Kenmare and Muckross Demesnes—Old Woman at the Gates—Route to Glengariff—Bantry Bay—Boggeragh Mountains—Duishane Castle—The Carrig-a-pooka and its Legend—Macroom Castle and William Penn—Cork—Imperial Hotel—Ticklesome Car Boy—The Races and my Brown Hat—Route to Fermoy—Breakdown—Clonmel and its "Royal Irish"—Ride to Waterford.

I have never taken a more beautiful drive than that from Killarney to Glengariff, and it is especially delightful in a car, as one is spared a slow and tedious ascent of the mountains. We leave Killarney on a perfect morning; the motor seems to have rested with our stay there, and throbs with a healthy sound. The route takes us through the domains of Kenmare and Muckross. The latter has been sold by its ancient owners, the Herberts, and now belongs to a prosperous brewer of Dublin.

As we enter the domains we are stopped at the gateway by a buxom dame, who demands a shilling a head. I try to bargain with her, offering half price for the Jap, and suggesting that we may meet with a catastrophe which will prevent our getting our money's worth. "It makes no difference phat sort of quare heathen you have wid yez, or if yez all died ten feet inside the gate, yez will pay a shilling a head before yez come a foot farther," and planting herself directly before the car, she looked it squarely in the eye—wherever that may be—and would have kept her word. So I perforce hand over four shillings, only to be detected in trying to pass off an American quarter. As we roll inward an anathema is hurled after us: "Ho, ho, ha, ha, bad sess to the likes of yez."

How beautiful it is here—how delicious the day! The sun shines hot and the air is laden with the odour of the balsam. The superb roadway winds in and out for miles, now by the lake and here in the deep green of the forest, with enchanting views of the mountains. Bird-like the car skims over ancient stone bridges, or close to the water, and we pause a moment to do homage at the shrine of Muckross, and finally cross the old weir bridge, declining the bog-oak work for sale by the old man who tried to sell us such thirty years ago,—same man and same work, I think.

From here on the road mounts higher and higher, twisting and turning until I am not sure in which direction we are really going, and am reminded of a remark of a dear aunt of mine, while riding on a narrow-gauge railroad near Denver, "Really, I very many times saw the back of my own bonnet."

Here, to-day, while far different from the rugged grandeur of our western mountains, the vistas are equally charming. There, it is not so much, to my thinking, in the splendour of the hills as in the prospect over the limitless plains. Vast and grandly mysterious, they roll up to the very point where the mountains rise abruptly from their western limits, and as one gazes outward they resemble the ocean itself suddenly calmed into eternal sleep by the mandate of God, "Peace, be still," and those western plains are indeed still.

This prospect in the old world shows the traveller the entire panorama of Ireland's most beautiful mountains, and far below him nestle the chain of Killarney's enchanted lakes, where the fairies dance nightly and the daisies bloom for ever. But why attempt description? All the world knows Killarney, and to-day I seem to hear her wild echoes as they bear away the love song of Dermot Asthore.

The road from here descends in sweeping curves seaward and our car scarcely seems to touch the ground, as with all power off and the wings out it sails downward, until we come to rest at Glengariff, just as the setting sun tinges her rocks and waters with rose colour.

The Atlantic is at rest far out and sends only whispers inward on the ripples to-night. The surface of the bay is dotted with many white swans floating majestically shoreward. I believe they are native here. At least we are told that these have their nests on the farther rocks and rear their young in freedom; even in winter the weather is mild enough to allow of their being out of doors.

Are these the children of Lir still under enchantment in the shape of swans? One hears of them at Ballycastle, and on the island of Achill, but this is the only place where they have appeared and yonder old gentleman swan has an eye which would indicate knowledge of much that he has no intention of telling us about.

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.

Leaving the hotel the other day Boyse summoned a car, but the driver thereof was in such a state of tatters that the lady of the party refused to ride in that car. To the driver of the one chosen she remarked, "That man must be very poor; you should club together and buy him new clothes." "Poor,—not at all, me lady; he's rich, but so ticklesome that not a tailor in town can take his measure."

As we are en route to the fair grounds I discover that Boyse does not approve of my costume, but it is some time before I find out wherein I fall short. It turns out to lie in my hat, a brown Derby. At home black hats vanish with warm weather and brown take their place, but here I learn that a brown Derby belongs to the "fast lot which one does not know,"—hence Boyse's disgust, but that does not affect me in the least and I insist upon wearing my brown hat. I really think it almost spoiled his pleasure in the horse show, if anything could do that.

The day turns out pleasant and the crowd is large. The viceroy does not come, which certainly detracts not at all from the pleasure of the people, as the real viceroy, the horse, is here in full state. Several of the officers are down from Buttevant and we pass a merry afternoon clouded only by Boyse's feeling about my hat—he sits afar off and does not appear to know me when acquaintances pass or if an introduction occurs is careful to state that I am an American—what a multitude of sins that covers;—I trust the statement is altogether unnecessary and that I could never be taken for anything else.

We are held a day at Cork for repairs to the car, but, those finished, roll rapidly away in the direction of Fermoy. These roads are very good and the motor glides smoothly and rapidly onward, first by the banks of the Lee and then northeastward towards Fermoy. The day is misty and damp, forcing the hood over our heads, though I would almost rather get wet than have it up. However, one must consider fur robes, etc., so up it goes.

Shortly thereafter I note a clicking sound underneath and an unsatisfactory movement of the motor, which causes the chauffeur to slow down and stop. A lengthy examination mends matters for a time, but the trouble occurs again and then Robert announces that we must return to Cork as the water won't circulate. We are twelve miles out with no place en route for help. We are also about the same distance from Fermoy but in that direction and but three miles away there is a town where cars may be had and help obtained, so onward we move, and wisely, as matters turn out, for we come to a final halt on the confines of the village. Loading the luggage and ourselves upon two cars we drive to Fermoy leaving orders to have the motor towed in by a mule, ignoble as that may sound. As it turns out even the motor rebels at such disgrace and refuses to move even by the use of two mules. Robert manages, however, to get it over the eight miles to Fermoy by its own power, in some four hours, allowing much oil to run into the water tubes,—not the best thing for the motor but all that could be done. I can see that he is decidedly disgruntled with the car. This is the third time it has been in the shop in two weeks, which certainly should not have been the case with a new car such as I was assured this was. When I state this to the chauffeur, he laughs and replies, "New! Yes, as to the body, but the motor is some years old, in fact is the original Panhard motor used by Mr. Harvey du Gros; it has been lengthened and repaired and a new body put upon it."[7] Fortunately we have each time been where help was at hand save on this occasion. But as it turns out Robert can repair it in this hotel yard as they have a pit to work in. He had thought that the trouble arose from oil and waste getting into and clogging the water pipes, but it proves to have been a broken pin in the wheel of the pump,—"broken through age," he states. If this accident had occurred in the wilds of Mayo or Sligo far from any assistance our plight would have been a serious one, and I cannot but feel that to send the car out as new, knowing the motor, the only important part, to be old was scarcely fair,—in fact, far from it. Robert is an excellent chauffeur and thoroughly understands and is able to repair a machine. In this last case, however, we had to buy a new wheel.

The town is a small garrison town and we are delayed there only one night. Still I must acknowledge, as has been so often the case, that its little hotel was far more comfortable than those in most of the large towns and cities of Ireland. Its rooms are cleanly and the food good.

The roads from Fermoy to Clonmel, the depot of the "Royal Irish," B.'s old regiment, are hilly but good, and the auto takes on life once more, though I notice that Robert seems concerned as to the result. However the machinery warms to its work after an hour and we speed onward, breathing more freely as the pulsations settle down into a rhythmical beat, finally rolling into the barracks at Clonmel in good season. There we spend a pleasant hour, lunching with the officers of the mess and having no time for the town itself, which is not of interest.

The roads are fine all of the afternoon, most of them well rolled. Our route is eastward through the valley of the Blackwater, evidently a stream of importance in ancient days, as its course is guarded by towers and castles, now all in ruins and given over to clambering ivy. At Waterford the stream is broad and deep and ocean steamships lie moored at her quays.