Notes of Travel

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 40, 21 October 1925, Page 25

Notes of Travel

THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN. (By J.K.)

After .a showery April and a wintry May, during which I was often sorely tempted to fold my tent and steal silently way from the green shores of Erin, there came a June “’ •such as one dreams of when looking back to the golden days of long ago. The hawthorn was sweet on every roadside, the beeches never had such wonderful foliage, and, as a man said to me, the chestnut trees, with their wax-like plumes, were like Benediction services. ' . Followed a splendid July, during which the farmers smiled as they watched the long tresses of the meadows ripening for the , mower, and as they saw the corn, that had : remained so close to the earth till now, ' ; shooting up boldly to welcome . the. warm . kisses of the sun. As the cold rains' of-. May succeeded the tearful April,- people shook their heads and wondered what was going to happen at all, at all, if we had another bad season. But the long hours of sunshine revived the dying hopes, and for once in a while even the farmers were pleased. It was ideal weather for a> rover like myself, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Once, as I have already written,- T escaped to Scotland, and once I went over to London and spent a few days motoring in England. But always I came back to enjoy more than ever il dolce far nicnfe by the Wexford shores. The Western Ocean (which, for the benefit of landlubbers, I may say is the Atlantic) is now between me and dear old Loc Garmain, but Apver many seas and for as many years as God X ives me I shall carry the memories of those I -summer days and of the old friends whom f. neither years nor distance changes. ': : l\ Time and again 1 found myself lying hi •/' the sun on the grassy head of Bag-in-Bun Bay, and looking out across the waters over

which, on a fatal day, more than seven hundred years ago now, Raymond l.e Gros and his Norman freebooters sailed for the age-long conquest of Ireland. There below me was the clear water in which their two ships La- Bague and La Bonne-sailed right up to the cliffs ; behind me were the remains of the ancient trenches thrown up for the great battle in. which Raymond here defeated the Danes who marched on him from Waterford. Across the Bay was the site of the Buried City of Bannow, of whose phantom bells the fishermen used to tell me years ago when I was learning to love the sea and to handle a sailing boat. To the left of Bannow was Tintern Abbey,

first. built by Fitzstephen, in thanksgiving for his escape from a storm and beyond it was a great panorama of Wexford county,? with its historic hills breaking the skyline. : Over there was Forth and just behind it lay Wexford town; in the west was Slieve Coyltba, where the big stone fences gave a spice to hunting in the old days; and in the north, beyond Blackstairs and Mount Leinster, was the dim outline of Vinegar Hill, with its memories of the hopeless rebellion of "98. ’ Looking around, towards the south, I saw he Hook promontory, with-the lighthouse at its extremity. It is all historic ground, but it would take too long now to write about it. But I will tell you how it got its name, which is something I learned one day from my friend, Chevalier Grattan Flood. On the cliffs, near. Slade, stand the four, bare walls of a very old church., To this day it is called St. 13 recan’s church, and recently Father Clouey, the P.P. of Templetown, found a .fine Ogham stone near it. Brecan was a Welsh prince who came over here betore the time of St. Patrick, just ns did St.' I bar and St. Vaux and other old Wexford saints. Brecan bad a son named Dubhan,

who also became a saint. Down there, close to the Hook Tower-, you will see, clustering round the grey walls of another ruined church, the little village of Churchtown. The church here was first built by Dubhan, ■ and in old times it was called Kildiibhan; or Dubinin's church. Tradition has it that the beacon light on the point was first kindled by Dubinin. There is a State Paper record giving a grant, dated in the twelfth century, for the maintenance of the light kept on the Hook Point by the monks of Kildubhan. But in those days, instead of calling it the Hook Point they called it Rinn Dubinin, or Dnbhan’s Point. Now Dubhan,

■jfc ,•.. •il. sJv\saint’ s name, happens to be spelled thesame way as the old Gaelic word for {a* fishing-; ' hook; and thus, in the course of ages, among the fishermen, v Rinn Dubhan was translated to mean the Point of the Hook. Another golden memory of- the past sum- • mer is that of a trip to St. Mullens —the site \ of the ancient monastery of S. Moling,, who was a Wexford Bishop twelve hundred years ago. We went by way of the river Barrow, in a motor boat belonging to an old schoolfriend of mine. Nothing is done by any authority in Ireland to induce tourists to see the upper Barrow, and only the initiated ever dream of making this delightful pilgrimage. In the old days I used to think there was no river scenery fit to be compared with that between New Ross and -St Mullens, and now - that I have seen it again, in the glamor of an August- evening, my opinion remains unchanged. There is wonderful variety in the landscapes along tEe bank. You see ancient castles .perched on high rocks,; you pass between steep hills, amid which the river . winds in a string of landlocked reaches that look like fairy lakes. The blending of colors is enchanting, and the majestic and silent woods , are mirrored in the waters that their branches bend to salute. History is not wanting, nor romance. ■ Up there among the , trees of MacMurrough, stout old Art, King of Leinster, was poisoned by his English foes; in the ancient churchyard of St. Mullens many Irish fighting men, through many centuries, were laid to rest; and you have still . the “pattern,'” and nobody who comes fails :r to drink from the waters of Moling’s Well, which is still in a good state of preservation. And, over the calm tree tops, as yon glide - in dreams of ancient days along the river, you can .see the rains of Coolhill Castle, where O’Daly and Eileen Kavanagh first sang the immortal song. “Eileen; a Boon.” Yon know the story of it. She and O’Daly loved, but her father favored an older suitor. O’Daly went to the wars across the seas, and Eileen’s father persuaded her he was dead. In time constant pressure won her consent to the marriage he wished for her. A banquet was held in order to announce the engagement. O’Daly came to it, disguised as a harper, and began: Do shiubhlainn fein i comhnuidhe leat, Eibhlin a run, Sfos go Tiramhlaidhe leaf, Eibhlin a. run, etc. Recognising his voice and answering, Eileen replied: Tiocfadh me’s ni fhanadh me, t Tiocfadh me’s ni fhanadh me, : - } S eoloich lo’m stor. ' - - - , And then, the triumphant burst of welv com© in the last stanza: ' i*-'’' •; {lf ? Oead mile failte romhat, - Eibhlin a run! * y: • ' ■ ■’.? i { It was all so long ago. And it all took place up there in one of these .old? gogr ruins . above the river.

On© more memory and I {have done.- I hoped {from ’; the. first |that my boat . would delay: enough to let me see {once more the Ballsbridge Horse Show,-; and fortunately it did. So it was that my last week in Ireland was spent in Dunlaioghaife, whence it was but a. short run to Ballsbridgeavery day. The week began with a wonderful motor run from Wexford,- ; through the , Wicklow hills and valleys, oil an afternoon in early August. Then crowded days in Dublin, watching the trials of those glorious Irish hunters all the forenoon, and sitting on the stand with a dear old friend as the jumpers went round and round, over the hedge, the stone wall, the single and double banks, the water jump and the rails. His Excellency, :“Tim” Healy, came and went; the military bands played Irish airs; familiar faces flashed" by in the crowd; long-lost friends came along' smiling; and people from Dunedin and Wellington appeared out of nowhere. It was - a week of great interest for one who loved horses as he loves the sea,’ and the sun-shone all the more brightly for me because I saw it all side by side with a friend of the old days. And, finally, the good-byes were said, and the light of Tuskar Rook dropped astern one night, as the St, Andrew bore me away from Ireland, Then a couple of days in London, and, on August 15, I saw 7 Southampton fading in the haze as the Ausonia sailed away for Canada.