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X
AN ISLAND ON THE WILD WEST COAST THE isle of
Achill barely misses
being a part of the mainland, so narrow is the separating channel. A
bridge
affords connection, and access is easy. It is reputed to contain the
most
striking scenery to be found on the wild west coast; but I got small
hint of
anything romantic on the twelve-mile ride across it to the island’s
single
hotel at Doogort. The landscape, now dipping into wide valleys and now
heaving
into broad, rounded hills, or at times rising into steep mountains with
rocky,
pinnacled tops, was desolate in the extreme, and the little reclaimed
patches,
with their accompanying cabins, were few and far between. Indeed, the
island
was one almost interminable bog, and its peat deposits, which often
attain the
remarkable depth of twenty feet, are extensive enough to supply all
Ireland. Doogort proved to be a
little
settlement of whitewashed houses on a hill slope, with a big mountain
behind,
and, close below, a small bay that the sea had scooped out of the land,
and
rimmed with a long curve of sandy beach. The other villages on Achill
were even
less imposing than Doogort. Nearly all of them were small fishing
hamlets, each
made up of a huddle of low stone houses with roofs of thatch or turf,
on which
there were apt to be sproutings of sorrel and grasses. I passed several
such
places on a jaunting-car trip I made the second day I was on the
island, and in
every one had a tagging of boys running after the car with “diamonds”
for sale.
Investigation showed that these diamonds were simply broken amethyst
crystals,
and the inducement to purchase did not seem very great. However, I made one
diamond boy
happy at a certain village, where I left the jaunting-car behind, by
taking him
along with me as guide on a visit I paid to a rocky promontory,
reaching in a
thin wedge far out into the Atlantic. The boy was, of course, barefoot,
and
said he went so most of the year, and that many of the Achill people
never wore
shoes, either winter or summer. He didn’t when he was little. But now,
for wear
in cold weather, he had a new pair once in three years. We clambered along a rough path cut in the side of a slope, that descended in steep turf and rocky leaps from the heights far above, to the sea far below, and at length we came to a big stone by the pathside which the boy pointed out as having been a favorite seat of the famous Captain Boycott. It seemed that this notable spent his last days on Achill, near that part of the island where we then were, but it was on the mainland that he won his reputation and gave the language a new word. He was agent on an estate, and the tenantry took offence at what was regarded as his severity, and tried to prevent any one’s dealing with him. The laborers refused to help in the harvesting and the household servants left, and the family had to do their own work as best they could. No one dared to sell them provisions, and there was danger that the agent would be starved and ruined, if he was not killed by the riotous peasantry. Matters finally became so serious that a large body of soldiers was sent to protect him. Besides intimidating the boycotters, the soldiers assisted in the forsaken fields, and, as they had to have food, the captain sold them, at a good profit, the produce they helped to harvest. Thus the first boycott not only failed, but the man against whom it was aimed made money on it. GOATS ON AN ACHILL HILLSLOPE The day’s weather was a
curious
medley of dull clouds and of bright sunshine. For a while the sky would
be
gentle and soft and summery to perfection; then it would turn frowning
and dark,
the mountains would be shrouded, the gloomy shadows gather over the
bogs, and
presently the cold rain would come sweeping down from the high slopes
and go
driving in gray mists across the sea. I encountered one of these
showers while
I was still on the path, and hastened to raise my umbrella, and sat
down on a
convenient hummock to await its passing. The boy, at the same time,
crawled
into the lee of a bank just above. From this high perch I had in sight
a fine
sweep of lofty cliffs extending along the coast, until lost to view in
the hazy
distance. Seaward there were frequent rocky islets girt about by the
foaming
waves tearing ceaselessly at their crumbling ramparts, and, near at
hand,
feeding peacefully on the steep slope, were a few cows and several
flocks of
goats and sheep. I lingered where I sat
for some time
after the rain had ceased falling, and presently along came a party of
tourists, ascending with the intent to climb to the topmost height of
the
promontory. Three natives were in attendance, one with a hamper on his
back,
another loaded with a bag of peats, and the third, a boy, at the rear
of the
procession, bearing a teapot. I was cordially invited to join this
caravan, but
I concluded instead to return to my car. The driver was waiting for me
with the
information that there was just time to get to the “Cathedral Cliffs”
before
high tide, which would make them inaccessible. As it was, we would have
to race
for them, he said. So off we went by a short cut along the shore — a
straight
three miles of hard, wet beach that held reflections like a mirror, and
over
which the horse padded very fast and smoothly. Then we came to a muddy
torrent
right athwart our course, so fierce and loud I thought it would sweep
us out to
sea if we attempted crossing. But into it we drove and picked a careful
passage
to the farther side and hurried on once more. Finally the beach ended
abruptly in
a line of great cliffs that the waves had chiselled into stupendous
caverns and
arches. The rock that formed the bluffs was in layers distinct enough
in their
marking to look at a little distance as if they were man’s handiwork.
One
section that was particularly fine took the form of fretted columns,
and,
overhead, a green bank sloped down from far above like a roof, giving
the whole
quite the appearance of a big church. To get a closer view of
this temple
of nature I left the car, and walked along at the foot of the crags
over a
beach strewn with rounded stones and brightened with shreds of seaweed
from the
distant tropics. The tide was fast rising and the waves were roaring on
the
strand, and sliding in farther and farther and trimming it narrower
each
moment. Already the green water had invaded the outer arches of the
cathedral.
But the spot was a grand one, and I stayed on until I heard the faint
shout of
my driver behind me, and saw him standing up in the car and waving his
whip
excitedly. I took warning and started back; where there were smooth
stretches I
ran, and when I reached the car and clambered aboard the driver lashed
his
horse and we were off at a gallop. The sandy beach, which a little
before was
many rods wide, was now a mere ribbon, and the waves, stealthy,
powerful,
insistent, in a minute more would wipe it out altogether. I clung to
the car,
the horse raced, and, at the last moment, with the waves lapping about
the
wheel-spokes, we turned sharply aside and climbed over a great ridge of
pebbles, and were on the firm turf beyond the reach of the hungry sea,
which
had taken full possession of the beach we had just left. We now went on back to
Doogort; and
when we arrived, about four in the afternoon, I took a fancy to get a
downlook
on the country from the mountain near the hotel. This mountain was
twenty-two
hundred feet high, but the guide-books and the people at the hotel said
the
ascent was easy, and I started with cheerful anticipations. I went up a
village
lane that soon carried me beyond the little group of houses and
huddling fields
into the marshlands. Then I followed the top of a turfed wall for a
time, and
after that jumped along on the tussocks of the bog, avoiding the wet
hollows as
much as possible. The bog did not keep to the lower slopes, as I
expected, but
went up and up, and the whole mountain side was wrapped with its miry
mosses.
The spongy earth, thickly hidden by grasses and heather, was soaking,
and the
water came squeezing out in quantities with every footstep. It was
steep, hard
work. At length I came to the edge of a precipice that looked as if half the mountain on the seaward side had slid away, and along the verge of this cliff I continued to zigzag for a long time, getting higher and higher and more and more tired. The wind blew in rough gusts that in the exposed places threatened to carry me away, and every little while a shower came pelting down, and I would hunt up a boulder for a seat and huddle beneath my umbrella. On ahead rose a pinnacle of rocks toward which I had been long striving. I had thought this projection would be near the summit, but when I actually gained it I saw that the crown of the mountain was still far skyward. Apparently I had only come about half way, and the rest of the distance was all strewn with splintered rock and was worse than the bog I had been climbing through. Below lay the world spread out like a map — hills and valleys, villages, roads, a lake, the sea, several islands, and, far off eastward, the dim mainland, while over all hovered the wraiths of the doubtful, oft-changing weather — fog, showers, cloud shadows, gleams of sunlight, and now and then a vague rainbow. High above me, marked by a flagstaff, was the mountain summit, one minute lost in a whirl of mists and wild clouds, and the next minute coming forth clear and powerful and beckoning me upward. THE CATHEDRAL CLIFFS But it was of no use. The
experience
in climbing to the point already attained was sufficient, and I now
went
jolting and slipping on the rough journey downward. When I reached the
hotel I
made a reckoning of the number of showers I had been out in that day,
and could
recall nine. Besides these, several others preceded my start in the
morning, or
fell after I returned in the evening. I had finished dining and
gone to my
room, when some commotion outside drew me to the window. There, on a
wall close
below, lay the long, sleek body of a seal, shot that day by a hotel
guest, on
an islet fifteen miles distant. The caverns of this islet are a famous
haunt of
the seals, and parties frequently row out to have a try at the game.
The seals
are of one of the coarser species, and the skins have little value,
save as
trophies of the hunt to decorate, in the form of rugs, the sportsmen’s
homes. It was the custom of the
guests at
this Doogort hostelry to gather in the parlor evenings to chat, and to
hear the
landlord tell stories. I found a company of fifteen or twenty there
when I came
down from my room. A tall Englishman was discoursing about the day’s
shooting
on the seal island. He said that the natives were disinclined
themselves to
molest the beasts, as they believed the seals were human souls, allowed
by special
grace to survive the deluge, and in this shape to await the last
judgment. He
added that one of his rowers told him he had seen a mermaid in Achill
waters
the year before, and that five other men, who were with him at the
time, had
also seen her. She was at first swimming toward them, and they
distinctly
observed her woman’s face and her long hair floating behind. Then she
turned
and swam away, and they saw she had a scaly body like a fish. This reminded one of the
company
gathered about the peat fire in the hotel parlor, that only the other
day, in
Tipperary, some men took an old woman, who was said to be a fairy, and
scorched
her in the fire to drive out the evil spirit. They burned the old woman
horribly, and it was doubtful if she could live. Next our landlord took a
turn. He
said: “A good many believe that the fairies will spirit away children.
They
will carry off a healthy child and leave instead a weazened little
dwarf. One
day they played that trick on a tailor, and he kept the dwarf several
years and
it didn’t grow any, and was just the same shrivelled little thing it
was in the
beginning. Finally, the tailor made up his mind what the matter was. So
he
heated his goose red-hot and held it over the dwarf, and said, Now, get
out of
here — I know you!’ “But the dwarf never let
on it
noticed him; and the tailor lowered the goose little by little till it
almost
touched the dwarf’s face. Then the dwarf spoke and said, ‘Well, I’ll
leave, but
first you go to the door and look round the corner.’ “The man knew if he did
that the
dwarf would get the best of him, and he said he would not. Then the
dwarf saw
‘twas no use, and it sprang out of the cradle and went roaring and
cackling up
the chimney, and a good child lay there in its place. “I had one queer
experience myself.
It was the time of the Fenian troubles. I was sitting up late, — I
suppose it
must have been after midnight, — but I hadn’t taken anything, and was
as sober
as I am this minute. Well, it got to be very late, as I said, and by
and by I
heard strange noises in the hall. It was like men tramping past, and
they kept
going and going, hundreds of them, and they were dragging dead bodies
and all
that. I could hear their breathing, and I could hear their clothing rub
along
against the walls. Then the ceiling and the sides of the room I was in
began to
wave. I took a candle and went out in the hall, and there was nothing
there,
doors all fastened, everything all right. Now, what do you make out of
that? I
never have been able to account for it myself. “That reminds me of the Achill girl that went to service in Dublin. She got a good place — wages and work and everything were perfectly satisfactory; but there was one room in the house that she wasn’t allowed to go into, and that troubled her. She saw a great many people go into that room, and she never saw any of them come out. The room was always quiet-like, and always kept locked, and the girl never had a chance to see it, till one day, when the house folks all happened to be away, she found they had left the key in the door of that room. So she went in, and what did she see there but rows and rows of heads — heads of beautiful ladies — heads severed from the bodies, and the long hair hanging down — yes, rows and rows of them; and the girl like to have fainted, and she got out of there in a hurry and went to her chamber and gathered up all her belongings and came home — never notified the police nor nothing. But I’ll tell you what my idea is. I think it was a barber’s shop she looked into, and the customers went in one door, and out another that she didn’t know about, and it was just wigs, and such fixings, she saw.” TOURISTS ON A LONG CAR The company laughed and
commented
jokingly, but presently lapsed into silence and contemplatively eyed
the glow
in the fireplace. Then the landlord asked if we had ever heard of the
Achill
hat. He said that in the olden time a hat was an article that the
Achill man
never wore while on his native island. But when he went to the mainland
he
preferred to look like the rest of the world, and at Achill Sound,
where the
people boated themselves across, a single hat was kept on a pole. When
a man
was going to town on the mainland he climbed the pole and got the hat.
On
returning he shinned the pole again and left the hat for the use of the
next man.
Following this story, the
landlord
told of a wreck that makes the saddest chapter in all Achill’s history.
Many of
the young men and women of the island spend a part of every summer in
Scotland
helping in the potato harvest. They go by steamer from Westport, and
there are
those who walk the whole forty miles thither, but most make the journey
on some
fishing smack. A few years ago, when preparations were being made for
the
annual exodus, a man who owned an old hooker was engaged to carry a
large party
down to Westport and put them aboard the Glasgow steamer. The hooker
was only
allowed by law to carry forty persons, but the owner was to get a
shilling
apiece, and, intent on making all the profit he could, he took on
sixty-eight.
The day was quiet, with just enough wind blowing to make it pleasant
sailing,
and Westport was reached all right. They were in the harbor and within
half a
mile of the quay, when some one called out that the Glasgow boat was
close by. The young people all
hastened to one
side to look, and at the same time the hooker approached the steamer in
such a
way that the big boat’s hull took all the wind out of the hooker’s
sails, and
it went over at once, and those sixty-eight Achill folk were clinging
together
and struggling in the water. Thirty-eight of them were drowned, and the
next
day thirty-eight coffins with the bodies in them came up by special
train to
Achill Sound. All the population of the
island was
at the station to meet them — a thousand people or more, and there were
sore
hearts in Achill that day. One family lost five, others four, three,
and two.
The man who owned the hooker drew his boat up on the beach, and there
it lies
to this day. Those who escaped drowning returned to Achill and gave up
going to
Scotland, and they never have got the better of their fright, and never
will,
the landlord said. Of the homes on the island he related that it was customary to keep the cows and pigs in the living room, and when there was a pony it was usually tied to the foot of the bed. The chickens occupied the same apartment, laid their eggs in any part of the room they found convenient, and roosted on the rungs of the table. Indeed, the people are so poverty-stricken that the home conditions could hardly be otherwise than comfortless and barren to the last degree. A decade or so ago they were almost starving through the failure of their crops and many were assisted to free emigration across the Atlantic. Since the bridge has been built and the railroad has come, the facilities for marketing their fish and farm produce are greatly improved, and the ordinary necessities of life are within easier reach than they once were. Yet the lacks are still serious, and I have never seen a region more boggy, storm swept, and desolate. |