put up with plain cooking I fancy he will do better here than at like hotels at home. Prosperity in Limerick The Irish are such good cooks that we in the east (of America) have been employing them for two generations. Let us not forget that. We entered the dining-room and had an appetizing soup and then the Irish potatoes (oh, such Irish potatoes!) and anything tenderer or better cooked than the chicken it would have been hard to find. We looked at each other and decided that we would not go on to Port Salon next day, but would spend another night in Rathmullan, and we said so to the maid. "But you'll take other rooms?" said she, alarmed at once. "Oh, yes, honey, we'll go anywhere you put us." Now you know we had an itinerary, and to stay longer at Rathmullan was to cut it short somewhere else, but the stillness and calm, the purple shadows on the mountains and the lake (Lough Swilly means Lake of Shadows), had us A simple, golden rule sort of people the inhabitants are. We came on a man clipping hawthorn bushes and asked him how far it was to a certain point and whether we could "car" it there. He told us we could and then he said, "Were ye thinkin' of hirin' a car, sir?" "Yes," said O'Donnell. "I have one," said he. "Well," said O'Donnell, "we've talked to the landlady about hiring hers——" "Ah, yes," said the man. "Sure I don't want ye to take mine if she expects to rint hers." Such altruism! We had comfortable beds in the rooms that had been engaged by wire "for to-morrow," and indeed they were so comfortable that we never saw the sunrise at all. But the view from our windows was worth the price of the rooms and that was—listen!—two shillings and sixpence apiece! Wheat porridge and fresh eggs (oh, so fresh!) and yellow cream and graham bread and jam for breakfast. What more do you want? Oh, yes, I know your kind, my dear sir. "What! no steak? No chops, and fried ham and buckwheat cakes and oranges and grapefruit and hot rolls? What sort of a hotel is this for an American? You tell the landlady that they don't know how to run hotels in this country. You tell her to come to God's country, that's what. Then she'll learn how." Yes, then she'll learn how to set out ten or twelve dinkey little saucers of peas and corn and beans and turnips and rice, all tasting alike. But Mr. O'Donnell and I will continue to like the simplicity of this inn. We astonished the easy-going natives by climbing the mountain on Inch Island in the morning for the magnificent view When it came time to settle for the use of the boat and his services for a matter of two hours he wanted to leave it with us. "No, sir," said O'Donnell. "Your Uncle Dudley doesn't do business that way," with one of his beaming smiles. "Oh, I don't know what to charge, sir, pay me what's right." "That's just it. I don't know what's right." "Well, ye were not out so long. Is two shillin's apiece right?" "Very good, indeed, and here's sixpence extra for you," said O'Donnell, paying him. "Oh, thank you, sir," said the boy, evidently thinking the tip far too much. But as we had caught forty-eight fish in the hour we were at the fishing grounds Mackerel Seller, Bundoran, Donegal They use a tackle here that they call "chop sticks"—two pieces of bamboo fastened at right angles, from which depend the gut and hooks, while back of them is the heavy sinker. The sinker rests on the bottom and the ugly red "lugs" (bait) play around in the water until they are gulped by the voracious coddlings, or cod. We had small hooks and caught only the youngsters. Time after time we threw in our lines, got "two strikes" at once and pulled in two cod as fast as we could pull in the line. No sport in the way of fight on the part of the party of the second part, but not a little excitement in thus hauling in toothsome food. We had them for supper and I tell you, O tired business man, if you want Oh, yes, about those other people. No, we didn't get out of our rooms, because the landlady had relatives in America and so she made other arrangements for her expected guests and we stayed on and overlooked Lough Swilly. Americans are popular over here. But I hope they won't spoil these simple folk with either excessive tipping or excessive grumbling. |
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