A HIKE IN IRELAND

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 60, Issue 4235, 24 January 1940, Page 8

A HIKE IN IRELAND

OVER THE MOUNTAINS OF MOURNE.

(By

M. S.)

There is something about Ireland—is is so lovely and so friendly. Life for the average Irish peasant is hard; we in New Zealand would call it a mere existence. Yet while you are there you feel that perhaps more than any people the Irish know how to live. Perhaps it is that they live nearer to the earth. If ever you want to get away from the hurly-burly of modern life, from machines and merchandise, I suggest a walking trip in Ireland. Somewhat suspicious of motor cars and tourists, the Irish will immediately open their hearts to the wearer of a pair of brogues and a rucksack. I think of an all too short week-end I spent in Northern Ireland. We crossed from Stranraer to Larne, and finding a youth hostel with the Intriguing name of Bloody Bridge, decided to go there. From Belfast we boarded a sleepy looking train, and as we travelled south the country became increasingly lovely. Even English fields cannot excel in greenness the Irish, and I had never liked gorse until I saw it blazing golden against a background of emerald green. Cottages are all small, and crouch in the shelter of some knoll of hillock. So unobtrusive are they that, but for their dazzling whiteness, they might almost not bo there at all. The banks on either side of the line were a mass of violets, primroses, bluebells, daisies and buttercups. Presently, with a thrill, I saw the soft curves and gentle slopes of the Mountains of Mourne sweeping down to the sea.

Alighting at Newcastle, we were delighted to find that our road followed the sea coast. All the town came out to see us pass. Fishing boats were moored there, and on a bench near the wall sat a group of old fishermen, lazily sunning themselves. They smoked time honoured clay pipes, filled with a rank weed, and joked with us, telling stories against themselves with shrewd Irish humour. Before long we passed the last house and hearing the sound of voices we looked over the sturdy sea wall. The bank running down to the sea was very steep, but there were a man and his son planting potatoes. On the shallow green turf they had laid stripes of seaweed about 10 feet long by 3 feet wide. Among the glistening brown weed they laid rows of potatoes; then, with a hoe, scraped up what sandy earth they could to cover all, and thus formed beds raised high above the surrounding trenches. LAND OF NEVER HURRY. A man went past in a rambling old cart. We called a cheery good-day, and he drew to one side of the roai

and settled down for a yarn. He had spent some years in America, and said he was saving to go to Australia. Since early morning lie had been carting seaweed from the beach for growing potatoes, and when we gently suggested that we were keeping him from his job, he said with a chuckle that the Irishman never does to-day what he can put off till to-mor-row, and there something in the air that made us appreciate this philosophy.

A little further on we saw a sign directing us to the hostel. At the gate we met the warden, Felix O’Brien. He had a great can of oil for fuel slung over his shoulders, and was bent nearly double with the weight of it. However, he managed to keep up a steady flow of conversation as he toiled up the tortuous path between rough stone walls, and by the time we had reached his snow white cottage huddled in the lea of a bank he had gleaned all the details of our lives.

We were met by his wife, who was full of the story of a goat, who, it appeared, had narrowly escaped death on a barbed wire fence. She stopped in the midst of a breathless recital, to greet us in her rich, mellow lilting voice, “Gudday to ye, now, Miss. Gud afthernoon. Be ye staying long wi’ us at all, And there were the puir craythur stroong up by his wee legs, and I be afeared he wor go in’ ter die—l did an* all.”

We entered the tiny cottage. The floor was mud hardened by the centuries. The room was low, with a staircase leading to the upstairs room where Mrs O’Brien lay o’ nights wi’ the wee girl and Felix wi’ the wee boy.” There were two deep silled windows, hung with white curtains, a couple of chairs, a table and furniture and two glass balls picked up on the beach. In front of a low, smouldering fire, sat on old, old woman. “The ould ’ooman.” She rocked herself before the fire, and turned to greet us through toothless gums as we entered. She was neatly dressed with a black shawl over her shoulders, and a red and white kerchief over her head. HERE WAS PEACE. We went on to the hostel, which is one of the loveliest that. I have ever visited. Gay with striped hangings and canvas chairs, its greatest asset was an enormous bay window with a glorious view. A great sweep of coastline spread before us, green fields and peaceful white cottages with their thin spiral of smoke, and serene blue sea. Here was peace! I flung my rucksack on to the nearest chair and said, “This will do me for .a week.” After we had made a good meal we lit a big fire in an enormous brick fireplace, and Mrs O’Brien came in and told us her life story. She found us good listeners. Next morning, crossing a small spinney full of primroses, I heard the tapping of stone cutters. And there

in the brilliant sunshine, surrounded by myriads of wild flowers, were a number of men chipping grey granite cobble stones, for London streets. I stopped to talk, and all work ceased while I was there. One laughing, dark eyed lad would have me ‘try my hand at chipping cobbles, much to the uproarious amusement of everyone. The O’Briens asked us to the evening with them. I shall never IJorget that evening. Felix, who had been ploughing all day, was sitting by the fire, with his trousers rolled up, washing indescribably dirty feet in a basin of water. He was not at all abashed to see us, but motioned us to “set down near the fire, Miss,” and went on with his ablutions, every now and then giving force to his remarks by flourishing a damp foot or washer.

They told us something of the struggle of their lives—how they had bought this place, a decayed stable, and year by year added improvements as they could scrape together a few shillings. First there was a new roof to be put. on and odds and ends of rough furniture knocked together—a cupboard built there—a bit of cobbling done in the yard. In the winter time there was nothing to do except stone cutting. They grew potatoes and flogged a beggarly living from the patches of earth between the rocks.

She told of various people who had come to the hostel—especially of one “who wor a reel gennerman.” “H£ came down and ’sez ter me, ‘Mrs O'Brien,’ seys he, ‘wilt cook me a bit o’‘ breakfast.’ He wore a reel gennerman, darlint, couldn’t even cook hisself a bitty bacon or a tatie.”