Through Ireland on a Motor Cycle

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume XVIII, Issue 141, 29 May 1928, Page 8

Through Ireland on a Motor Cycle

Pleasant Jaunts Through Country Lanes.. o Customs Formalities, Quaint Cottages and Distressing Slums... A Trip to Blarney.

BHE day I arrived in Dublin an Irish statesman had been assassinated, and on my return to England people asked whether I had witnessed any "scenes.” They doubtless imagined a state of disorder, or at least alarm, but I saw no traces of either. It is true that in both Northern Ireland and the Free State the policemen wear revolvers, and that a dressing station stands prominently in the middle of the main street of Dublin; but armed police are common in other parts of Europe, and the necessity for first-aid in the heart of a modern city may Indicate the victory of civilisation, in the form of the traffic danger, and not its defeat.

The impression I gained during a short visit, which covered the country from north to south, was that the Irish at home are as peaceful and law-abid-ing as the people of England or of New Zealand. There certainly hangs over them the shadow of “the Trouble" —words pronounced with some dread and a suggestion of reticence. The Trouble is not only more recent, but to the Irish civilians more vivid and terrible than the war. The peopl who talked to me did not dwell on it, but the subject cannot be kept out of conversation, and they mentioned it as though they were afraid. From my own observations I am convinced that whatever may be said or done by

some enthusiasts who love Ireland better than they do the Irish, the people as a whole are weary of dissension, and could not be roused except under extreme provocation. Nevertheless, all thinking citizens of the Free State must speculate in many directions when they consider the economic condition of their country, for the great and terrible problem of Ireland is not politics, but poverty. I remember seeing in 1915 a picture of the Tipperary cottage that had been the home of Michael O'Leary, the first V.C. of the war, and thinking how very small and poor it looked. I did not realise that it was a common thing for people to live in such places. But now I have been to Ireland and travelled its country roads, and I have seen these cottages in their hundreds as they exist in their thousands —with their battered thatches and their patchy whitewash, containing at most a couple of rooms, fioorless and almost windowless. It is all very well to make jokes about the Irish and their pigs, but if a man and his wife have no room even for their children, where can they keep their pigs, supposing they are lucky enough to have any? In most cases, the cottage door, which opens direct on to the muddy road, is built in two parts like a stable-door—-to keep the chickens in, so I was told. I frequently saw chickens perched on the lower half of the door, and once a large rooster looked at me through a little cottage window. Pigs, goatC donkeys and all kinds of poultry wander at random about the villages, and in the course of motorcycling through rural districts I was given to wonder why not only a chicken, but every other kind of domestic bird or beast, crosses the road. In the Southern counties, the number of donkey-carts is amazing. From Limerick to Killarney, about 70 miles, often carrying milk-cans, for it is a I must have passed many hundreds,

dairying district. Having been brought up in the belief that donkeys are stubborn and difficult animals, I was surprised to see them driven without trouble by the smallest children and the oldest women.

Some superior people have told me that the Irish peasants are lazy and thriftless, and that it is their own fault they are poor. Still, a man who digs his own fuel from a peat-bog cannot be lazy; and all the thrift in the world will not stop the rain that makes Ireland damp and green and beautiful, and lines her roads with yellow Irises, and rots her crops before they ripen. Of course, it is Impossible to generalise, for Ireland varies as much as other countries, and I saw on the hillsides of the South Coast sheep as white and plump as any in New Zealand, and nearer Dublin were prosperous farms with hedges as neat as those in Kent or Surrey. The country is pleasant to travel in, and its people are extremely hospitable and noticeably polite. I started a motor-cycle tour of Ireland at Belfast, where I could observe little outward difference from an English industrial city, except in the uniforms of the policemen. The great shipyards of Workman Clark and Harland Wolff are the most striking and interesting feature. From Belfast I followed the Antrim Coast right round to the North, as far as Londonderry. For the mo-t part it is a r--ky shore,

picturesque and full of variety; the road is good, and there is not much traffic, making it an ideal motoring route. I have memories of a lonely headland where a ruined castle overlooks the sea, and of wooded valleys and high moorlands a few miles inland, and of the bearded goats which gazed at me inquisitively from an old sea-wall. From Londonderry I headed right South for Killarney, and experienced the curse and blessing of the motorist in Ireland as in New Zealand—bad roads. Good roads may mako touring comfostable, but they also crowd the countryside with traffic and turn the beauty spots into tourist resorts. In rural Ireland there is very little motor traffic; one may indeed travel for miles without meeting even a donkey-cart. And the roads are not all bad. Some of them were merely slippery with rain, others just a wearying repetition of small pot-holes. They were neglected during the Trouble, but there is a lot of road work now in progress. Steam-rollers and gangs of workmen are met at frequent intervals, and the next few' years will see a vast improvement. Much is made by some people of the annoyance of having to pass Customs to enter the Free State. It was necessary for me to pay a deposit representing a third of the value of my motor-cycle, this being refunded when I left the country. Such formalities can be arranged in England beforehand, and need not cause delay at the border. I reached the Customs Station at 8 p.m., three hours after closing time, but the officials were evidently resident there, and very kindly let me through. About six different forms had to be filled out relating to the motor-bike; this took some 30 minutes. Incidentally, I was asked if I understood Irish, and had to confess my ignorance of that language, a defl-

ciency which is shared I understand by the majority of Irishmen. In the early days of Ireland’s freedom, some patriot had the street names of Dublin inscribed in the native tongue. Later, since nobody understood It and everybody was getting lost, they had to put up new signs In English, with the Irish translation underneath.

I cannot say whether the lakes of Killarney are the most beautiful In the world—there are so many most beautiful lakes, like the seven princesses of the fairy tale, each of whom was more lovely than her sisters. Killarney seemed to me rather like a miniature Walkaremoana, with Its broken coastline of heavily-wooded hills veiled with passing clouds; but the comparison cannot be carried far. The dark, peaty soil at the bottom of

the lakes of Killarney gives wonderful black and silver effects, which I have seen nowhere else. . The day after leaving Killarney I came to Blarney Castle. If anyone imagines that it is an easy thing to kiss the Blarney stone, I can assure him that It is not Whether It Is worth the risk is another matter, on which I cannot speak, because I * didn’t take it. One tall tower remains of old Blarney Castle, and on the outer wall, near the top, is the famous stone. Until recent times, anyone who wished to kiss it, and thus obtain the priceless gift of eloquence, had to hang over the top, head downward, with his friend holding his feet One man, lam told, actually fell, which would apparently mean certain death, but he suffered only a broken ankle or something of the kind, tor “he Was afther kissin’ the Blarney stone.” Nowadays, the removal of a stone inside the wall, and the addition of a couple of iron bars to hold, enables the world-be kisser to reach the stone from underneath, but it is still considered wise to have his feet held, and there is a sheer drop if he loses his balance and loosens his grip. Not having a crowd of encouraging friends to give me physical and moral support. I was content to leave the Blarney stone for worthier lips; and bo I shall not be a candidate at the next election. Blarney is not far from Cork, and in Cork I noticed some of the most wretched-looking slums I have seen anywhere. The main streets appear prosperous enough. I asked two different policemen the way to Dublin (it is the main road out of Cork), but neither of them knew; then I found a signpost which directed me. "Dublin’s fair city” has a handsome main street full of new buildings and bright shops, and the quays along Its river are busy with shipping. Scattered throughout the city are innumerable statues and memorials of the great men of Ireland, and among them two I particularly remember. On an eminence in Phoenix Park stands the conspicuous obelisk in memory of the Duke of Wellington, recording in his tribute: — Asia and Europe, saved bp thee, proclaim Invincible in tear thy deathless name; Now round thy brow the civic oah we twine That every earthly glory may be thine. The other, equally striking if only by its lack of ostentation, is the beautiful Celtic Cross that bears the names of Arthur Griffiths and Michael Collins. E. R. CLARKSON*