Haunts of the eagle : man and wild nature in Donegal

Each story keeps the passage it was read from. Open one to read it as the scan has it, and, where the companion has written its own telling, that too. The passages are read off photographs of the page by machine, so a word here and there comes out wrong; they are kept as the reading produced them, so you can check any of them against the scan.

1. The Boat of the Dead on Donegal's coast

   Donegal · town · Donegal

   Fishermen along the Donegal coast feared putting out to sea on May and November evenings, believing the drowned dead return in phantom boats. Anyone seeing them would die that night or within the year; anyone entering one of their boats would never return alive.

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   When I perceived her plight, I did not care to question her further, or do violence to her fears by walking along the shore. I turned into the commercial room, where the only occupant was a northern Irish traveller, who had a great contempt for the intellect of any other than the Belfast Orangeman. Looking him full into the face I asked this pure fountain of Ulster wisdom what the girl meant. He lifted up his eye-brows in indignant scorn, and informed me that on May and November evenings the fishermen would seldom put out to sea for fear lest they should meet with the “‘ boat of the dead.’’ As far as I could gather from his fluent but rather incoherent talk, for he had had _ several whiskeys already and would have several more before he retired for the night, on either of these particular evenings the dead who have been drowned either during the year or for several years, put out to sea in phantom-boats. Those who look on them will either die that night or within the year. Those who enter one of their boats will never return, though their bodies may be found washed up by the surf.

   More than one of the fishermen had seen the boat,

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 71

   As the companion tells it

   As you pass through Donegal town, you are on a coast where the dead were once said to take to the sea. A man travelling here once asked a girl on the shore what troubled her, and she would not say. He turned into the commercial room of an inn, where the only occupant was a northern Irish traveller, a man who held a great contempt for any intellect that was not that of a Belfast Orangeman. The traveller looked at him with indignant scorn and explained. On May and November evenings, fishermen along this coast would seldom put out to sea, for fear of meeting the boat of the dead. On either of those evenings, those who had been drowned, during the year or over several years, put out to sea in phantom boats. Anyone who looked on them would die that night or within the year. Anyone who entered one of their boats would never return, though their bodies might be found washed up by the surf. The traveller had already had several whiskeys and would have several more before he retired. More than one of the fishermen had seen the boat.

2. Gartan, birthplace of Saint Columbkille

   Bellville or Gartan · townland · Donegal · 521

   Gartan, meaning 'the little field,' is the birthplace of Saint Columbkille (Columba), born 7th December A.D. 521. He earned his Irish title 'Dove of the Churches' by founding over a hundred churches and monastic settlements in Donegal and two hundred more across Ireland and Scotland.

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   N the heart of County Donegal, not far from the I village of Church Hill, lies the beautiful district of Gartan, or ‘‘ the little field,’’ which is an excellent centre for the exploration of the noble scenery and the legend-haunted regions of the north of the county. But it has a deeper interest to all who love to trace the footsteps of the great men of the past: it is the birthplace of ‘‘the Dove of the Churches,’’ Saint Columbkille as the Irish love to call him, or Columba as he is known to other nations. That he earned to the full his Irish title is amply proved by his foundation of more than a hundred little churches and monastic settlements in his native county, and two hundred in the rest of Ireland and in Scotland. Three picturesque lakes nestle beneath the lesser mountains of the sheltered valley, upon which his eyes must often have rested in his boyhood. Here he learned that love for Erin, which is touchingly shown in the lines at the head of this study, and he is said to have written when on his way to his last resting-place in Iona. Yet for one who knows Gartan well at least a hundred have journeyed to spend a careless hour in 189

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   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 85

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere close to Bellville or Gartan, in the heart of County Donegal and not far from the village of Church Hill, lies a district whose name means the little field. It is the birthplace of the Dove of the Churches, Saint Columbkille, as the Irish call him, or Columba as he is known to other nations. He was born on the 7th of December, 521. He earned his Irish title to the full, founding more than a hundred churches and monastic settlements in his native county, and two hundred more across the rest of Ireland and in Scotland. Three lakes nestle beneath the lesser mountains of the sheltered valley, upon which his eyes must often have rested in his boyhood. Here he learned that love for Erin which he is said to have written of when on his way to his last resting-place in Iona. For one who knows Gartan well, at least a hundred have journeyed to spend a careless hour there.

3. Lynch's Castle and Spanish trade in Galway

   Galway · city · Galway

   The author notes that commerce between Spain and Ireland was reflected in the architecture of Galway, most notably Lynch's Castle, which has a distinctly Spanish appearance. This observation introduces the context for the maritime trade that provided the backdrop for Red Hugh O'Donnell's kidnapping.

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   In’ those days there was a considerable commerce between Spain and Ireland, as may be seen in the very buildings of Galway, perhaps most notably in Lynch’s Castle, which has a_ distinctly Spanish appearance. It happened that O’Donnell, with a few young friends, was paying a visit to his old friend MacSwyne of Rathmullen Castle on Lough Swilly, when a ship purporting to be from Spain with a cargo of wine aboard was reported to have made its appearance in the harbour. The castellan at once commanded large purchases to be made; neither then nor now was good wine ever unwelcome to the Irishman’s palate. With much courtesy the captain sent back word that he had only a small quantity left, but that he would be highly honoured if the noble company would come on board and taste his wine. Without a thought of treachery the ‘‘ Red Hugh ”’ with some of his friends, including two of the young O’Neils, sons of the famous Earl of Tyrone, accepted the crafty invitation and were soon busily engaged in cheerful converse and an elegant banquet provided by the captain.

   In the midst of this pleasant occupation for some reason the young man looked up and saw that the ship was making sail, and had already moved far from the land. He soon came to the conclusion that he had been betrayed by his own trustful spirit : but nothing was left for him save to watch the course of events and endure in patience. Gradually

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   As the companion tells it

   As you pass through Galway, the buildings here still carry the mark of an old trade between Spain and Ireland. Lynch's Castle is the clearest sign of it, with a distinctly Spanish appearance that records a commerce once considerable between the two countries. That trade across the sea sets the scene for what happened to Red Hugh O'Donnell. He was paying a visit to his old friend MacSwyne of Rathmullen Castle on Lough Swilly, with a few young friends, when a ship purporting to be from Spain with a cargo of wine was reported in the harbour. The castellan ordered large purchases. Neither then nor now was good wine ever unwelcome to the Irishman's palate. The captain sent back word that he had only a small quantity left, but would be highly honoured if the noble company would come on board and taste his wine. Without a thought of treachery, Red Hugh, with some friends including two of the young O'Neils, sons of the famous Earl of Tyrone, accepted the invitation and were soon at an elegant banquet provided by the captain. In the midst of it the young man looked up and saw the ship was making sail, already far from land. He had been betrayed by his own trustful spirit. Nothing was left but to watch and endure.

4. Merrows sought on Arranmore beach

   near Aran Island · island or archipelago · Donegal

   The same elderly informant reported looking for merrows on the beach of Aranmore in his younger days, reflecting a local belief in sea-maidens along the Donegal coast. Some local families were said to descend from a merrow's children.

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   Before leaving fairies and wise-women, I must call attention to another kind of being, who is met with in the folk-lore of many parts of Ireland, and is not absent from that of Donegal. The sea has its maidens as well as the land: the Irish call them ‘* merrows,’’ the English ‘‘ mermaids,’’ words which are virtually a translation the one of the other. The same elderly man told me of a young fisherman who had caught one such asleep, and stealing some part of her raiment had awaked her and induced her to become his wife. They had lived very happily together, until she had found the missing piece of clothing, and taking it in her hand had vanished to join her relatives in the sea. Her husband never married again, but some of her children were ancestors of several of the good families of the neighbourhood. He gave me their names, but they need not be set down here: their descendants might not like it, and the royal princess of the sea would be the last to wish to have her weakness for an ordinary fisherman proclaimed broadcast. My informant clearly believed that he was telling the simple truth, though he himself had never seen a ‘‘ merrow,”’ though in his young days he had often looked for one on the cliffs of Crohy Head and the beach of Aranmore.

   It is no long step to take from fairies to witches, of whom I have seen several, though none of them deigned to give me any evidence of her supernatural powers. I found them as harmless as they were ugly, though their neighbours dreaded to cast eyes upon them. They were believed to take the shape of hares, which at that time were not eaten by the peasantry of the western coast; at least of Donegal.

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 71

   As the companion tells it

   Aran Island lies along this stretch of the Donegal coast. Folklore here speaks of merrows, the Irish word for what the English call mermaids, sea-maidens as much a part of the old stories as the fairies and the wise-women. An elderly man once told a visitor of a young fisherman who caught a merrow asleep on the shore. He stole some part of her raiment, and when she woke, he persuaded her to become his wife. They lived happily together, until the day she found the missing piece of clothing. She took it in her hand and vanished, gone to join her relatives in the sea. Her husband never married again. But some of her children became ancestors of several of the good families of the neighbourhood. The old man gave their names, but the visitor did not write them down, thinking their descendants might not like it, and that the merrow herself would be the last to wish her weakness for an ordinary fisherman made known. The old man clearly believed he was telling the simple truth. He had never seen a merrow himself, but in his young days he had often looked for one on the cliffs of Crohy Head and the beach of Aranmore. The belief ran deep along this coast, that the sea held maidens as the land did, and that some families living here carried their blood.

5. Phouca and eel-horse haunting mountain tarn on Slieve League

   Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

   A reedy tarn hidden in the hollow of Slieve League is said to be haunted by the great eel-horse or the terrible Phouca, a magic horse that snatches up unwilling riders, sweeps them through the air, and casts them down to die on precipices.

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   The path winds along the edge of the huge cliffs passing near the precipices, where the white rocks literally overhang the heaving waters. Next comes a serrated ridge dropping sheer on its seaward flank and falling landward to a little reedy tarn in the hollow of the mountain. The ridge itself may be about two feet in breadth, and in one part bears a close resemblance to two teeth of a gigantic saw. Here a firm and steady footfall is essential; but when it has once been crossed the way grows easier. In former days it was the only path into the heart of the county from Malinmore and Malinbeg, and many a doughty wayfarer might be seen marching fearlessly across it in the olden time. From the eastern to the western summit a similar ridge runs, but its slopes are neither so precipitous, nor is the path itself so narrow. From its height there is just a glimpse of one of the tarns hidden in the bosom of the great mountain, haunted as usual by the great eel-horse, or even by the terrible Phouca itself, that magic horse which snatches up an unwilling rider and after sweeping him through the air casts him down to die upon some yawning precipice.

   Such was the path which I chose for my first ascent of Slieve Liag, or the ‘‘ mountain of white flagstones,’’ and I was richly rewarded. There is an undoubted pleasure in conquering dangerous places, from which more timid spirits with greater wisdom start back. When I had overcome the serious difficulties of the journey, I sat down to rest on the greensward some hundreds of feet above the ‘‘ Eagles’ Nest,’? where the great birds in former

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 12

   As the companion tells it

   Slieve League in Donegal carries a path along the edge of huge cliffs, passing near precipices where white rocks overhang the heaving waters. A serrated ridge comes next, dropping sheer on its seaward flank and falling landward to a little reedy tarn in the hollow of the mountain. The ridge itself may be about two feet in breadth, and in one part bears a close resemblance to two teeth of a gigantic saw. A firm and steady footfall is essential there, but once it has been crossed the way grows easier. In former days this was the only path into the heart of the county from Malinmore and Malinbeg, and many a doughty wayfarer might have been seen marching fearlessly across it in the olden time. From the eastern to the western summit a similar ridge runs, but its slopes are neither so precipitous, nor is the path itself so narrow. From its height there is just a glimpse of one of the tarns hidden in the bosom of the great mountain, haunted as usual by the great eel-horse, or even by the terrible Phouca itself, that magic horse which snatches up an unwilling rider and after sweeping him through the air casts him down to die upon some yawning precipice.

6. Spanish ships land at Kinsale

   Kinsale · town · Cork

   After years of waiting for Spanish aid, two ships carrying three thousand men finally landed at Kinsale. The text notes this was the worst possible location for the expedition, as the ground was ill-suited for battle and the landing could not be concealed from the English Navy.

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   At length, after at least three years of long and weary waiting, two Spanish ships with three thousand men landed at Kinsale, the very worst place which they could have chosen for their adventure. Here they could not hope to conceal their advent from the English Navy, and the ground itself was illsuited for a successful battle. In this paltry fashion did the self-styled ‘‘ champion of the Catholic Faith’ attempt to help the two struggling Earls in Ireland. As has almost always been the case in Irish warfare for liberty, there was a traitor in the camp, Niel Garv O’Donnell, the kinsman of the “Red Hugh.’’ Jealous of his younger kinsman’s fame he entered into treaty with the English on condition that he should succeed to his estates. In

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 114

   As the companion tells it

   Kinsale is the town where, after at least three years of long and weary waiting, two Spanish ships carrying three thousand men finally landed. It was the very worst place they could have chosen. They could not hope to conceal their arrival from the English Navy, and the ground itself was ill-suited for a successful battle. In this paltry fashion did the self-styled champion of the Catholic Faith attempt to help the two struggling Earls in Ireland. There was a traitor in the camp, Niel Garv O'Donnell, kinsman of Red Hugh. Jealous of his younger kinsman's fame, he entered into treaty with the English on condition that he should succeed to his estates.

7. St. Patrick's retreat and Purgatory vision at Lough Derg

   near Lough Derg · lake or lakes · Donegal

   Lough Derg in southeastern Donegal is associated with St. Patrick, who sailed to one of its islands seeking solitude and found a grotto where he experienced a vision of Purgatory filled with souls being cleansed by fire. The lake's name meaning 'red lake' may derive from a prehistoric story of a wound inflicted upon the water spirit.

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   In the south-eastern corner of County Donegal, beneath bare and gloomy hills in the midst of a barren and inhospitable-looking region, lies the lonely Lough Derg. It is uncertain how it got its name of the ‘“‘ red lake’’; but it may have come down from the story of some wound inflicted upon the spirit of the waters in prehistoric ages. Hither, during the early part of his missionary journeys, came St. Patrick to seek a space of retirement from the world. He needed to find strength for his arduous work in solitary prayer and meditation. He sailed across to one of the islands, whereon he found a grotto curiously shaped and deep. Here he lay lost in meditation, when sleep overcame him and a wondrous vision presented itself before his eyes. He dreamed that he saw Purgatory in all its terrors, filled to overflowing with the souls of the departed. Some of them were cleansed by the fires into a singular whiteness, and were beginning to ascend into heaven. They had fulfilled all needful penance for their sins, and were ready to join the saints who

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 76

   As the companion tells it

   This is Lough Derg, a lonely lake in the southeastern corner of Donegal, beneath bare and gloomy hills in a barren region. Its name means the red lake, though no one is certain how it got that name. It may come down from some prehistoric story of a wound inflicted upon the spirit of the waters. In the early part of his missionary journeys, St. Patrick came to this lake seeking solitude. He needed solitary prayer and meditation to find strength for his work. He sailed across to one of the islands, where he found a grotto, curiously shaped and deep. There he lay lost in meditation until sleep overcame him, and a wondrous vision came before his eyes. He dreamed he saw Purgatory in all its terrors, filled to overflowing with the souls of the departed. Some of them were cleansed by the fires into a singular whiteness, and were beginning to ascend into heaven. They had fulfilled all needful penance for their sins, and were ready to join the saints.

8. Columbkille's cloak covers Tory Island

   Tory Island · townland · Donegal

   When the King of Tory refused Columbkille land for a monastery, the Saint asked for only as much ground as his cloak would cover. The cloak miraculously expanded to cover the entire island, compelling the King to come to terms and allow the foundation.

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   It is not easy to divine the reason which led him to choose the sites of some of his foundations. The tradition of the founding of that on Tory Island is so largely mingled with legend, that it gives no historical enlightenment on this point. He is said to have been travelling in company with a band of his disciples on the opposite mainland, when he declared that one of the party ought to preach the Cross in that lonely spot. They considered with themselves for a little while and came to the conclusion that he was chosen to fulfil this difficult duty whose staff, when plunged into the sea, was the first to land upon the island. Columbkille’s staff outdistanced all the rest, swimming against wind and tide until it came safely ashore on Tory. Accepting the omen, with a party of his monks he chartered a boat, followed his staff, and came into sharp conflict with the King, who refused to give him any land as a site for the monastery. Columbkille then asked him to give him as much land as his cloak would cover. The King accepted this proposal; whereupon the cloak swelled into such a size that it completely covered the island.

   Dismayed by the portent yet angered at being turned out of his inheritance, the King came to terms with the Saint, who founded a small monastic establishment there, by which he soon converted all of the islanders. The little community was destined again and again in after years to be sacked and plundered by the savage northmen. The cross, almost certainly his, holds its original position; the round tower cannot date very long after his time. The two are perhaps the rudest and most primitive objects of their kind in Ireland. It may be well to

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 90

   As the companion tells it

   Close to Tory Island, there is a story from old tradition about how Columbkille came to found a monastery here. He was travelling with a band of his disciples on the mainland opposite, when he declared that one of their party ought to preach the Cross in that lonely spot. They considered among themselves and decided that the chosen man would be the one whose staff, when plunged into the sea, was first to land on the island. Columbkille's staff outdistanced all the rest, swimming against wind and tide until it came safely ashore on Tory. Accepting the omen, he chartered a boat with a party of his monks, followed his staff, and came into sharp conflict with the King of Tory, who refused to give him any land for a monastery. Columbkille then asked the King to give him only as much ground as his cloak would cover. The King accepted the proposal. The cloak swelled to such a size that it completely covered the island. Dismayed by the portent yet angered at being turned out of his inheritance, the King came to terms with the Saint. Columbkille founded a small monastic establishment there and soon converted all the islanders. The little community was sacked and plundered again and again in after years by the northmen. A cross, almost certainly his, holds its original position, and a round tower stands nearby. The two are perhaps the rudest and most primitive objects of their kind in Ireland.

9. Red Hugh defeated in battle near Kinsale

   Kinsale · town · Cork

   Against the advice of O'Neil, Red Hugh O'Donnell attacked the strongly-positioned English forces almost immediately upon arriving near Kinsale. Despite his personal valour and exhortations, his army was routed—the first defeat of his career—after which the Spanish commander abandoned Ireland.

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   So it came to pass that without giving his men time to rest thoroughly, and almost on the moment of his arrival, O’Donnell gave battle to the English in spite of their strong position and slightly more numerous forces. He performed prodigies of valour, but all to no purpose. The little Irish army was routed, though again and again he encouraged his troop, ‘‘ until his voice and speech were strained by the vehemence and the loudness of the language in which he addressed all in general, requesting his nobles to stand by him and fight their enemies.”’ But his personal gallantry and his exhortations

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   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 115

   As the companion tells it

   As you pass through Kinsale, this is where Red Hugh O'Donnell met the first defeat of his career. Against O'Neill's advice, he attacked the English almost the moment he arrived, without giving his men time to rest, despite their strong position and greater numbers. He fought with extraordinary courage and urged his nobles to stand by him, until his voice was strained from the loudness of his words. But the little Irish army was routed. After this, the Spanish commander abandoned Ireland.

10. Spanish shipwreck and Father Carr's last rites

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    A tradition recalls a Spanish ship wrecked long ago on the rocky cliff face of the mountain, with Father Carr climbing down to the battered survivor on a narrow ledge to administer the last rites of the Church.

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    seen that dainty fern more than once since in the lonelier parts of western Ireland. But the first finding of its exquisite fronds was precious to me, and lingers fondly in my memory. As I lay on the greensward looking down into the ‘‘ wrinkled sea” crawling beneath, I found the sight so fascinating that I could not easily wrench myself away from it. The movement was so rhythmical, the colouring so radiantly bright, the hoarse clamour of the distant waves sounded so drowsily musical, so musically drowsy. Nor could I help thinking of the hapless Spaniard wrecked on that rocky face so long ago, and despairing of ever hearing the sound of a human voice again. I seemed to see the whirlwind staggering along its tempestuous path, the gallant ship caught in its greedy maw, the brief struggle, the scattering of its timbers on the jutting crag. I seemed to see Father Carr climbing carefully down to the battered human hulk on the narrow ledge, to hear his kind voice repeating the last rites of his Church. Then I drew cautiously back from the verge and began my homeward way.

    It was now the beginning of sunset and the flaming light shone upon the wild and desolate-looking landscape before me with its occasional cabins and little potato-patches glimmering here and there. The brown undulating wastes just crimsoned by the fast sinking sunbeams with their two black pools stretched towards Glen Head and Slieve-a-Tooey, the last haunt of the golden eagle, if indeed he can be found there any longer. In the far distance the tapering peak of Errigal and the broader summit of Slieve Snacht stood out against the richly coloured sky tinged with a wonderfully delicate rosy hue. Farther towards the south-west lay the Atlantic ‘“‘ like an infant asleep ’’ here exquisitely blue, there lighted up into flashes of a dazzling radiance, there again flushed with deep purple and vivid yellow. To the east the long cape of Muckros Point stretched far out into

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 16

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League holds an old story along these cliffs. A Spanish ship was wrecked on the rocky face of the mountain long ago. A whirlwind caught the gallant ship, and the timbers scattered on the jutting crag. One survivor lay battered on a narrow ledge, despairing of ever hearing the sound of a human voice again. Father Carr climbed carefully down to that ledge. His kind voice repeated the last rites of his Church. A writer walking these cliffs lay on the greensward looking down into the sea crawling beneath, and thought of that hapless Spaniard. He seemed to see the whirlwind staggering along its tempestuous path, the ship caught in its greedy maw, the brief struggle, the scattering of timbers. He seemed to see Father Carr climbing down to the broken man, to hear his kind voice giving the last rites. The writer found the sight of the sea so fascinating he could not easily wrench himself away. The movement was rhythmical, the colouring radiantly bright, the hoarse clamour of the distant waves sounding drowsily musical. He lay there watching, thinking of the Spaniard who had washed up on this rock face with no hope of another human voice, until Father Carr came down to him. It was the beginning of sunset when he drew back from the verge and began his homeward way. The flaming light shone on the wild and desolate landscape, with its occasional cabins and little potato-patches glimmering here and there. Brown undulating wastes crimsoned by the sinking sun stretched towards Glen Head and Slieve-a-Tooey, the last haunt of the golden eagle. In the far distance the peak of Errigal and the broader summit of Slieve Snacht stood against the coloured sky, tinged with a delicate rosy hue.

11. The Poisoned Glen between Slieve Snacht and Dooish

    Poisoned Glen · valley · Donegal

    The Poisoned Glen is sharply cut from hard rock, dividing a shoulder of Slieve Snacht from the barren summit of Dooish ('black back'). The author could not discover from local inhabitants why the desolate corrie bore so grim a name.

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    barren summit of Dooish, or ‘‘ black back.’’ For many years I could not prevail upon any of the scattered inhabitants of the neighbourhood to explain why the desolate corrie bore so grim a name. Whenever I asked the question, I was put off with the unsatisfying answer, ‘‘ Ah, sure and it’s nothing but a poisoned glen! ’’ Had I understood the native Gaelic I should probably have fared better; such knowledge would have given the people confidence in me, they would have known that I was asking for information and with no desire of poking fun at their ancient legends. At length I fell in with the venerable gardener at one of the great houses not far away. He proved to be a veritable mine of folk-lore, though his means of communication was a singularly monotonous voice not unlike the drone of an Irish bagpipe, which alternately irritated the nerves and induced sleep. I listened gratefully as long as I could endure the strain, and was rewarded by the acquisition of much varied information, some of which is not in the books of folk-lore, while most of it differed in many particulars from all of them. From the top of Errigal I had often looked out upon the rugged coast of Tory Island clean cut upon the Atlantic Ocean: more than once I had passed beneath its savage cliffs on my way to Sligo. In the far past this desolate land was under the sway of Balor of ‘‘ the mighty blows,’’ who could fell an ox with his fist. Here he ruled in primitive state, holding much of the neighbouring mainland under his sway. He was endowed with an invaluable gift: he had an ‘‘ evil eye ”’ set in the back of his head, which, however, he could not keep open unless it was propped up by a stout stake—there were giants in those days. When once his eye was set in position, Balor had only to turn his head upon his enemies and they were blasted by its deadly gaze. He had no children save one daughter Ethnea, by whom he was threatened with serious danger. A Druid

    6 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 3

    As the companion tells it

    The Poisoned Glen is a valley cut sharp from hard rock, where a shoulder of Slieve Snacht stands apart from the barren summit of Dooish, whose name means black back. For many years the author could not get the scattered inhabitants to explain why the desolate corrie bore so grim a name. Whenever he asked, he was put off with one answer: "Ah, sure and it's nothing but a poisoned glen!" Had he understood the native Gaelic, he would probably have fared better. Such knowledge would have given the people confidence in him, and they would have known he was asking for information, not poking fun at their ancient legends. At length he met the venerable gardener at one of the great houses not far away. The man was a mine of folklore, though he spoke in a singularly monotonous voice not unlike the drone of an Irish bagpipe, which alternately irritated the nerves and induced sleep. The author listened as long as he could endure the strain, and was rewarded with much varied information, some of which is not in the books of folklore, while most of it differed in many particulars from all of them. In the far past this desolate land was under the sway of Balor of the mighty blows, who could fell an ox with his fist. Here he ruled in primitive state, holding much of the neighbouring mainland under his sway. He had an evil eye set in the back of his head, which he could not keep open unless it was propped up by a stout stake. When once his eye was set in position, Balor had only to turn his head upon his enemies and they were blasted by its deadly gaze. He had no children save one daughter, Ethnea, by whom he was threatened with serious danger.

12. Witch and her cow at Lough Doon's bawan

    near Lough Doon · lake or lakes · Galway

    An islet on Lough Doon is almost covered by a well-preserved stone bawan or cashel, once the dwelling of a petty chief. It is connected with a legend of a witch who drove her cow to pasture and turned it to stone at night; the cow is still heard lowing beneath the waters.

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    Beyond Narin, on Dunmore Head, there is quite a cluster of prehistoric forts, which are in most cases little more than mounds of shapeless ruins. There are also several small lakes, in two of which—Lough Doon and Lough Birroge—are islets in each case almost covered with a ‘‘ bawan,’’ or stone ‘‘ cashel ”’ which was once the dwelling of some petty chief. Both may have been meant to serve as safe harbouring for cattle, as the larger one is connected with the story of a witch and her cow. It is one of those stories like that related of Inish Bofin in Connemara, where the witch was wont to drive her cow to pasture, and on its return to turn it into a stone for the night. On being struck by a fisherman, he and she were both turned into stones. Occasionally the cow is heard lowing beneath the waters, and has been known to come out and walk round the islet, lowing pitifully for her mistress, who exists no longer. The bawan on Lough Doon is the larger of the two, and in a fine state of preservation; that on Lough Birroge is much smaller and has been in ruins for a considerable time.

    A bright and cheerful old inhabitant of Narin told me the story of the two bawans with a liveliness and gusto which I cannot reproduce. Two sister-witches each owned one of these lakes respectively : one long

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 72

    As the companion tells it

    Out near Lough Doon, there is an islet almost covered by a bawan, a stone cashel that was once the dwelling of some petty chief. It sits among several small lakes on Dunmore Head, beyond Narin. Lough Birroge has one too, though smaller and long in ruins. The bawan on Lough Doon is the larger of the two and still in a fine state of preservation. These fortifications may have served as safe harbouring for cattle. The larger one is connected with the story of a witch and her cow. It is one of those stories like the one told of Inish Bofin in Connemara. The witch was wont to drive her cow to pasture, and on its return she would turn it into a stone for the night. One day a fisherman struck it. On being struck, he and the witch were both turned into stones. Occasionally the cow is heard lowing beneath the waters. It has been known to come out and walk round the islet, lowing pitifully for her mistress, who exists no longer. A bright and cheerful old inhabitant of Narin told the story of the two bawans with a liveliness and gusto the writer could not reproduce. Two sister-witches each owned one of these lakes. The passage ends there, leaving the rest unrecorded.

13. Balor's shelter rock and the evil eye furrows

    Poisoned Glen · valley · Donegal

    In the Poisoned Glen the author reached a high shelving rock behind which the mythic Balor was said to have sheltered before the dawn of history. Deep furrows in the rock were attributed to the poison of Balor's evil eye, a folk tradition linking the landscape to the legendary Fomorian chief.

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    In spite of all of the difficulties I was not long in reaching the high shelving rock, behind which Balor had sheltered himself before the dawn of history, and I stared in wonder at the deep furrows said to have been cleft by the poison of his evil eye. Then I gained a cart-track, and in a few moments more I passed between Dunlewey House and the marble church, reaching the high road within about quarter of a mile from the little publichouse. I turned to look at my track down to the glen: had I not passed down it I should not have believed that there was any way up what seemed a sheer face with a dark corner of broken rocks. Then I looked at the path leading to two farms, if that be not too exalted a term, which once stood at the head of Altan Lough. What their inhabitants cultivated I cannot say: bog and bog alone bordered that narrow way, though perhaps sheep may have formed the staple of their livelihood. Not a few of them were wandering about the brown expanse; though they were the smallest of their kind, they were covered with dense coats of trailing wool, so that they would do something to clothe the two households and help to pay the rent.

    When I saw the haven of rest, once more I rejoiced

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 62

    As the companion tells it

    The Poisoned Glen is a valley of steep ground and dark corners of broken rock, and the road passes through it. In this glen there is a high shelving rock, behind which Balor was said to have sheltered himself before the dawn of history. Deep furrows run in that rock, and folk tradition says they were cleft by the poison of his evil eye. Balor was the legendary chief of the Fomorians, and the land itself holds the mark of him. From the rock, a cart-track leads out between Dunlewey House and the marble church, reaching the high road within about a quarter of a mile from a little public house. Looking back down into the glen, the way up seems a sheer face with a dark corner of broken rocks, and it is hard to believe there is any path at all. A narrow way leads from there toward two farms that once stood at the head of Altan Lough. What their inhabitants cultivated, the author cannot say. Bog and bog alone bordered that narrow way. Sheep wandered the brown expanse, the smallest of their kind, covered with dense coats of trailing wool, enough to clothe the two households and help to pay the rent.

14. Columbkille's birthplace and ancient abbey near Lough Akibbon

    Lough Akibbon · lake or lakes · Donegal

    Near Lough Akibbon stand the ruins of a tiny chapel or abbey, possibly established by St. Columbkille to commemorate his birthplace. The building has two small chambers, a Gothic doorway, thick walls, a narrow window, and a surviving altar flag still reverenced by devotees. Behind the abbey lies an ancient O'Donnell graveyard, and two rude stone crosses stand near the road.

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    Close to his birthplace, overlooking Lough Akibbon, are the ruins of a tiny chapel or abbey, the original of which he may himself have established to commemorate the scene of his birth. It consists of two small chambers, the church proper and a room of nearly the same size, parted from it by a wall of solid masonry, in which a handful of ancient monks may have slept and taken their meals. The pointed arch of its doorway is made of two stones cut into a Gothic pattern; the door itself is low and narrow, though no doubt it has admitted many men of might, and ‘‘ chief women not a few.’’ The walls are thick, and for the most part made of large stones, though they can hardly be called Cyclopean. The window is narrow and long; its arch is rounded and cut out of a single stone, while it is deeply splayed to let in more light. The altar has gone, but one of its flags lies under the

    N

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 86

    As the companion tells it

    Near Lough Akibbon in Donegal stand the ruins of a tiny chapel or abbey, close to the birthplace of St. Columbkille, who may himself have established it to commemorate the scene of his birth. It has two small chambers, the church proper and a room of nearly the same size, parted by a wall of solid masonry, where a handful of ancient monks may have slept and taken their meals. The pointed arch of the doorway is made of two stones cut into a Gothic pattern. The door itself is low and narrow, though it has admitted many men of might, and "chief women not a few." The walls are thick, built of large stones. The window is narrow and long, its rounded arch cut from a single stone, deeply splayed to let in more light. The altar has gone, but one of its flags survives, still reverenced by devotees. Behind the abbey lies an ancient O'Donnell graveyard, and two rude stone crosses stand near the road.

15. Commander of the Wasp buried at Glencolumbkille

    Glencolumbkille · town · Donegal · 1884

    After the wreck of the gun-boat Wasp on 22 September 1884, the body of its luckless commander drifted for many days before coming ashore in the stormy bay of Glencolumbkille. He was buried in the Protestant graveyard there, linking the tragedy of Tory Island to this mainland parish.

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    In Tory there is a certain ‘‘ Holy Stone”’ undoubtedly pagan in its origin, though probably blessed by St. Columba or one of his successors. For many centuries, when any invader was to be seen, the stone was pointed in the direction of his approaching fleet: instantly a great storm would break over him and he and his force were sure to be lost in the ocean. In the September of 1884 the landlord thought that it was time to collect his rents and arrears: he obtained from the government the gun-boat Wasp to aid him in that difficult and usually dangerous process. The keeper of the ‘‘Holy Stone’’ saw the Wasp approaching: he disliked her appearance and set the stone in the direction of her course. A violent storm at sea arose, the gun-boat was wrecked and all hands lost but six. This disaster happened on the 22nd of September, 1884 : the body of the luckless commander, after drifting for many days, came ashore in the stormy bay of Glencolumbkille, and lies buried in the Protestant graveyard. It is needless to add that the belief of the islanders in the virtue of the ‘‘ Holy Stone’’ was established by that tragedy upon a foundation which cannot be shaken.

    Tory has one of the most beautiful of all the Irish legends connected with it, which I shall set down as I heard it, though not in the wonderful Doric of the teller who translated it to me from the Gaelic, nor with the fine literary power of Dr. MacDevitt. One morning, it is not known how long ago, some fishermen were making their way to the sea to ply their wonted task, when they saw the body of a nun which had drifted upon a green bank just above high-water-mark. The corpse was of an unearthly beauty, the hands were folded upon the breast, and

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 73

    As the companion tells it

    You are coming through Glencolumbkille in Donegal. This parish has a strange link to a disaster at sea. Out on Tory Island there is a Holy Stone, pagan in its origin, though probably blessed by St. Columba or one of his successors. For many centuries, when any invader was to be seen, the stone was pointed in the direction of his approaching fleet. A great storm would break over him, and he and his force were sure to be lost in the ocean. In September of 1884 the landlord thought it was time to collect his rents and arrears. He obtained from the government the gun-boat Wasp to aid him in that difficult and usually dangerous process. The keeper of the Holy Stone saw the Wasp approaching. He disliked her appearance and set the stone in the direction of her course. A violent storm at sea arose. The gun-boat was wrecked and all hands lost but six. This disaster happened on the 22nd of September, 1884. The body of the luckless commander, after drifting for many days, came ashore in the stormy bay of Glencolumbkille, and lies buried in the Protestant graveyard there. The belief of the islanders in the virtue of the Holy Stone was established by that tragedy upon a foundation which cannot be shaken.

16. Donegal tweed shop and the Arran Arms bar parlour

    Donegal · town · Donegal

    The proprietor of the largest Donegal tweed shop in the town, thirty years before, was a little bearded man who would hold forth fluently in the Arran Arms bar parlour after a couple of whiskeys, drawing a small crowd who marvelled at his 'noble brow.'

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    The most picturesque view of the little town is to be had from this dingy-looking old landing-place, which ends with the fine two-arched bridge and has the spire of the Protestant church lifting its head above the surrounding buildings. In the town there is perhaps the largest agency for the excellent Donegal tweeds, which are tasteful in colour and of wonderful wearing capacity. The proprietor of this shop, thirty years ago, was a little bearded man suffering from a plethora of forehead, who only needed a couple of glasses of whiskey to make him unfold his wisdom. | have seen a small crowd gathered round him in the bar parlour of the Arran Arms, gazing in simple wonder at his fluent utterance, while first one then another of his intimates called frequent attention to his ‘‘ noble brow.’’ He thought that he was giving forth the wisdom of the ages, and they believed him, when he was merely making a lamentable exhibition of himself and displaying much fluid ignorance.

    On Fair-days, the Diamond itself, and the road leading to the station are crowded with a multitude of cattle, with some donkeys and a few horses. At such times may be seen in perfection the protracted issue of an Irish bargain, which always seems to need the arbitration of a third party. He will bid first the one hold out his hand and praise him to the skies, then he will command the other to do likewise and bespatter him with a like commendation. Next he will try to induce the seller to agree to a certain price and take the hand of the buyer, whereto the former will reply, ‘‘ I will not! ’’ and promptly put his hand behind him. Then he endeavours to shorten the interval between the seller’s and the buyer’s price, until often enough only the difference of half-a-crown remains to part the two. When this point is reached the arbitrator uses his utmost persuasion to bring matters to a head. For the most part his eloquence is quite successful, and the three

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 102

    As the companion tells it

    As the road brings you through Donegal, this is a town that once held perhaps the largest agency for the excellent Donegal tweeds, tasteful in colour and of wonderful wearing capacity. Thirty years ago the proprietor of that shop was a little bearded man with a great expanse of forehead. He only needed a couple of glasses of whiskey to set him unfolding his wisdom, and you could find a small crowd gathered round him in the bar parlour of the Arran Arms, gazing in simple wonder at his fluent utterance. First one then another of his intimates would call attention to his 'noble brow.' He thought he was giving forth the wisdom of the ages, and they believed him, when he was merely making a lamentable exhibition of himself and displaying much fluid ignorance. On fair days the Diamond and the road to the station filled with cattle, donkeys and a few horses, and you could watch the protracted business of an Irish bargain. An arbitrator would bid first the one hold out his hand and praise him to the skies, then command the other to do likewise. He would try to induce the seller to agree to a price and take the buyer's hand, and the seller would reply 'I will not!' and put his hand behind him. Then the arbitrator would work to shorten the gap, often down to half a crown between them, and his eloquence usually settled the matter.

17. Finn and Cormac's enchanted sleep at Tara

    Tara · parish · Meath

    At Tara, Finn and his warriors along with King Cormac and his retinue slept late into the following day under some enchantment. When they woke, Cormac discovered his daughter Grania was missing, and Finn found Diarmid equally invisible, setting off the pursuit.

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    At Tara, Finn and his warriors, Cormac and his train slept long into the following day: at last they woke up, rubbing their eyes and wondering what had happened to them. Cormac, when he came to himself, clearly suspected some enchantment or other mischief ; the first thing which he did was to look for his daughter, that he might see to the completion of her nuptials; but she was nowhere to be found. Similarly, Finn in his turn looked round for Diarmid, who was equally invisible. At first he began to reproach his son Oisin; but the bard stoutly denied that he had helped the lovers, nor could he tell where they were now hiding. Last of all, Finn had recourse to his divining tooth: ‘‘ Where are the lovers?’’ he asked. The tooth replied plainly but vaguely, ‘‘ They are on the heather.’’ Forthwith Finn set off on his way in pursuit: he went straight to the mountain of Carnaween, where he found the cromlech but no lovers. Thereupon he once more applied his thumb to the tooth, asking the same question. The tooth once more made answer in a somewhat similar fashion, ‘‘ They are on the sand.’’ Finn straightway took his journey to Kilclooney, where he found the cromlech, but no lovers. Herein the skill of Diarmid’s simple stratagem appears, which was able to mock the famous tooth.

    Thus the lovers were able to enjoy the delights of

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 81

    As the companion tells it

    As you travel through Tara, this is where Finn and his warriors and King Cormac with his retinue fell into an enchanted sleep that lasted long into the following day. When they woke, they rubbed their eyes and wondered what had happened to them. Cormac suspected some enchantment or mischief. The first thing he did was look for his daughter Grania, that he might see to the completion of her nuptials, but she was nowhere to be found. Finn looked for Diarmid, who was equally invisible. He began by reproaching his son Oisin, but the bard stoutly denied that he had helped the lovers, nor could he tell where they were now hiding. Last of all, Finn had recourse to his divining tooth. "Where are the lovers?" he asked. The tooth replied plainly but vaguely, "They are on the heather." Forthwith Finn set off in pursuit, going straight to the mountain of Carnaween, where he found the cromlech but no lovers. He applied his thumb to the tooth again, asking the same question. The tooth answered in a similar fashion, "They are on the sand." Finn took his journey to Kilclooney, where he found the cromlech but no lovers. Herein the skill of Diarmid's simple stratagem appears, which was able to mock the famous tooth.

18. One Man's Path: former route from Malinmore and Malinbeg

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    The narrow ridge path along the cliffs of Slieve League, known as 'One Man's Path,' was in former days the only route into the heart of Donegal from Malinmore and Malinbeg. A local tale holds that the last wild goat was blown from this ridge into the sea.

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    The path winds along the edge of the huge cliffs passing near the precipices, where the white rocks literally overhang the heaving waters. Next comes a serrated ridge dropping sheer on its seaward flank and falling landward to a little reedy tarn in the hollow of the mountain. The ridge itself may be about two feet in breadth, and in one part bears a close resemblance to two teeth of a gigantic saw. Here a firm and steady footfall is essential; but when it has once been crossed the way grows easier. In former days it was the only path into the heart of the county from Malinmore and Malinbeg, and many a doughty wayfarer might be seen marching fearlessly across it in the olden time. From the eastern to the western summit a similar ridge runs, but its slopes are neither so precipitous, nor is the path itself so narrow. From its height there is just a glimpse of one of the tarns hidden in the bosom of the great mountain, haunted as usual by the great eel-horse, or even by the terrible Phouca itself, that magic horse which snatches up an unwilling rider and after sweeping him through the air casts him down to die upon some yawning precipice.

    Such was the path which I chose for my first ascent of Slieve Liag, or the ‘‘ mountain of white flagstones,’’ and I was richly rewarded. There is an undoubted pleasure in conquering dangerous places, from which more timid spirits with greater wisdom start back. When I had overcome the serious difficulties of the journey, I sat down to rest on the greensward some hundreds of feet above the ‘‘ Eagles’ Nest,’? where the great birds in former

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 12

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League is the mountain you are passing through, and along its cliffs runs a narrow ridge path they call One Man's Path. It winds along the edge of huge cliffs, passing near the precipices, where the white rocks literally overhang the heaving waters. Then comes a serrated ridge, dropping sheer on its seaward flank and falling landward to a little reedy tarn in the hollow of the mountain. The ridge itself may be about two feet in breadth, and in one part bears a close resemblance to two teeth of a gigantic saw. A firm and steady footfall is essential there, but once it has been crossed the way grows easier. In former days this was the only path into the heart of Donegal from Malinmore and Malinbeg, and many a doughty wayfarer might be seen marching fearlessly across it in the olden time. From the eastern to the western summit a similar ridge runs, but its slopes are neither so precipitous, nor is the path itself so narrow. From its height there is just a glimpse of one of the tarns hidden in the bosom of the great mountain, haunted as usual by the great eel-horse, or even by the terrible Phouca itself, that magic horse which snatches up an unwilling rider and after sweeping him through the air casts him down to die upon some yawning precipice. A local tale holds that the last wild goat was blown from this ridge into the sea.

19. St. Columba's round tower and tau cross on Tory Island

    Tory Island · townland · Donegal

    Tory Island is closely associated with St. Columba, whose round tower—short and rudest of its kind—still stands nearly entire. Crumbling ruins mark the site of his church, and his tau-shaped cross stands where he may himself have placed it.

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    There were no roads in it until the lighthouse was built, an eminently necessary protection against its formidable cliffs. The island is closely connected with the life of St. Columba; his round tower, but for a portion of the cap, is entire; it is the shortest and one of the rudest of its kind. It is not likely that he caused it to be built; but it does not date very far from the foundation of his church during his missionary life in his native county. Of the church itself, or of the later building which followed it, a few crumbling ruins mark the site, while his tau-shaped cross stands where he himself may have set it. The islanders are a hardy race of fishermen, who pay neither rent, rates, nor taxes; any who presumed to collect such dues would be summarily pebbled off the island with fairly large stones. They are governed by a king, who, next to the priest, exercises all but absolute authority over them. Thirty years ago the king was a dwarf, repulsive-looking but possessed of great intelligence, who ruled over his race with a firm and wise control.

    The Sligo steamer on its bi-weekly voyages, when the sea is sufficiently calm, stands at anchor near the coast and the islanders come off in their boats to receive their goods. Most of these are fine stout fishing-boats, which will carry a fair burden, and are able to face a comparatively rough sea. It is a most interesting sight to see the stores unshipped, and to hear the guttural Gaelic of the islanders, which in many cases, is still their only language. During the winter months the steamer is unable to halt at Tory: one of the captains told me that as late as May, he had been unable to land any goods for six successive weeks. What the islanders can do without these necessary stores, it is not easy to imagine. When the sea is rough, they have not their largest resource, they cannot fish, and the barren soil does not produce

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 72

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, on Tory Island, St. Columba's round tower still stands, nearly entire but for a portion of its cap. It is the shortest and one of the rudest of its kind. It is not likely that Columba himself caused it to be built, but it does not date very far from the foundation of his church during his missionary life in his native county. Of the church, or of the later building that followed it, only a few crumbling ruins mark the site. His tau-shaped cross stands where he himself may have set it. The islanders are a hardy race of fishermen who pay neither rent, rates, nor taxes. Any who presumed to collect such dues would be, as the old book puts it, "summarily pebbled off the island with fairly large stones." They are governed by a king, who next to the priest exercises all but absolute authority over them. Thirty years ago the king was a dwarf, repulsive-looking but possessed of great intelligence, who ruled over his people with firm and wise control. The Sligo steamer on its bi-weekly voyages, when the sea is calm enough, stands at anchor near the coast and the islanders come off in their boats to receive their goods. In many cases their only language is still Gaelic. During the winter months the steamer is unable to halt at Tory. One captain said that as late as May he had been unable to land any goods for six successive weeks. When the sea is rough, the islanders cannot fish, and the barren soil does not produce.

20. Stewart of Horn Head rolls stones at cliff shooters

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    A local tradition holds that the Stewart of Horn Head, a bird-loving gentleman, would roll large stones down the three-hundred-foot cliffs beneath his house to scare away sportsmen who came by boat to shoot blue rock pigeons nesting in a cave. The stratagem was never recorded to have actually struck a boat.

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    The present representative of the family is, or it may be was, an elderly gentleman of a kindly disposition, who has a great affection for birds and animals. It is told of him, and what is more believed, that when sportsmen boated over to the cliffs beneath his house to shoot the blue rock pigeons which nested in a large cave, he was in the habit of taking up his position on the top and rolling down big stones into the water below. As the cliffs even at this point are hardly less than three hundred feet in height, the effect of this stratagem might well have been disastrous to the venturesome visitors,

    60 HAUNTS “OF FHE > EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 27

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head, there lived the Stewart, an elderly gentleman of a kindly disposition who had a great affection for birds and animals. When sportsmen boated over to the cliffs beneath his house to shoot the blue rock pigeons that nested in a large cave, he would take up his position on top and roll down big stones into the water below. The cliffs at that point are hardly less than 300 feet in height, so the effect of this stratagem might well have been disastrous to the visitors. It is told of him, and what is more believed, that he carried on this habit to protect the pigeons in their cave.

21. Demons driven from Croagh Patrick to Glencolumbkille

    Glencolumbkille · town · Donegal

    According to Columbkille's biographer, an angel warned the Saint in a dream that his presence was needed in the 'Sean Glan' to expel demons who had fled there from Croagh Patrick under Saint Patrick's maledictions. Columbkille obeyed, bringing disciples including Cearc, and found the glen covered in a darkling mist.

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    The Saint in all probability chose this retired spot for a monastery to secure the solitude and quiet needed for holy meditation. His biographer gives another reason for his choice. He says, in effect, that an angel warned Columbkille in a dream that his presence was needed in the ‘‘ Sean Glan ”’ to drive out a company of demons, who had fled thither from Croaghpatrick under the force of the heavy maledictions hurled at them by Saint Patrick. Columbkille was not ‘‘ disobedient to the divine vision.’? At once he made all needful preparations, which indeed were quite simple, and taking a band of his disciples with him, including Cearc, he set out on his journey to the lonely glen. When he arrived he found it covered with a darkling mist which hid it from his sight. Such regions of mist were always esteemed favourable to meditation by the early Irish monks, and many of their single cells and churches are to be found crumbling away in places far from the traffic of everyday life.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 91

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Glencolumbkille in Donegal, you are passing the glen Saint Columbkille came to rid of demons. His biographer says an angel warned him in a dream that his presence was needed in the Sean Glan, because a company of demons had fled there from Croagh Patrick under the force of Saint Patrick's heavy maledictions. Columbkille was not disobedient to the divine vision. He gathered a band of his disciples, including Cearc, and set out for the lonely glen. When he arrived he found it covered in a darkling mist that hid it from his sight. The early Irish monks always esteemed such regions of mist as favourable to meditation, and many of their single cells and churches still crumble away in places far from everyday traffic.

22. Flax cultivation and linen industry near Gartan Lough

    Bellville or Gartan · townland · Donegal · 1874

    Hardly more than fifty years before the time of writing, flax was grown around Gartan Lough and a large crusher can still be seen on a knoll overlooking the lake. The linen industry has since departed from Donegal to the Ulster of James II's Plantation, and the blue-blossomed flax fields are found there no longer.

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    On the opposite side of the lake is the fine rambling mansion of Glenveagh House with its winding avenue and Titan amongst rhododendrons, almost as big as the house and dyed with deep crimson at the time when the gorse is in bloom. The river Lennan flows out of the lake under Gartan Bridge, famous alike for its trout and its salmon. Save in the rookery and amongst the morning and evening choir of birds a soothing quiet pervades the fair landicape, which has forms and colours peculiar to itself. Not far away is Lough Nacully, a tiny tarn fringed with brown rushes and ‘* winking Mary-buds ”’ in the spring season, dreamily rippling along its reedy margin. Stretching northward is the bare Lough Akibbon with its boggy shores and its patches of vividly green pasture dotted over with browsing kine and ubiquitous sheep. It is a tranquil scene of rare beauty to-day, where stand comparatively prosperous farms and reasonably good roads. Hardly more than fifty years ago flax was grown in the neighbourhood, and the large crusher may be seen ona knoll overlooking Gartan Lough. But the linen industry has now departed from County Donegal to the Ulster of James I[.’s Plantation, so that the fields with their haze of delicately blue blossoms are found there no longer.

    Fourteen hundred years ago the landscape would be wild and picturesque, when cultivation was almost unknown save in the most rudimentary manner. The three lakes, the green hills would indeed be there; but no smiling farms would give a homely beauty to their flanks. Only a few wattled huts or stone cloughans, if there were enough loose stones to build them, would take the place of cottage and farm. The forest would cover most of the ground and be

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 85

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, close to Bellville or Gartan, the land beside Gartan Lough once grew flax. Hardly more than fifty years before 1874, flax was grown in this neighbourhood, and the fields carried a haze of delicately blue blossoms. A large crusher may still be seen on a knoll overlooking the lake. But the linen industry has now departed from County Donegal to the Ulster of James the First's Plantation. The fields with their blue blossoms are found here no longer. It is a tranquil scene today. The river Lennan flows out of the lake under Gartan Bridge, famous alike for its trout and its salmon. Not far away is Lough Nacully, a tiny tarn fringed with brown rushes and winking Mary-buds in the spring season, dreamily rippling along its reedy margin. To the north stretches the bare Lough Akibbon, with boggy shores and patches of vividly green pasture dotted over with browsing cattle and ubiquitous sheep. On the opposite side of the lake stands Glenveagh House, a fine rambling mansion with its winding avenue and a rhododendron almost as big as the house, dyed deep crimson when the gorse is in bloom. Save in the rookery and amongst the morning and evening choir of birds, a soothing quiet pervades the landscape. There stand comparatively prosperous farms and reasonably good roads now.

23. Inishmurray landing slip built for schoolmaster's convenience

    Inishmurray · townland · Sligo

    The island of Inishmurray needed a slip for fishing boats to land comfortably, provided by the Government under the Congested Districts' Act. The schoolmaster succeeded in having it built opposite his own door, in the most inconvenient place for everyone else.

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    other places than Ireland. In County Sligo a marked example of this vicious principle of inconveniencing the public occurred somewhere about the same time. The little island of Inishmurray sorely needed a slip to enable the fishing boats to land in comfort. Such was provided by the Government under the Congested Districts’ Act: but the schoolmaster succeeded in getting it built in the most inconvenient place for everybody else, just because it was opposite to his own door. Still, the little railway with all its awkwardness and perversity of route, has been of incalculable advantage to northern Donegal. It is true that the inhabitants are compelled to run conveyances to most of the stations to meet the trains: but the distances so run are far shorter than those traversed by the old mail-cars or longcars, which were not so long ago the only means of driving from one part to another.

    On the hearth of the coffee-room of the hotel lay two dogs of decidedly mixed breed, and not in the least like one another, in almost unbroken repose day and night alike, save when they were turned out to perform their toilet. Reasonably enough the elder Irishman objected to their unrequired presence in the most comfortable spot of the room, and he contrived to get rid of them in a way peculiar to himself but quite effective. Addressing each of them in tenderest tones he applied his foot alternately to them with convincing force. ‘‘ Dear doggie, dear doggie,’’ he would say, ‘‘ won’t you kindly go out? ”’ punctuating every word with a well-directed kick. He was successful in his efforts: whenever either of the dogs saw him, he would rouse up the other, and both clapped their tails between their legs and fled incontinently. He was not so unfriendly to the cat, which he fed from his plate, perhaps because her ways bore some resemblance to his own, and she did not take up so much room.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 26

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Inishmurray, off the County Sligo coast, there was once a small island that sorely needed a slip, so the fishing boats could land in comfort. The Government provided one under the Congested Districts' Act. But the schoolmaster succeeded in getting it built in the most inconvenient place for everybody else, just because it was opposite to his own door. The book that records this calls it a marked example of a vicious principle of inconveniencing the public. The islanders needed a landing slip for their fishing boats. The Government supplied it. And yet one man's convenience overruled everyone else's, because the schoolmaster had enough influence to put the slip where it suited him and nobody else. What the islanders made of that, the record does not say. What it does say is that the slip went where the schoolmaster's door was, and that for the rest of the community it was the most inconvenient place it could have been.

24. Lough Swilly, the Lake of Shadows

    near Lough Swilly · estuary · Donegal

    Lough Swilly, meaning 'the Lake of Shadows,' stretches its sinuous course through the landscape, overlooked by the Grianan of Ailleach, the summer palace of the kings of northern Ireland.

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    But there at least was Lough Swilly, or ‘‘ the Lake of Shadows,”’ stretching its sinuous course, overlooked by the Grianan of Ailleach, or ‘‘ summer palace ”’ of the kings of northern Ireland. There like the teeth of a huge saw the Devil’s Backbone parted it from the lonely Mulroy Bay, with its far more beautiful Irish name of Knockalla, or ‘‘ the mountain of the echo.”’

    There lay the Poisoned Glen, its gleaming rocks snow-white, grim, sheer: I fancied that I could see Balor lurking behind the crag, when his grandson, MacKineely, thrust his spear through the envenomed eye, and so gave its illomened name to that savage recess. I could see the ‘“‘little red men ’’ riding on their enchanted steeds to work revenge on any who might have insulted or injured them. I could picture the “‘ good people ’’ weaving their mystic dance to the tune of their weird and unearthly music; I could hear the banshee wailing with the foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. I could imagine Columba in his coragh following his mystic staff across the stormy sound of Tory, to plant the Cross in that barren land. I could see the old church at Ray, where the huge cross which he is said to have cut in Tory, lies broken into four pieces. I could see Falcarragh with its discarded battering-ram, and far out at sea I could just catch a glimpse of the brown sails of the fishing fleet, hardly bigger than butterflies’ wings, provided by the wiser counsel of the Congested Districts Board.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    Lough Swilly means the Lake of Shadows, and it stretches its sinuous course through this part of Donegal, overlooked by the Grianan of Ailleach, the summer palace of the kings of northern Ireland. Like the teeth of a huge saw, the Devil's Backbone parted it from the lonely Mulroy Bay, whose Irish name is Knockalla, meaning the mountain of the echo. There lay the Poisoned Glen, its gleaming rocks snow-white, grim, and sheer. The story goes that Balor lurked behind the crag, until his grandson MacKineely thrust a spear through the envenomed eye, and so gave its ill-omened name to that savage recess. There were the little red men, riding on their enchanted steeds to work revenge on any who might have insulted or injured them. There were the good people, weaving their mystic dance to the tune of their weird and unearthly music. There was the banshee, wailing with the foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. There was Columba in his coragh, following his mystic staff across the stormy sound of Tory, to plant the Cross in that barren land. There was the old church at Ray, where the huge cross which he is said to have cut in Tory lies broken into four pieces. There was Falcarragh with its discarded battering-ram, and far out at sea, the brown sails of the fishing fleet, hardly bigger than butterflies' wings, provided by the wiser counsel of the Congested Districts Board.

25. Excommunication at Teltown

    Teltown · townland · Meath

    Not long after the battle of Cooladrummon, Columbkille is said to have been excommunicated at the assembly at Teltown for causing bloodshed unbecoming to an ecclesiastic. The sentence was reportedly soon reversed out of respect for his prior work in Ireland.

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    Not long afterwards, at the assembly at Teltown, Columbkille is said to have been excommunicated as having caused so much bloodshed in a manner wholly unbecoming to an ecclesiastic. If that sentence really were passed upon him, it was soon quashed. But according to one tradition the cause of his retirement to Glencolumbkille was the repentant knowledge that he had caused the death of so

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 98

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, Columbkille is said to have been excommunicated at the assembly at Teltown, for having caused so much bloodshed in a manner wholly unbecoming to an ecclesiastic. If that sentence really was passed upon him, it was soon quashed. According to one tradition, the cause of his retirement to Glencolumbkille was the repentant knowledge that he had caused the death of so many.

26. Misgaun na Meave cairn on Knocknarea

    near Knocknarea · mountain or mountain range · Sligo

    The great cairn atop Knocknarea in Sligo, known as 'Misgaun na Meave' or the 'butter-basket of Meave,' is popularly associated with Queen Meave of Connaught. The author notes it is more probably the burial-place of chieftains who fell at the prehistoric battle of North Moytura.

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    To the east lay Sligo, hidden behind Rosse’s Point, and the rounded knob of Knocknarea surmounted by the ‘‘ Misgaun na Meave’”’ or the “ butterbasket of Meave,’’ so called from that masculine Queen of Connaught, though the great cairn with its lower circumference of six hundred feet and its height of sixty is more probably the burial-place of the mightier chieftains who fell at the prehistoric battle of North Moytura. Beyond stretched the Straight limestone ridge of Benbulben, and far off in the sea the tiny island of Inismurray with its primeval ruins and sacred associations lay sleeping quietly in the sunlight, dreaming, it may be, of its illustrious past. To the north stretched an undulating waste of desolate brown bog ending in the Slieve-a-Tooey range, above which shone the forked peak of Errigal and the round knob of Slieve Snacht white as the snow-clad Alps. Then I turned southward once more, and gazed downward into the darkling depths of the ‘‘ Lair of Whirlwinds,” where all was calm and still now, though it had been hewn out by the fury of innumerable storms. I thought of the story which I had heard in a distant cottage, which Dr. MacDevitt had told with more dramatic fullness in his guide-book to his native county. I will set it down as I heard it from the

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 12

    As the companion tells it

    Knocknarea rises near Sligo, a rounded mountain crowned by a great cairn they call Misgaun na Meave, the butter-basket of Meave. The name comes down from that masculine Queen of Connaught, Meave herself. The cairn is vast. Its lower circumference runs to 600 feet, and it stands 60 feet high. But the old story may not be the true one. It is more probably the burial-place of the mightier chieftains who fell at the prehistoric battle of North Moytura. From up there the land opens wide. Sligo lies to the east, hidden behind Rosse's Point. Beyond stretches the straight limestone ridge of Benbulben. Far off in the sea lies Inismurray, a tiny island with its primeval ruins and sacred associations, sleeping quietly in the sunlight, dreaming of its illustrious past. To the north spreads an undulating waste of desolate brown bog ending in the Slieve-a-Tooey range, above which shines the forked peak of Errigal and the round knob of Slieve Snacht, white as the snow-clad Alps. Southward lies the darkling depth of the Lair of Whirlwinds, calm and still, though hewn out by the fury of innumerable storms.

27. O'Donnell reaches his father's castle in Ballyshannon

    Ballyshannon · town · Donegal

    After escaping captivity and recovering from severe frostbite, Red Hugh O'Donnell travelled north by hidden routes to his father's castle in Ballyshannon. His arrival was met with overwhelming joy, as his father had scarcely expected to see him alive again.

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    As soon as he was able to move, O’Donnell hastened northwards by hidden tracks and finally reached his father’s castle in Ballyshannon, where his unexpected arrival was greeted with transports of joy. The old chieftain had scarcely expected to have his son restored to him save as a corpse for burial. Feeling the weight of years pressing upon him, he resigned his office to his recovered son, who was invested with full honours and the white wand of chieftaincy on the Rock of Doon. The young man was well fitted by nature to be chieftain of a proud and warlike clan: his personal beauty was great; though not tall he was endowed with much physical strength, while he had the additional attribute of a singularly clear and musical voice. Moreover, he was a born captain of dauntless bravery and great resourcefulness, who had the faculty of endearing himself to the lowliest of his soldiers. Like his great ancestor, whose character-sketch has already been given from the same source, he was hospitable to a fault, and he had the open hand so dear to the Irish peasantry. Nor did he forget his vow of vengeance upon his unscrupulous captor, now that he had the means at his disposal to repay his treachery with interest,

    254 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 114

    As the companion tells it

    Up ahead is Ballyshannon, in Donegal. After escaping captivity and recovering from severe frostbite, Red Hugh O'Donnell travelled north by hidden tracks and reached his father's castle here, where his arrival was greeted with transports of joy. His father had scarcely expected to have his son restored to him save as a corpse for burial. Feeling the weight of years upon him, the old chieftain resigned his office to his recovered son, who was invested with the white wand of chieftaincy on the Rock of Doon. O'Donnell was well fitted to lead a proud and warlike clan. He was not tall but had great physical strength, personal beauty, and a singularly clear and musical voice. He was a born captain of dauntless bravery and great resourcefulness, with a faculty for endearing himself to the lowliest of his soldiers. He was hospitable to a fault and had the open hand so dear to the Irish peasantry. Nor did he forget his vow of vengeance upon his unscrupulous captor, now that he had the means to repay his treachery with interest.

28. Protestant church built on site of Saint Nenain's monastery, Kilmacrenan

    Kilmacrenan · town · Donegal

    A Protestant church at Kilmacrenan was constructed using masonry from the more ancient building on the site of Saint Nenain's monastery. Finer pieces of ancient carving were incorporated into the later church, appearing oddly among its otherwise plain Irish church architecture.

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    age went about their work. The Protestant church has been constructed of some of the masonry of the more ancient building and on the site of Saint Nenain’s monastery. Some of the finer pieces of carving have gone to enrich the native plainness of the later building, where they show not a little oddly amongst the absence of ornament which distinguishes so many Irish churches of its kind. Here, too, the River Lennan flows rapidly along, which is best known to-day not as the stream which Columbkille saw and loved, but as a fishing stream of much local renown.

    The pleasantly situated village of Kilmacrenan has grown beneath the shadow of the ancient abbey, which was once surrounded by great forests and lay far from the busy scenes of more active life. It was customary for the children of princely houses to be brought up by foster-parents. To Kilmacrenan, Columbkille was sent in the early years of his life, where he was committed to the care of a family of O’Firghils, of whose tribe some are said still to survive in the hamlet. Here he took the first steps in his education, and learned to love the Church and

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 88

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Kilmacrenan, there is a Protestant church built from the masonry of a more ancient building, on the site of Saint Nenain's monastery. Some of the finer pieces of carving from the older structure were set into the later church, where they show not a little oddly among the plainness that distinguishes so many Irish churches of its kind. The River Lennan flows rapidly along here, known today chiefly as a fishing stream of local renown, though it is the same stream Columbkille saw and loved. The village of Kilmacrenan grew beneath the shadow of the ancient abbey, which was once surrounded by great forests and lay far from busy scenes. It was customary for children of princely houses to be brought up by foster-parents. Columbkille was sent here in the early years of his life, committed to the care of a family of O'Firghils, of whose tribe some are said still to survive in the hamlet. Here he took the first steps in his education, and learned to love the Church.

29. Red Hugh O'Donnell's association with Donegal Abbey

    Donegal · town · Donegal

    The abbey associated with Red Hugh O'Donnell still stands with grey-lichened walls garlanded with ivy, though the surrounding ground is now crowded with modern monuments. The walls recall his deeds of daring, unfailing courtesy, and blameless life.

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    Spanish soil, while the abbey which he loved is encumbered with masses of modern monumental ugliness. Where the ‘‘ Red Hugh ”’ trod and worshipped, the grass is crowded with hideous slabs and ghastly headstones. But the grey-lichened walls with their garlands of green pellitory and clinging ivy still recall his deeds of daring and his unfailing courtesy, his handsome presence and his blameless life.

    Hither, in the early days of 1632, came the ‘* Four Masters,’’ bearing with them a rare collection of Irish manuscripts of many kinds and various dates. Ancient chronicles penned by the monks of the earlier centuries of the Christian Church, heroic poems and traditions of the legends of their race, written records of many a hero and many a saint, perhaps, too, examples of bardic poetry, had been brought together at the cost of great labour and much money, chiefly by Michael O’Clery himself, the leader and inspirer of the rest. Amid the roofless walls the faithful company reared a homely cottage, differing little from those of the peasants around them, where by the middle of 1636 they had compiled perhaps the most valuable historical work of its kind in Europe. It was entitled ‘‘ The Annals of Ireland,’’ and is now generally known as ‘‘ The Annals of the Four Masters.’’ Summer and winter alike, amid storm and calm, they worked at their self-imposed task, pausing only to pray, sleep, eat and drink. The compilation which they made in a manuscript of two parts is one of the most prized possessions of the Royal Irish Academy, to which it has found its way by happy fortune, and where it rests with many other memorials of the learning and piety of Ireland in the far past.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 106

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Donegal, the abbey Red Hugh O'Donnell loved still stands, though the ground around it is now crowded with modern monuments. Where Red Hugh trod and worshipped, the grass is thick with slabs and headstones. But the grey-lichened walls, garlanded with green pellitory and clinging ivy, still recall his deeds of daring, his unfailing courtesy, his handsome presence, and his blameless life. Later, in the early days of 1632, the Four Masters came here, carrying a rare collection of Irish manuscripts of many kinds and various dates. Ancient chronicles penned by monks of the earlier centuries of the Christian Church, heroic poems and traditions of the legends of their race, written records of many a hero and many a saint, perhaps too examples of bardic poetry, had been gathered together at great labour and much cost, chiefly by Michael O'Clery himself, the leader and inspirer of the rest. Amid the roofless walls, the faithful company built a homely cottage, differing little from those of the peasants around them. There, by the middle of 1636, they had compiled perhaps the most valuable historical work of its kind in Europe. It was entitled "The Annals of Ireland," and is now generally known as "The Annals of the Four Masters." Summer and winter alike, amid storm and calm, they worked at their self-imposed task, pausing only to pray, sleep, eat, and drink. The compilation they made, in a manuscript of two parts, is one of the most prized possessions of the Royal Irish Academy, where it rests with many other memorials of the learning and piety of Ireland in the far past.

30. Seumas MacManus and Donegal fairy stories

    Mountcharles · town · Donegal

    Seumas MacManus of Mountcharles collected a great number of fairy stories from the seannachies of his native County Donegal, retelling them with vigour and humour. The author accepts MacManus's claim that he heard most of them from oral tradition.

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    It is only within my own memory that the banshee has ceased to be heard any longer wailing for the approaching death of a member of some noble family. I can myself remember the cruelty with which a hapless old woman, believed to be a witch, was burned in the presence of a large crowd. Seumas MacManus, of Mount Charles, in County Donegal, has collected a great number of deeply interesting ~ fairy stories which he has retold with a vigour and a humour worthy of Samuel Lover himself. Whether he has invented many of them I do not know, but he claims to have heard most of them from the seannachies of his native county, and I fully accept his claim. He has the advantage of speaking Gaelic,

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 83

    As the companion tells it

    Mountcharles is the home of Seumas MacManus, who collected a great number of fairy stories from the seannachies of his native County Donegal. He retold them with vigour and humour, worthy of Samuel Lover himself. He claims to have heard most of them from oral tradition, and the author of this passage fully accepts that claim. MacManus had the advantage of speaking Gaelic. The same writer notes that within his own memory, the banshee had ceased to be heard wailing for the approaching death of a member of some noble family. He could himself remember the cruelty with which a hapless old woman, believed to be a witch, was burned in the presence of a large crowd.

31. Traditional Danish heather-beer near Errigal

    Errigal · minor feature · Donegal

    At a house near Errigal, the author was served a dark 'home-brewed beer' made from a traditional recipe said to date from the times of the Danes, flavoured with herbs and heather. The hostess refused to divulge the ingredients of this ancient beverage.

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    I was content to sink far in the good opinion which the hostess and her daughters had previously formed of me; firmly I asked for a pint of the ““ home-brewed,’’ the very name of which had a pleasant and homely sound; but I knew not what I did. This dark-hued beer was indeed ‘‘ home-brewed,’’ but it was concocted from some traditional receipt, I had almost said prescription, so like medicine was it, handed down from the times of the Danes. What the ingredients were my hostess refused to divulge, though it was entirely innocent of hops and malt: as far as I could judge, the nauseous liquid was largely flavoured with such herbs as camomile, gentian, ragwort and daisy-roots, with a liberal supply of heather. As an antiquarian I had often heard of ‘‘ Danish heather-beer,’? and I was in honour bound to rejoice in my unexpected introduction to this old-world beverage; as a man of nice taste in such matters I wished that I had never so much as heard of the detestable drink, still

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 46

    As the companion tells it

    This is a house near Errigal in Donegal, where a traveller once asked for a pint of home-brewed beer. The very name had a pleasant, homely sound, but he knew not what he did. The dark-hued beer was indeed home-brewed, but it was made from some traditional receipt handed down from the times of the Danes. The hostess refused to divulge the ingredients. It was entirely innocent of hops and malt. As far as the traveller could judge, the nauseous liquid was largely flavoured with such herbs as camomile, gentian, ragwort and daisy-roots, with a liberal supply of heather. As an antiquarian, he had often heard of Danish heather-beer, and he was in honour bound to rejoice in this unexpected introduction to the old-world beverage. As a man of nice taste in such matters, he wished he had never so much as heard of the detestable drink.

32. Witch burned to death in Tipperary

    Tipperary · town · Tipperary

    A luckless old woman of the same type as the Donegal witch was burned to death by the people of Tipperary, with wanton cruelty, approximately two years after the author had seen the Donegal witch. This illustrates the dangerous reality faced by women identified as witches in rural Ireland.

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    - She never admitted anyone but the landlord and agent inside her door: any who came to consult her were obliged to receive her advice outside the cabin. It was just such a luckless old woman of this type that the people in Tipperary, with wanton cruelty, burned to death about two years after I had seen the ** ould witch of in County Donegal.”

    The witches of an older time were cast in a more heroic mould, though they were seldom fortunate in their endeavours. They were of gigantic stature, endowed with enormous physical strength, and with such activity that they could run like the wind and leap over broad chasms without endangering themselves. By their spells they could destroy the small armies of the period, though they seldom were able to gain the victory for those who consulted them. For a time they appeared to prevail, when some untoward circumstance occurred which destroyed the virtue of their enchantments along with their own lives. Aghla More, near Fintown, overhangs the narrow and wild-looking Lough Fin, of which there is a singular tradition, which I heard when I was talking to the oldest man in Narin, a village lying on Dunmore Head, about fourteen English miles away. The light railway runs now high above the dark lough, in one part of its course crossing a bridge, the foundations of which had to be laid four times, as the engineer told me, so soft and treacherous was the bog on either side of the stream, which it was destined to span.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 71

    As the companion tells it

    The town of Tipperary gives its name to a story of cruelty. An old woman lived here, of a type the author had encountered before in County Donegal. That Donegal woman never admitted anyone but the landlord and agent inside her door. Anyone who came to consult her was obliged to receive her advice outside the cabin. About two years after the author had seen that Donegal woman, the people of Tipperary burned this luckless old woman to death. He calls what they did wanton cruelty. She was, he writes, just such a luckless old woman of this type as the one in Donegal. The author goes on to speak of witches from an older time, cast in what he calls a more heroic mould. They were of gigantic stature, endowed with enormous physical strength. They could run like the wind and leap over broad chasms without endangering themselves. By their spells they could destroy the small armies of the period, though they seldom were able to gain the victory for those who consulted them. For a time they appeared to prevail, when some untoward circumstance occurred which destroyed the virtue of their enchantments along with their own lives.

33. Columbkille fostered at Kilmacrenan with O'Firghil family

    Kilmacrenan · town · Donegal · 520–540

    Columbkille was sent as a child to Kilmacrenan, where he was committed to the care of a family of the O'Firghil tribe, some of whom are said still to survive in the hamlet. He took his first education there under a kinsman who was abbot, learning the Psalms and growing to love the wild surrounding landscape.

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    The pleasantly situated village of Kilmacrenan has grown beneath the shadow of the ancient abbey, which was once surrounded by great forests and lay far from the busy scenes of more active life. It was customary for the children of princely houses to be brought up by foster-parents. To Kilmacrenan, Columbkille was sent in the early years of his life, where he was committed to the care of a family of O’Firghils, of whose tribe some are said still to survive in the hamlet. Here he took the first steps in his education, and learned to love the Church and

    its ministers with passionate devotion. A kinsman

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 88

    As the companion tells it

    Kilmacrenan grew up beneath the shadow of an ancient abbey, once surrounded by great forests and far from busy life. In the early years of his life, Columbkille was sent here, to the care of a family of the O'Firghil tribe, some of whom are said still to survive in the hamlet. It was the custom then for children of princely houses to be raised by foster-parents. Here he took his first steps in education, under a kinsman who was abbot, learning the Psalms. He learned to love the Church and its ministers with passionate devotion, and grew to love the wild landscape all around.

34. Ancient fir-forest of Donegal bogland cut down

    Dunfanaghy · town · Donegal

    The brown bogland between Dunfanaghy, Creeslough and Falcarragh was once covered with fir trees, as evidenced by surviving roots and branches. Elizabethan and later Lords Deputy caused the trees to be cut down because the forests sheltered the Irish fighting for their country.

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    Dunfanaghy, the ‘‘ fort of the fair warrior,’’ with its comfortable hotel, the ‘‘ Stewart Arms,’’ lies at the head of the western arm of Sheep Haven, the waters of which at high tide sing their hoarse lullaby almost underneath the windows of the outer guestchambers. I have not been able to trace either the *“ dun ”’ or the “‘ fair warrior,’’ from which the place is named. There is a stone cashel near Claggan, on the Horn Head promontory, and a cromlech on a neighbouring hill, but they would seem to be too far away to account for the name. The country from the little town towards Creeslough, and in the other direction towards Falcarragh, consists almost entirely of brown bogland, with an occasional lough and deep ditch to vary its surface. That it was once covered with a forest of fir-trees is evident from the remains of their roots and branches all over its dull expanse. It is said with probable truth that the Elizabethan and later Lords Deputy caused the trees to be cut down because the forests afforded a considerable shelter to the Irish, who were battling for their own country and were regarded as rebels by all true Britons of the time.

    Thirty years ago, when I made my first visit to Donegal, a long car was wont to run to it from Letterkenny, which always took far more passengers than it could conveniently carry. The well lay between the two rows of back-to-back occupants, and was uSually piled sky-high with a miscellaneous collection of private luggage and various provisions for the public good, which were shed along the route at their proper destinations. A rail parted, or was supposed to part, the baggage from the backs of the passengers, who, however, did not escape occasional bonnetings by the fall of insecurely tied packages. The rails on either side caused a minor inconvenience :

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 23

    As the companion tells it

    Dunfanaghy means the fort of the fair warrior, though the fort and the warrior have never been traced. There is a stone cashel near Claggan on the Horn Head promontory, and a cromlech on a neighbouring hill, but they seem too far away to account for the name. The town lies at the head of the western arm of Sheep Haven, where at high tide the water comes almost under the windows of the outer rooms. The country from here towards Creeslough, and in the other direction towards Falcarragh, is almost entirely brown bogland, with an occasional lough and deep ditch to break the surface. That it was once covered with a forest of fir trees is evident from the remains of their roots and branches all across the bog. It is said with probable truth that the Elizabethan and later Lords Deputy had the trees cut down because the forests gave shelter to the Irish, who were fighting for their own country and were regarded as rebels by the British of the time. Thirty years ago, when the author first visited Donegal, a long car ran to Dunfanaghy from Letterkenny, always carrying far more passengers than it could conveniently hold. The well lay between the two rows of back-to-back occupants, piled high with luggage and provisions shed along the route at their proper destinations. A rail was supposed to keep the baggage from the passengers' backs, but they did not escape occasional bonnetings from insecurely tied packages. The rails on either side caused their own minor inconvenience.

35. Artists at Carrick beneath Slieve Liag

    Carrick · town · Donegal

    Lord Leighton stayed at Carrick to paint 'Andromeda,' wishing to see cliffs in their most majestic form, while Sir Noel Paton came to paint 'The Temptation.' Both artists were long remembered by local villagers for their courtesy and kindness.

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    By easy stages I took my journey to the southern part of the county, and in due time found myself lodged at the pleasant hostelry at Carrick on the land side of the great cliff of Slieve Liag. Alas! that comfortable hotel with its happy company of government officials constantly changing as each succession went about their business, is closed now! Though he did not stay in it, Lord Leighton came to this place when he was painting his picture of ““ Andromeda.’’ He wished to see cliffs in their most majestic form, and he was not disappointed. The memory of his genial and graceful presence was long remembered in the neighbouring villages, and the older men loved to tell of his stately courtesy and his unfeigned kindness of heart. To the same spot came Sir Noel Paton for a similar purpose, though he was engaged in painting his picture of ‘‘ The Temptation.’’ He had less reason for his visit than his fellow-artist, unless indeed he wished to see what a real wilderness was like. That he could find within a stone’s-throw from the hotel in all of the land which stretches from Carrick to Malinmore on the one side and Glencolumbkille on the other. Here there was, and is indeed, a wilderness sparingly dotted over with farms and cottages, and memorable for several cromlechs of the largest size and two prehistoric forts.

    Soon after my arrival I. made ready to climb Slieve Liag by the shortest, and it must be admitted neither the safest nor the easiest way. I had often heard of the ““One Man’s Path,’’ and I was determined to cross its razor-like edge to the broad eastern summit of the ““ mountain,”’ as it is always called in the neighbourhood. Leaving the little fishing-station of Teelin Port on my left after a long trudge between broken rocks I found myself at Bunglass. Here a narrow stretch of turf sloping downwards towards the sea,

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 10

    As the companion tells it

    Carrick sits beneath Slieve Liag, and two painters came here for the grandeur of those cliffs. Lord Leighton came when he was painting his picture of Andromeda. He wished to see cliffs in their most majestic form, and he was not disappointed. He did not stay in the pleasant hotel at Carrick, but his genial and graceful presence was long remembered in the neighbouring villages. The older men loved to tell of his stately courtesy and his unfeigned kindness of heart. To the same spot came Sir Noel Paton, engaged in painting his picture of The Temptation. He had less reason for his visit than his fellow-artist, unless he wished to see what a real wilderness was like. That he could find within a stone's-throw from the hotel, in all the land stretching from Carrick to Malinmore on one side and Glencolumbkille on the other. There was, and is, a wilderness sparingly dotted with farms and cottages, memorable for several cromlechs of the largest size and two prehistoric forts. The hotel itself is closed now, that comfortable hostelry with its happy company of government officials, each succession going about their business and moving on. Slieve Liag is always called the mountain in this neighbourhood, and the writer who kept these memories came to climb it by the shortest way, neither the safest nor the easiest, determined to cross the razor-like edge of One Man's Path to the broad eastern summit.

36. Columba's crossing to Tory Island

    Tory Island · townland · Donegal

    Saint Columba is imagined crossing the stormy sound to Tory Island in his coragh, following his mystic staff to plant the Cross in that barren land. The island is also linked to the legend of MacKineely and Balor.

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    There lay the Poisoned Glen, its gleaming rocks snow-white, grim, sheer: I fancied that I could see Balor lurking behind the crag, when his grandson, MacKineely, thrust his spear through the envenomed eye, and so gave its illomened name to that savage recess. I could see the ‘“‘little red men ’’ riding on their enchanted steeds to work revenge on any who might have insulted or injured them. I could picture the “‘ good people ’’ weaving their mystic dance to the tune of their weird and unearthly music; I could hear the banshee wailing with the foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. I could imagine Columba in his coragh following his mystic staff across the stormy sound of Tory, to plant the Cross in that barren land. I could see the old church at Ray, where the huge cross which he is said to have cut in Tory, lies broken into four pieces. I could see Falcarragh with its discarded battering-ram, and far out at sea I could just catch a glimpse of the brown sails of the fishing fleet, hardly bigger than butterflies’ wings, provided by the wiser counsel of the Congested Districts Board.

    A whole pageant of the past mingled with my thoughts of the present, transforming what I saw into a phantasmagoria of wonderful beauty and pathos. Then I saw, or thought I saw, how the very lie of the land had divided its people into warring factions, which persist to this day. I could gather something of the unconquered spirit of the modern Irishman, his chief inheritance from the past, which

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, Saint Columba is imagined crossing the stormy sound to Tory Island in his coragh, following his mystic staff to plant the Cross in that barren land. The old church at Ray holds the huge cross he is said to have cut in Tory, now lying broken into four pieces. The land carries older stories too. The Poisoned Glen gleams with snow-white, grim, sheer rocks. Balor lurked behind the crag, until his grandson MacKineely thrust a spear through the envenomed eye, and so gave its ill-omened name to that savage recess. The "little red men" rode enchanted steeds, working revenge on any who might have insulted or injured them. The "good people" wove their mystic dance to the tune of weird and unearthly music. The banshee wailed with foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. A whole pageant of the past mingles with thoughts of the present, transforming what you see into a phantasmagoria of wonderful beauty and pathos. The very lie of the land divided its people into warring factions, which persist to this day. Far out at sea, the brown sails of the fishing fleet, hardly bigger than butterflies' wings, were provided by the Congested Districts Board. And there is something of the unconquered spirit of the modern Irishman, his chief inheritance from the past.

37. Derryveagh Mountains rising from Donegal bogs

    near Derryveagh Mountains · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    The Derryveagh Mountains run parallel to the Errigal group in central Donegal, rising from russet-brown bog with bare, precipitous flanks of white quartzite. When sunlight strikes their slopes they glitter dazzlingly, resembling a lesser Sierra Nevada.

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    In the heart of County Donegal the Derryveagh Mountains, running parallel to the striking Errigal group, rise from the expanse of russet-brown bog with bare and precipitous flanks. Built up of white quartzite, when the sun lights up their abrupt slopes, they tower into the clear blue sky, dazzling, white, majestic, glittering like a lesser Sierra Nevada. By the fine taste of the ancient Irish the separate heights have each its descriptive name exactly fitting its shape or appearance and sometimes tinged with poetic fancy. Muckish, or ‘‘ the pig’s back ”’ stretches its broad ridge to the north-east, until it takes the final form of a shining peak fronting the little town of Creeslough. Parted from it by two lesser eminences and _ that wonderfully picturesque ridge, the Beaghy, towards the south, Errigal or ‘‘ white arrow ’”’ cuts the air like a huge pyramid and closely resembles a flint arrow-head of the older Stone Age. From some directions its double-peaked summit is sharpened into a single point: but for the most part the two peaks are to be seen linked together by a narrow ridge. The Ark of Noah is said to have rested between them, as it may well have done, when it was in Ireland! Beneath its northern slope and under the Beaghy lies the deep-set, wild-looking Altan Lough, into which a stone might almost be thrown from the summit, so precipitously does the mountain rise from the dark waters.

    Farther to the south stands the great knob of Slieve Snacht, or ‘‘snow mountain,’ like the crystalline dome of some titanic temple, which is the last important summit of the Derryveagh Mountains proper. Let the unwary traveller, who has rejoiced

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 3

    As the companion tells it

    The road takes you through the Derryveagh Mountains in the heart of County Donegal. They run parallel to the Errigal group, rising straight out of russet-brown bog with bare, steep flanks of white quartzite. When the sun lights up those slopes, they tower into the clear blue sky, dazzling and white, glittering like a lesser Sierra Nevada. The ancient Irish gave each height its own descriptive name, fitting its shape or appearance, sometimes touched with poetic fancy. Muckish, the pig's back, stretches its broad ridge to the north-east until it takes the final form of a shining peak fronting the little town of Creeslough. Parted from it by two lesser eminences and the picturesque ridge called the Beaghy, Errigal, the white arrow, cuts the air like a huge pyramid and resembles a flint arrowhead of the older Stone Age. From some directions its double-peaked summit sharpens into a single point, but for the most part the two peaks stand linked by a narrow ridge. The Ark of Noah is said to have rested between them, as it may well have done when it was in Ireland. Beneath the northern slope and under the Beaghy lies the deep-set, wild-looking Altan Lough, into which a stone might almost be thrown from the summit, so precipitously does the mountain rise from the dark waters. Farther south stands the great knob of Slieve Snacht, the snow mountain, like the crystalline dome of some titanic temple, the last important summit of the Derryveagh Mountains proper.

38. Druid's Altar at Bunglass cliff

    Bunglass · bay · Donegal

    Near the edge of the Bunglass cliff stands a so-called 'Druid's Altar,' a stone formation that the author doubts has any genuine Druidic origin. It serves as a vantage point for viewing the sublime cliff scenery of the Slieve League coastline.

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    Near the edge of the Bunglass cliff is a so-called ‘* Druid’s Altar,’’ though I strongly suspect no Druid ever set eyes upon it, which serves as a useful seat to the profane traveller who has come to feast his eyes upon the sublime prospect in front of him. There towers the stupendous cliff in all the majesty of its appalling height and extending for nearly two miles in length. I sat and gazed my fill upon the truly awful and soul-inspiring scene. The sun was shining with full morning splendour lighting up every crevice of the huge mass of time-worn rock. Every shade of colour blended into one another over the rugged surface. Wherever the native white flagstones showed themselves, they shone like patches of new-fallen snow darkened here and there with faint blue shadows. Big tufts of heather hung over the edge and wandered down the mighty buttresses, stooping down as if to catch the booming music of the waters, as they chanted their immemorial song in the depths far beneath. Green, orange, living gold, silver grey, fiery red, burnished bronze, glittering alabaster, steely blue, melted into one another forming a_ perfect harmony of many exquisite tints.

    26 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 11

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Bunglass, there is a stone formation near the cliff edge that people call the Druid's Altar. The author of one book doubted any Druid ever set eyes on it. He used it as a seat to take in the view. The cliff stretches for nearly two miles. He sat and gazed at what he called a "truly awful and soul-inspiring scene." The morning sun lit up every crevice of the time-worn rock. Every shade of colour blended into another across the rugged surface. Where the native white flagstones showed themselves, they shone like patches of new-fallen snow, darkened here and there with faint blue shadows. Big tufts of heather hung over the edge and wandered down the mighty buttresses, stooping as if to catch the booming music of the waters chanting their immemorial song in the depths far beneath. Green, orange, living gold, silver grey, fiery red, burnished bronze, glittering alabaster, steely blue, all melted into one another in a perfect harmony of many exquisite tints.

39. Holed stone healing practices surviving at Inishmore

    Inishmore · electoral division · Galway

    The practice of passing handkerchiefs or pieces of sick persons' clothing through the hole of a blessed holed stone, with prayers for healing, still survives on Inishmore, the largest of the three South Isles of Aran.

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    The Saint may have found a pagan “ holed stone ’’ and Christianized it by cutting a cross upon it. Such stones seém at first to have formed a part of pagan worship: the aperture in the beginning was large enough to admit of the passage through of a human being. Later, it was gradually contracted, so that the stone was probably used to add solemnity to a treaty or a bargain, the parties to which would clasp hands through the hole. Doubtless such practices point to a primitive worship of stones, of which there is a hint in the story of Jacob, who, after his dream, anointed the stone with the offerings usual in such cases. When these smaller-bored ‘* holed stones ’’ were blessed by a saint and a cross cut upon them, they were supposed to have great healing virtue. The handkerchiefs or pieces of the clothing of the sick were passed through the hole with certain prayers, and healing was confidently expected to follow. This practice still survives in Inishmore, the largest of the three ‘‘ South Isles of

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 93

    As the companion tells it

    On Inishmore, the largest of the three South Isles of Aran, an old healing practice still survives. The story begins with holed stones, which may first have belonged to pagan worship. The aperture was large enough at the start for a person to pass through. Over time the hole was made smaller, and the stone was likely used to give solemnity to a treaty or a bargain, the parties clasping hands through the opening. A saint may later have taken one of these stones and Christianised it by cutting a cross upon it. Once blessed in this way, the stone was believed to hold great healing virtue. Handkerchiefs or pieces of the clothing of sick people were passed through the hole along with certain prayers, and healing was confidently expected to follow. That practice, the passing of cloth through the blessed aperture with prayer, is still carried on here.

40. Niel Garv O'Donnell occupies Donegal Abbey

    Donegal · town · Donegal · 1600–1601

    Around 1600–1601, the traitor Niel Garv O'Donnell briefly occupied Donegal Abbey before being driven out by his angry kinsmen. He then sought refuge at the nearby smaller abbey of Magherabeg.

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    1600-1 the traitor occupied Donegal Abbey for a brief space: when he was driven forth by his angry kinsmen, he took refuge at the smaller abbey of Magherabeg, a few miles away. Here he would almost certainly have been destroyed if the ‘‘ Red Hugh ” had not been summoned to join the Spanish force at Kinsale.

    Reluctantly he left the traitor behind him, having first destroyed his castle in Donegal that it might. not fall into the hands of his enemies and be a point of vantage to them. With his little army he made his way southward with a speed and good order truly astonishing: but where the leader is trustworthy the followers will go with him to death itself. Near Kinsale he found his father-in-law eagerly awaiting his presence. That prudent chief had scarcely been able to restrain the boastful Spanish commander from making a premature attack upon the English forces, which were strongly posted and ready to receive the onset. It may be, too, that he in his turn had been boasting to his ally of the valour and wise conduct of his son-in-law in terms not entirely flattering to that worthy or to his nation. At all events, the Spaniard appears to have goaded the “‘ Red Hugh ”’ into action by his taunts against the advice of O’Neil, while he himself proved to be - of little use when the time came to fight.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 115

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Donegal, this is the town where Donegal Abbey stands. Around 1600 to 1601, the traitor Niel Garv O'Donnell occupied the abbey for a brief space. His own kinsmen drove him forth in anger, and he took refuge at the smaller abbey of Magherabeg, a few miles away. There he would almost certainly have been destroyed, had Red Hugh not been summoned south to join the Spanish force at Kinsale. Reluctantly, Red Hugh left the traitor behind him. Before he went, he destroyed his castle in Donegal, so it would not fall into the hands of his enemies and give them a point of vantage. With his little army he made his way southward with a speed and good order truly astonishing. Near Kinsale he found his father-in-law eagerly awaiting his presence. That prudent chief had scarcely been able to restrain the boastful Spanish commander from making a premature attack on the English forces, who were strongly posted and ready. The Spaniard goaded Red Hugh into action by his taunts, against the advice of O'Neil, while he himself proved of little use when the time came to fight.

41. O'Clery completes Kings of Ireland list at Athlone

    Athlone · town · Westmeath · 1630

    In 1630, Michael O'Clery put the finishing touches to his list of all the Kings of Ireland with dates and notes while staying at Athlone. The original manuscript survives in the Burgundian Library of Brussels.

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    The great scholar, now in the prime of his life, rejoiced greatly in his task: fervent patriot as he was, he had got work to his mind and he did it with uncommon thoroughness. He spent fifteen laborious years in gathering, copying, abstracting, annotating and arranging a vast number of manuscripts, which would have been of priceless value to-day had they escaped the malice of time and the destructive madness of man. During the whole of this period he was travelling over Ireland, often at great personal risk in those disturbed times, resting now at one Franciscan monastery, now at another. At Athlone, for instance, in 1630, he put the finishing touches to his list of all of the ‘‘ Kings of Ireland ’’ with dates and notes of which the original manuscript still survives in the Burgundian Library of Brussels. About the same time he had completed his ‘‘ Book of Invasions,’’ which describes the inroads and settle ments of the various races which found their way to Ireland. This interesting work is still extant and to

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 106

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Athlone, it is worth knowing that in 1630 the scholar Michael O'Clery stopped here and put the finishing touches to his list of all the Kings of Ireland, with dates and notes. He had spent fifteen labourious years travelling over Ireland, often at great personal risk in those disturbed times, resting at one Franciscan monastery and then another, gathering, copying, and annotating a vast number of manuscripts. The original manuscript of that kings list still survives in the Burgundian Library of Brussels. About the same time he completed his Book of Invasions, describing the inroads and settlements of the various races that found their way to Ireland, and that work is still extant.

42. Rock of Doon: O'Donnell inauguration site

    Doon Rock · rock or rocks · Donegal

    The Rock of Doon, a dark stone mass amid bogland, was the traditional site where O'Donnell chieftains were inaugurated, rising over a far-famed holy well.

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    I thought of the O’ Donnell chieftains, distinguished on many a field of battle at home and abroad; the handsome figures of the ‘‘ Red Hugh’”’ and Owen Roe O’Neil, with the statesman-like features of the great Tyrconnell, seemed to float past me, as I gazed upon the land which was dearer than life to them. Could I be mistaken, or did I actually see the timeworn tower of Kilmacrenan, where Columba had taken the first steps of his training for the priesthood ? Could that dark, low-lying mass of stone in the midst of the darker bog be the Rock of Doon, whereon the O’Donnell chieftain was inaugurated in former times, rising gloomily over the far-famed holy well? But here I am afraid that my imagination was playing me a scurvy trick and showing me objects which were hidden by a spur of Dooish. I knew well enough where they ought to lie, and I fancied that I could see them, bright with the memory of past traditions.

    110 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    This is the Rock of Doon, the stone where the O'Donnell chieftains were inaugurated in former times. It is a dark, low-lying mass of stone in the midst of darker bog, rising gloomily over a far-famed holy well. The O'Donnells were distinguished on many a field of battle at home and abroad. Red Hugh and Owen Roe O'Neil were handsome figures, and the great Tyrconnell had statesman-like features. The land was dearer than life to them. The timeworn tower of Kilmacrenan stands where Columba took the first steps of his training for the priesthood. Someone gazing upon the land might wonder whether they truly see the rock, or whether imagination shows objects hidden by a spur of Dooish, bright with the memory of past traditions.

43. St. Columbkille's Glencolumbkille

    Glencolumbkille · town · Donegal

    The author describes Glencolumbkille in County Donegal as a profoundly moving haunt of St. Columbkille, characterized by wild scenery and the primitive austerity of his ancient monastery, including a stone 'Bed' where the saint slept.

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    None of his haunts in County Donegal has moved me more deeply than Glencolumbkille, called for all time by his name. It is amid wild scenes such as that displays that we can learn to appreciate something of the mystic temperament of the man, who was at home with nature in her most terrible aspects, no less than in her gentler landscapes. There I could recall something of that primitive monastery with its rigorous set of rules and its continual hardship, hardship indeed such as even a slum-dweller in our own day does not undergo. Such adornment as was practised was reserved for the altar furniture, for the sacred vestments, more than all else for the wonderful manuscripts illuminated by the monks in their cells, perhaps in the church itself, for scriptoriwm there was none at that early period. When I gazed down upon that stone ‘‘ Bed,’’ on which the Saint actually lay, I could not help feeling that a convict was better housed than he. Yet he went about his work as abbot with a cheerful countenance, except indeed, when he had to reprove some novice for spying on his movements or committing some breach of the monastic rules.

    His birth set him on a level with the kings of his

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 101

    As the companion tells it

    You're coming through Glencolumbkille in Donegal, a place that carries the name of St. Columbkille for all time. The author of one book found none of the saint's haunts in the county more deeply moving than this one, set amid wild scenery that helps us grasp something of the mystic temperament of the man, who was at home with nature in her most terrible aspects no less than in her gentler landscapes. Here stood a primitive monastery governed by a rigorous set of rules and continual hardship, hardship such as even a slum-dweller would not undergo today. Such adornment as was practised was reserved for the altar furniture, the sacred vestments, and above all the wonderful manuscripts the monks illuminated in their cells, perhaps in the church itself, for there was no scriptorium at that early period. You can still gaze down upon the stone 'Bed' on which the saint actually lay, and feel, as the author did, that a convict was better housed than he. Yet he went about his work as abbot with a cheerful countenance, except when he had to reprove some novice for spying on his movements or committing some breach of the monastic rules.

44. The Anglers' Inn and its hosts the Gallahers near Lough Anure

    Lough Anure · lake or lakes · Donegal

    The Anglers' Inn near Lough Anure is run by Mr. and Mrs. Gallaher, described as a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair and dark blue eyes, and his stately wife skilled in plain cookery. The inn's linens are adorned with Donegal crochet-lace, and sheets are bleached outdoors with herbs like woodruff, believed to induce sleep.

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    time to examine these just then, had I had the inclination: mine host of the Anglers’ Inn stood in the road, evidently on the look out for promiscuous visitors, and a broad smile lighted up his handsome features when he espied my approaching figure. It was true that snail-like I was carrying all my belongings upon my back, so that I might easily have been taken for a pack-man. But Mr. Gallaher made no such mistake: with a stately courtesy he lifted his cap and saluted me as respectfully as if I had been the Lord Lieutenant himself. My own cap just then was in my pocket, so that I could not return his salutations with equal dignity; but I did my best under. the circumstances, and he was content.

    I had not forewarned him of my coming, and it was not wise to take unawares one whe-dwelt so far from the beaten track of tourists. Fortunately he happened to have another guest staying with him at the time; consequently he was well prepared to receive, and what was of far more importance, to feed me. I knew that there would be an ample supply of drinkable fluids: but that would not have been enough for my wolf’s appetite. While I was asking for a bedroom, I took the opportunity of having a good look at him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with the blackest of hair, but that dark blue eye which is so peculiarly Irish. I engaged my room for several nights, and we shook hands once more on the bargain. |. When we had finished this part of the business, I told him of the hostess of the little public-house, gave him as many of the messages as I could remember, and repeated her praise of the ‘‘misthress’’’ and himself. His whole being seemed to brighten with pleasure: calling out the ‘“ misthress ’’ he repeated to her what I had said, bade her lay another cover for “‘ the gintleman, and take me up to see my room.”

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 54

    As the companion tells it

    Near Lough Anure, the Anglers' Inn kept its guests looked after by Mr. and Mrs. Gallaher. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with the blackest of hair and dark blue eyes, an eye colour so peculiarly Irish. She was stately, skilled in plain cookery. One traveller came carrying all his belongings on his back, and Mr. Gallaher stood in the road watching for visitors. He made no mistake about the approaching figure. With stately courtesy he lifted his cap and saluted as respectfully as if the traveller had been the Lord Lieutenant himself. A broad smile lighted up his handsome features. The inn lay far from the beaten track of tourists. The traveller had not forewarned him of coming, but there happened to be another guest staying at the time, so Gallaher was well prepared to receive and feed him. The traveller asked for a bedroom and engaged the room for several nights. They shook hands on the bargain. The linens were adorned with Donegal crochet-lace. The sheets were bleached outdoors with herbs, woodruff among them, believed to induce sleep. The traveller passed on messages from a hostess at a little public-house, and her praise of the misthress and of Gallaher himself. His whole being seemed to brighten with pleasure. He called out the misthress and repeated what had been said, bade her lay another cover for the gintleman, and take the traveller up to see the room.

45. The Nun's Grave on Tory Island

    Tory Island · townland · Donegal

    The author describes the 'Nun's Grave' on Tory Island as hallowed, not because a fair young nun is actually buried there, but because of the touching faith and devotion of the islanders toward her memory.

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    Doon and at Lough Derg, I wish to speak with deep respect, though in neither case does it appeal to my manner of thought on such high themes. In like manner, the ‘‘ Nun’s Grave’’ in Tory Island will always be hallowed in my mind, not because the fair young nun is said to be lying there, but because of the touching faith of the islanders and _ their devotion to her memory. Moreover, I have a real kindness to the Irish peasant, especially of the wildest and most remote parts of his beautiful land. Superstitious he may be in some respects; easily provoked he undoubtedly is, and in some cases he has little respect for human life. But he has a warm heart, a genuine desire to help a stranger on his way, a delightful humour, and a capacity for profiting by education when he really gets it, which have always endeared him to me. Some day he will set a firm foot upon the path of progress and there can be little doubt that he will surprise his captious critics. Resurgat Ierne, et resurget.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 84

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here on Tory Island is what people call the Nun's Grave. It will always be hallowed, not because a fair young nun is said to be lying there, but because of the touching faith of the islanders and their devotion to her memory. The author speaks with deep respect for this, even though such high themes do not always appeal to his manner of thought. He has a real kindness for the Irish peasant, especially in the wildest and most remote parts of his beautiful land. The peasant may be superstitious in some respects. He is undoubtedly easily provoked, and in some cases he has little respect for human life. But he has a warm heart, a genuine desire to help a stranger on his way, a delightful humour, and a capacity for profiting by education when he really gets it. These qualities have always endeared him to the author. Some day he will set a firm foot upon the path of progress, and there can be little doubt that he will surprise his captious critics. The words that close the passage are from the source: 'Resurgat Ierne, et resurget.'

46. Altan Lough farms and approach path

    Altan Lough · lake or lakes · Donegal

    After crossing a bog and stream from Dooish, the author climbed a steep bank and emerged opposite a path leading to two farms near the margin of Altan Lough. The area is described as a remote waypoint on the route through the Donegal highlands.

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    memory itself fades into ‘‘ dull forgetfulness.” I had seen the golden eagle in his dauntless freedom at last: should I ever see him again? I could not hope ever to see him at such close quarters or so happily employed: but it was my fortune to see the same bird, as I firmly believe, once again, and to see his mate during that vagrom tramp through the highlands and hollows of County Donegal. At length I reached the stream, and found the stepping-stones, when a vivid flash of orange, blue and green changing into one another darted before my eyes and a shrill call rang in my ears. It was that loveliest of British birds the kingfisher, the fishing of which I had interrupted by my unlooked for and unwelcome appearance. The gay bird was no sooner seen than gone; after lingering a few moments by the stream in the vain hope of having another peep at him, I was forced to move forward and climb the steep bank which lay in front of me, and brought me out opposite a path leading to two farms near the margin of Altan Lough.

    When I had succeeded in reaching the road I lighted upon a side-car going in my direction; willingly I accepted the invariable offer of a lift by the way. The driver asked me if I had seen the eagle, as he had reason to believe that the pair had come down from Slieve-a-Tooey to visit their old nesting-place. I told him what I had seen, and he was deeply interested, though he remarked concerning the hare, ‘‘ The divvle seize him! What was he after doing with a hare?’’ He had been a gamekeeper on the Glenveagh estate, and once he had been let down from above to rob the eagle’s nest, many years before. But the parent-birds had made so vigorous a defence of their callow chicks, that he had been forced to shout to those above to haul him up with all speed out of danger. As he was swinging in the air, having lost such footing as there was on the steep rocks, the pair had wheeled round him

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 8

    As the companion tells it

    Altan Lough is a lake in the Donegal highlands, and the country around it is wild and spare. The author of this passage had been walking for days through those highlands and hollows, searching for the golden eagle. He had seen one at last in its freedom, and wondered whether he would ever see it again. He came to a stream and found the stepping-stones, and as he crossed, a kingfisher flashed before him, orange and blue and green shifting into one another, with a shrill call. He had interrupted its fishing. It was gone in a moment. He lingered by the stream hoping for another sight of it, but had to move on. He climbed the steep bank that lay in front of him, and it brought him out opposite a path leading to two farms near the margin of Altan Lough. When he reached the road he found a side-car going his way and took the offer of a lift. The driver asked if he had seen the eagle. He had reason to believe the pair had come down from Slieve-a-Tooey to visit their old nesting-place. The author told him what he had seen, and the driver was deeply interested, though he said of the eagle's prey, "The divvle seize him! What was he after doing with a hare?" The driver had been a gamekeeper on the Glenveagh estate. Years before, he had been let down from above on a rope to rob the eagle's nest. The parent birds defended their callow chicks so vigorously that he had to shout to those above to haul him up with all speed out of danger. As he swung in the air, having lost what footing there was on the steep rocks, the pair wheeled round him.

47. Columbkille's penitential retreat at Glencolumbkille

    Glencolumbkille · town · Donegal

    A local tradition heard in Glencolumbkille itself holds that Columbkille retired there in repentance for having caused the deaths of so many Irishmen at Cooladrummon. The author notes this was certainly believed by some of the peasants in the place.

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    Nor is it easy to put entirely on one side the tradition of the excommunication at Teltown. It is hardly likely that the Church would proceed against a leader of such distinction without serious reason; nor is it probable that such a story against one so famous as Columbkille would be lightly invented without some equally serious reason. Nor does it invalidate the tradition, when we find that the sentence was soon reversed out of respect for the noble work which he had already done in Ireland. Furthermore, the tradition which I heard in Glencolumbkille itself, that he retired thither in repentance of what he had done, does give some colour to the belief that he may have done it. Taking all things into consideration I am inclined to believe the story of the death of Curnan and its revenge at Cooladrummon, though the manuscript tale seems to me to rest on a some-

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 99

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Glencolumbkille in Donegal, you are in a place bound to Saint Columbkille by a local tradition. The story heard here is that he retired to this glen in repentance for what he had done, connected to the death of Curnan and its revenge at Cooladrummon, where so many Irishmen lost their lives. The author notes that the Church had excommunicated Columbkille at Teltown, though the sentence was soon reversed out of respect for his noble work in Ireland. The peasants of Glencolumbkille themselves certainly believed the tale of his penitential retreat among them.

48. Croagh Patrick's rival claim to St. Patrick's Purgatory

    near Croagh Patrick · mountain or mountain range · Mayo

    Croagh Patrick in County Mayo has a 'Bed' of the Saint and stations of the Cross leading up the bare mountain, setting up a rival claim to being St. Patrick's Purgatory. The author considers this claim inadequate evidence compared to Lough Derg's tradition.

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    I have no doubt that this is the one true ‘‘ St. Patrick’s Purgatory ’’: there is a ‘‘ Bed ”’ of the Saint on Croagh Patrick in County Mayo, which has set up a rival claim upon quite inadequate evidence. All the way up that bare mountain are the stations of the Cross, which are not only recited, but kept by the desiul on bare knees, till the top is reached. But that practice does not prove that St. Patrick had his vision on that rugged dome of bare rock.

    At the present there are quite as many pilgrims to Lough Derg as in the days of James I. Sorely troubled for the spiritual welfare of the souls of his Catholic subjects in Ireland, that sturdy Calvinist sent Sir William Stewart, amongst other statesmen, to see to them at the beginning of his reign. This dour Protestant, realizing the possible danger of the great concourse of people visiting this lonely lake, came in force to the Saint’s Island, pulled down the monastery, laid hold of its treasure, destroyed all trace of the monks, and threw the sacred relics into the lake. That was the English way of conciliating the Irish, who were devotedly attached to their ancient faith. By such acts of honest vandalism they sowed the seeds of the frequent rebellions which disturbed their rule, the results of which have been felt right down to our own time. How long Lough Derg was deserted after this drastic treatment of its sacred shrine, it is not easy to say: but for a time Irishmen ceased to frequent its hallowed shores.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 77

    As the companion tells it

    There is a mountain in Mayo called Croagh Patrick, and it makes a rival claim to be St. Patrick's Purgatory. High on that bare mountain is what people call the Bed of the Saint. All the way up are the stations of the Cross. Pilgrims recite them and keep the stations on bare knees, climbing until they reach the top. One writer calls this rival claim quite inadequate. He says the practice does not prove that St. Patrick had his vision on that rugged dome of bare rock. He holds that Lough Derg is the one true St. Patrick's Purgatory. At present there are quite as many pilgrims to Lough Derg as in the days of James I. That sturdy Calvinist was sorely troubled for the spiritual welfare of the souls of his Catholic subjects in Ireland. At the start of his reign he sent Sir William Stewart to see to them. This dour Protestant, realizing the possible danger of the great concourse of people visiting this lonely lake, came in force to the Saint's Island, pulled down the monastery, laid hold of its treasure, destroyed all trace of the monks, and threw the sacred relics into the lake. The writer calls this the English way of conciliating the Irish, who were devotedly attached to their ancient faith. By such acts of honest vandalism they sowed the seeds of the frequent rebellions which disturbed their rule, the results of which have been felt right down to our own time. How long Lough Derg was deserted after this drastic treatment of its sacred shrine is not easy to say, but for a time Irishmen ceased to frequent its hallowed shores.

49. Dunfanaghy bypassed by the railway through the bog

    Dunfanaghy · town · Donegal

    The light railway line runs four miles away from Dunfanaghy, an important small town in north Donegal. The narrator had suggested an alternative route offering firmer ground and better service to inhabitants, but it was rejected as too costly.

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    can only be called ‘‘ Hobson’s choice,’’ it does actually pass through the village, which indeed it was impossible to avoid. One length of the line runs over a long viaduct through Barnes Beg Gap, and its foundations are so shaky that no trains are allowed to travel more than four miles an hour along its trembling course! The line then runs through the bog four miles away from the important small town of Dunfanaghy, about three from Falcarragh, and so on until it ends in Burton Port, a great fishing station for northern Donegal.

    Before this ingenious means of burking traffic was constructed, I arrived at Dunfanaghy in time to meet one of the principal shareholders and the surveyor, the former a weedy-looking old Irishman of most courteous manners but entirely free from the national generosity, the latter a neatly built handsome Dublin-man, who has since passed beyond the reach of all railways. In the midst of our conversation, forgetful of the proverb that ‘‘ Proffered service stinks,’’ I offered to show them the most solid course for their work, as I knew every inch of the bog lying beneath Errigal and its fellow-heights. I took out the Ordnance Map and pencilled out a route, which, had it been followed, would have afforded firmer ground for the line, and been of far greater service to the inhabitants of the district. But as has so often happened in the case of well-intentioned schemes for the benefit of Ireland in the past, the course which I suggested was scouted as being too costly, with the natural consequence that the plan adopted proved to be alike more expensive and less serviceable. The station at Cashelnagore, for instance, lies in the heart of the bog near the foot of Altan Lough, and is chiefly useful to those who desire to get one of the two finest views of the stately cone of Errigal.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 25

    As the companion tells it

    Coming up now near Dunfanaghy, an important small town in north Donegal. The light railway line that served this part of the country never came through the town itself. It runs through the bog four miles away, and from there it goes on until it ends in Burton Port, a great fishing station for northern Donegal. One length of the line runs over a long viaduct through Barnes Beg Gap, and its foundations are so shaky that no trains are allowed to travel more than four miles an hour along its trembling course. Before the line was built, the narrator arrived at Dunfanaghy and met one of the principal shareholders and the surveyor. The shareholder was a weedy-looking old Irishman of most courteous manners but entirely free from the national generosity. The surveyor was a neatly built handsome Dublin man, who has since passed beyond the reach of all railways. During their conversation, the narrator took out the Ordnance Map and pencilled a route that would have afforded firmer ground for the line and been of far greater service to the inhabitants of the district. He knew every inch of the bog lying beneath Errigal and its fellow heights. But as has so often happened with well-intentioned schemes for the benefit of Ireland, the course he suggested was scouted as too costly, with the natural consequence that the plan adopted proved alike more expensive and less serviceable. The station at Cashelnagore, for instance, lies in the heart of the bog near the foot of Altan Lough, and is chiefly useful to those who desire one of the two finest views of the stately cone of Errigal.

50. Signal tower garrison life and the watch for invasion

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    The author reflected on the soldiers who once manned the signal tower on Horn Head, enduring Atlantic gales, isolation, and dwindling provisions while watching for an invasion that never came. They passed time with cards, ale, and tales around a peat-fire.

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    For nearly an hour the storm swept over the Head: but I felt quite safe and comparatively dry. I could not help thinking of the past, when the tower stood whole and sound with its complement of brave men within its sturdy walls. They had heard hundreds of such storms; they had endured the savage fury of the Atlantic gales; they had spent summer and winter alike in that lonely spot; they had often been cut off from all communication with the rest of the mainland and had watched their stock of provisions slowly diminishing with anxious eyes. They had gathered round their peat-fire, perhaps played with a grimy pack of cards at piquet or one of the games popular in their time. They had consoled themselves with copious flagons of mighty ale, or the fire-water of the country. They had told tales, though their voices could hardly be heard in the tumult around them. They had spent long hours in weary watching for the invasion, which had never come to pass.

    At length the clouds broke into renewed splendour, the sun shone brightly over the wind-swept waves, the western gale died away into faint murmurs, the prospect cleared, and there was a magnificent view on all sides of me when I left the tower. But I longed to see the birds at the other side of the Head, and I left the Great Horn behind me. For much of the way there was a kind of natural parapet, if such I may call it, between the cliff edges and the sea.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 32

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head, there was once a signal tower, and soldiers lived inside its walls. They were brave men, the author called them, stationed in a lonely spot where they heard hundreds of Atlantic storms. Summer and winter alike, they stayed there. Sometimes they were cut off from all communication with the rest of the mainland. They watched their stock of provisions slowly diminishing with anxious eyes. They gathered round their peat-fire and played with a grimy pack of cards at piquet, or one of the games popular in their time. They consoled themselves with copious flagons of mighty ale, or the fire-water of the country. They told tales, though their voices could hardly be heard in the tumult around them. They spent long hours in weary watching for the invasion, which had never come to pass. The author took shelter in the tower as a storm swept over the Head for nearly an hour, feeling quite safe and comparatively dry, thinking of those men. Then the clouds broke into renewed splendour. The sun shone brightly over the wind-swept waves. The western gale died away into faint murmurs. The prospect cleared, and there was a magnificent view on all sides when the author left the tower. A kind of natural parapet ran for much of the way between the cliff edges and the sea.

51. Altan Lough: a wild and desolate mountain lake

    Altan Lough · lake or lakes · Donegal

    The author describes Altan Lough as a narrow, rock-bound lake about a mile and a half long, set in a deep cleft with screes comparable to those of Wastwater. Its waters are dark and desolate, with small poor trout, and a clear river flows from it past Falcarragh to the sea. The author likens it to a dwelling of a water-monster from Irish fairy lore.

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    Altan Lough is about a mile and a half long, and nowhere more than a third of a mile broad, so that the narrowness of the cleft can be realized. Its bottom shelves towards the north-eastern margin, where the water is deepest. Nor are there any of those expanses of gravel, in which trout find so much of their food: hence in this lake the fish are small and poor, though there is said to be a vast multitude of them. Whether seen as I looked down into its dark waters fromthe narrow ridge two thousand feet above them, or from the foot where it pours forth the clear river, which flows past Falcarragh on its way to the sea, the lonely lake is equally wild, equally desolate. Scarcely a blade of grass waves along the margins of its rock-bound basin; not a tree is to be seen in its immediate neighbourhood. It might well be the dwelling of some mysterious Hydra, or of any water-monster corresponding to that of Lerna in Irish fairy lore. Even the flaming sunlight illuminated the surrounding crags, but left the lake itself darkly, deeply blue, save where the river bounded from it, as though rejoicing to escape.

    I stood long gazing down into the depths of the abyss from the heights above, and caught something of the joy of the chamois, when it bounds along the ledges of its native mountains. On the other side a fairer scene expanded to the view, though it was partially blocked by the rounded back of Dooish. Yet even this was bare and rugged for

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 49

    As the companion tells it

    Altan Lough is a long, narrow mountain lake, roughly a mile and a half in length and nowhere more than a third of a mile broad, set in a deep cleft where the rock walls close in on all sides. The bottom shelves toward the north-eastern margin, where the water runs deepest. There are no broad expanses of gravel here, and gravel is where trout find much of their food, so the fish in this lake are small and poor, though there is said to be a vast multitude of them. Scarcely a blade of grass waves along the margins of its rock-bound basin, and not a tree stands in its immediate neighbourhood. The author looked down into its dark waters from a narrow ridge two thousand feet above, and later stood at the foot, where the lake pours forth a clear river that flows past Falcarragh on its way to the sea. From both vantage points the lake was equally wild, equally desolate. He writes that it might well be the dwelling of some mysterious Hydra, or of any water-monster corresponding to that of Lerna in Irish fairy lore. Even flaming sunlight illuminated the surrounding crags but left the lake itself darkly, deeply blue, save where the river bounded from it, as though, in his words, "rejoicing to escape." He stood long gazing down into the depths from the heights above, and caught something of the joy of the chamois when it bounds along the ledges of its native mountains.

52. Altan Lough beneath Errigal's northern slope

    Altan Lough · lake or lakes · Donegal

    Altan Lough lies deep-set and wild-looking beneath the northern slope of Errigal and the Beaghy ridge. The mountain rises so precipitously from the dark waters that a stone might almost be thrown into the lough from the summit.

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    In the heart of County Donegal the Derryveagh Mountains, running parallel to the striking Errigal group, rise from the expanse of russet-brown bog with bare and precipitous flanks. Built up of white quartzite, when the sun lights up their abrupt slopes, they tower into the clear blue sky, dazzling, white, majestic, glittering like a lesser Sierra Nevada. By the fine taste of the ancient Irish the separate heights have each its descriptive name exactly fitting its shape or appearance and sometimes tinged with poetic fancy. Muckish, or ‘‘ the pig’s back ”’ stretches its broad ridge to the north-east, until it takes the final form of a shining peak fronting the little town of Creeslough. Parted from it by two lesser eminences and _ that wonderfully picturesque ridge, the Beaghy, towards the south, Errigal or ‘‘ white arrow ’”’ cuts the air like a huge pyramid and closely resembles a flint arrow-head of the older Stone Age. From some directions its double-peaked summit is sharpened into a single point: but for the most part the two peaks are to be seen linked together by a narrow ridge. The Ark of Noah is said to have rested between them, as it may well have done, when it was in Ireland! Beneath its northern slope and under the Beaghy lies the deep-set, wild-looking Altan Lough, into which a stone might almost be thrown from the summit, so precipitously does the mountain rise from the dark waters.

    Farther to the south stands the great knob of Slieve Snacht, or ‘‘snow mountain,’ like the crystalline dome of some titanic temple, which is the last important summit of the Derryveagh Mountains proper. Let the unwary traveller, who has rejoiced

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 3

    As the companion tells it

    Altan Lough is a deep-set, wild-looking lake beneath the northern slope of Errigal and the Beaghy ridge in the Derryveagh Mountains of County Donegal. These mountains rise from russet-brown bog with bare and precipitous flanks, built of white quartzite. When the sun lights up their abrupt slopes, they glitter like a lesser Sierra Nevada, dazzling and white against the sky. The ancient Irish gave each height a descriptive name. Muckish, the pig's back, stretches its broad ridge to the north-east until it forms a shining peak fronting the little town of Creeslough. Parted from it by two lesser eminences and the picturesque Beaghy ridge, Errigal, the white arrow, cuts the air like a huge pyramid and resembles a flint arrow-head of the older Stone Age. From some directions its double-peaked summit sharpens into a single point, but for the most part two peaks stand linked by a narrow ridge. The Ark of Noah is said to have rested between them, as it may well have done, when it was in Ireland. Altan Lough lies beneath that northern slope, into which a stone might almost be thrown from the summit, so precipitously does the mountain rise from the dark waters. Farther south stands Slieve Snacht, the snow mountain, like the crystalline dome of some titanic temple, the last important summit of the Derryveagh Mountains proper.

53. Columbkille's Chair near Glen Head

    Glen Head · promontory · Donegal

    A naturally shaped block of stone, known as Columbkille's Chair, stands near the saint's enclosure. According to tradition, Columbkille loved to sit on it and gaze upon gathering storms over Glen Head.

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    Columbkille’s chair stands not far from _ this sacred place: it is a naturally shaped block of stone, which is probably where it was left by the ice of centuries ago. He was too active a man to spend much time sitting on it, though he loved to gaze upon the gathering of a storm over Glen Head. The ‘‘ Holy Well’”’ is some distance up a steep path on the side of the Head. When I first saw it, there was a comparatively small pile of stones around it. Within less than twenty years the pilgrims havé been so numerous, and each has carried his particular stone to add it to the heap, that the mound has grown to a very great size. It may be noted in passing that this carrying of stones to add to a cairn or lay on a grave, is a survival from pagan times. To reach the actual well the pilgrim must pass through a veritable valley of piled up stones, which extend to a considerable height and for many yards. The Well is arched over with a big flag, which in its turn is heaped up with stones, until another flag is reached which serves as a recess. On it are set cups of various kinds for drinking side by side with a number of offerings from the various pilgrims.

    Most of these were personal objects of one kind or the other; there was a string of glass beads, obviously left by some village maiden; there was quite a number of hair-pins of various ages and quality, which had undoubtedly been left by women cured of the headache. As I have told elsewhere

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 94

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Glen Head there's a block of stone they call Columbkille's Chair, a natural shape left where the ice dropped it long ago. The tradition is that Columbkille loved to sit there and watch the storms gathering over Glen Head, though he was too active a man to spend much time sitting still. Not far from the chair, up a steep path on the side of the Head, there's a Holy Well. When the writer first saw it, there was only a small pile of stones around it, but within less than 20 years the pilgrims had been so numerous, each carrying a stone to add to the heap, that the mound grew to a great size. To reach the well you pass through a valley of piled stones reaching a considerable height and stretching for many yards. The well itself is arched over with a big flagstone, heaped with more stones until another flag serves as a recess, and on it are cups for drinking set beside offerings from pilgrims. Most were personal objects, including a string of glass beads left by some village maiden, and a number of hairpins of various ages left by women cured of the headache.

54. Doe Castle, stronghold of the MacSwynes

    Doe Castle · electoral division · Donegal

    Doe Castle was once the stronghold of the brave MacSwyne clan, nearly impregnable against the feeble cannon of the early seventeenth century. When the author first saw it, its towers enclosed the modern dairy of Ards House, which lay behind it in dense woodland.

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    a paper cornet of pepper and salt carefully blended to support me by the way. I have eaten so many of these twin luxuries, that I am almost ashamed to look a brood of chickens in the face. I transferred them from my pocket to their destined place as a solemn duty rather than a personal pleasure near the imposing bridge over the Lackagh River, at that time literally swarming with its jostling multitude of spring salmon on spawning intent. The grey walls of Doe Castle rose proudly in front of me, which was once the stronghold of the brave MacSwyne, and was all but impregnable by the feeble cannon of the early seventeenth century. Its unyielding towers, when I first saw them, enclosed the modern dairy of Ards House, which lay behind it embosomed in dense woodland. _ Arrived at Creeslough, a protracted drought increased by my drouthy meal drove me _ into Harkin’s Hotel, where I had the pleasure of meeting the proprietor, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Antiquaries, Ireland, and crammed from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet with local history and folk-lore. Like most Irishmen who have the means and opportunity, he was a keen sportsman with something of a naturalist’s knowledge of the wild creatures of his native county. To his delightful conversation I am indebted for many legends and much valuable information, especially of the birds nesting on Horn Head. He told me that he remembered the time when the rare pine marten haunted the woods around Mr. Olphert’s mansion near Gortahork. To this day he could show me a badger’s earth in the wooded banks of Ards. But I had no time to bait the last surviving member of the bear-family in Britain; nor could I have found it in my heart to disturb so peaceful an inhabitant of the pleasant countryside.

    He had been factor to the murdered Earl of Leitrim, and was the only person, man, woman or

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 24

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through this part of Donegal, the grey walls of Doe Castle rise proudly ahead. This was once the stronghold of the brave MacSwyne clan, and it was all but impregnable against the feeble cannon of the early seventeenth century. When the author first saw these towers, they enclosed the modern dairy of Ards House, which lay behind the castle, embosomed in dense woodland. The author had stopped near the imposing bridge over the Lackagh River, where the water was swarming with spring salmon on their spawning run. He had been eating pepper and salt from a paper cornet, carried as a travelling duty, and he made his transfer of them near that bridge before the castle walls came into view. Pressing on to Creeslough, a protracted drought and a dry meal drove him into Harkin's Hotel. There he met the proprietor, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, crammed from head to sole with local history and folk-lore. Like most Irishmen with means and opportunity, the man was a keen sportsman with something of a naturalist's knowledge of the wild creatures of his native county. From his delightful conversation the author gathered many legends and much valuable information, especially about the birds nesting on Horn Head. The proprietor remembered a time when the rare pine marten haunted the woods around Mr. Olphert's mansion near Gortahork. He could still show a badger's earth in the wooded banks of Ards. The author had no time to bait the last surviving member of the bear family in Britain, nor could he have found it in his heart to disturb so peaceful an inhabitant of the countryside. The proprietor had been factor to the murdered Earl of Leitrim.

55. Dusty shop in Dunfanaghy as Gaelic social hub

    Dunfanaghy · town · Donegal

    A dusty general store in Dunfanaghy sells miscellaneous goods but serves primarily as a gathering place where locals come to hear and share news. Gaelic is much in evidence, its sonorous vowels and gutturals punctuated by frequent shouts of laughter.

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    Amongst the shops, of which there are several, there is one of those stores of a miscellaneous order, so common in Ireland, where almost any less useful article can be bought, and a few of the necessities of life. It had such a dusty appearance that I took a keen interest in it, and went in whenever I had a real or imaginary need. The boxes of matches were coated with dust; the packets of Murray’s Mixture were no less embedded in dust, as was the big coil of Limerick Roll. One morning I bought a pair of laces, which also were thickened with dust: thé very change, which took a long time in finding, was covered with dust! Whenever I went in, I observed little purchasing going on: yet it was often crowded with those who had come in to hear the news and to contribute their own share of information. The Gaelic was much in evidence, and its sonorous vowels emphasized by a liberal supply of gutturals was most impressive. The frequent shouts of laughter told of the excellence of the conversation. How the owner made a living I cannot tell, so rarely did I see him

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 26

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Dunfanaghy in Donegal, there is a dusty general store of the kind common across Ireland, where you could buy almost any less useful article and a few necessities of life. The writer found it so dusty that he took a keen interest in it, going in whenever he had a real or imagined need. Boxes of matches, packets of Murray's Mixture, a big coil of Limerick Roll, even the pair of laces he bought one morning, all were thickened with dust. So was the very change, which took a long time in finding. Yet the shop was often crowded, with little purchasing going on. People came in to hear the news and contribute their own share of information. The Gaelic was much in evidence, its sonorous vowels emphasized by a liberal supply of gutturals. Frequent shouts of laughter told of the excellence of the conversation. How the owner made a living, the writer could not tell, so rarely did he see him sell anything.

56. Kilmacrenan tower and Columba's early training

    Kilmacrenan · town · Donegal

    The author describes a time-worn tower at Kilmacrenan where Saint Columba took the first steps of his training for the priesthood, visible from the mountain summit.

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    I thought of the O’ Donnell chieftains, distinguished on many a field of battle at home and abroad; the handsome figures of the ‘‘ Red Hugh’”’ and Owen Roe O’Neil, with the statesman-like features of the great Tyrconnell, seemed to float past me, as I gazed upon the land which was dearer than life to them. Could I be mistaken, or did I actually see the timeworn tower of Kilmacrenan, where Columba had taken the first steps of his training for the priesthood ? Could that dark, low-lying mass of stone in the midst of the darker bog be the Rock of Doon, whereon the O’Donnell chieftain was inaugurated in former times, rising gloomily over the far-famed holy well? But here I am afraid that my imagination was playing me a scurvy trick and showing me objects which were hidden by a spur of Dooish. I knew well enough where they ought to lie, and I fancied that I could see them, bright with the memory of past traditions.

    110 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    Kilmacrenan is a town in Donegal. A time-worn tower stands there, where Saint Columba took the first steps of his training for the priesthood. The author, gazing from a mountain summit, thought of the O'Donnell chieftains, distinguished on many a field of battle at home and abroad. The handsome figures of Red Hugh and Owen Roe O'Neil, and the statesman-like features of the great Tyrconnell, seemed to float past as he looked upon the land dearer than life to them. He wondered whether he could see that tower, and whether the dark, low-lying mass of stone in the darker bog could be the Rock of Doon, where the O'Donnell chieftain was inaugurated, rising gloomily over the far-famed holy well. But he admitted his imagination was playing him a scurvy trick, showing objects hidden by a spur of Dooish. He knew where they ought to lie, and fancied he could see them, bright with the memory of past traditions.

57. Monastery of Durrow and the Book of Durrow

    Durrow · parish · Offaly

    Columbkille founded the famous monastery at Durrow in King's County, of which scarcely a trace remains in the author's time. He is said to have written and illuminated the exquisite 'Book of Durrow,' a manuscript of the Latin Gospels that is still held at Trinity College, Dublin.

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    confine himself to this one piece of work: he is said to have founded a hundred churches, each with a small monastic establishment attached to it, in his native county alone. That may well be a loving exaggeration, but it does serve to illustrate his unwearied activity and his steadfast devotion. I do not intend to follow him round these churches, even if the task were possible, though I have seen many connected -with his name. Nor do I purpose to trace his career in Iona, though I may have to allude to one or two events connected with it. Of those outside of Donegal, if Derry be excepted, the most famous monastery was Durrow, in King’s County, of which scarcely a trace remains. Here he is said to have written and illuminated that exquisite work of art, the “Book of Durrow,’’ which is still to be seen in Trinity College, Dublin. It contains the Latin Gospels of the Vulgate, and the manuscript is actually signed by his name. Some scholars think the colophon in which this signature occurs is too filled with mistakes to be from his hand; to me it is its Own witness, and be it remembered that ‘‘ good Homer nods.”’

    He also founded Kells, where a cross dedicated to him, if not cut by him, is still to be seen. It is barely possible that he may have penned and illuminated the world-famous ‘‘ Book of Kells,’’ which is the envy and the despair of modern illuminators. Be that as it may, his fame as a devoted Christian missionary and saint was growing all over Ireland. He is said to have been tall and stately, with handsome features and exceptionally brilliant eyes of that blue-grey so common amongst his countrymen, though he was destined to lose one of them, if tradition speak the truth. Like Saint Patrick he was not commissioned by Rome, nor did he owe any allegiance to the Papal See: he adopted the form of tonsure on the front instead of on the back of the

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 89

    As the companion tells it

    The road takes you through Durrow, in what was once King's County. Columbkille founded the famous monastery here, though scarcely a trace of it remains. He was a man of unwearied activity, said to have founded a hundred churches in his native county alone, each with a small monastic establishment. That may be a loving exaggeration, but it speaks to his steadfast devotion. Of all the monasteries connected with his name outside Donegal, if Derry be excepted, Durrow was the most famous. Here he is said to have written and illuminated the Book of Durrow, an exquisite work of art still held at Trinity College in Dublin. It contains the Latin Gospels of the Vulgate, and the manuscript is actually signed by his name. Some scholars think the colophon carrying that signature is too filled with mistakes to be from his hand. The author of the passage disagrees, quoting the old saying that good Homer nods. Columbkille also founded Kells, where a cross dedicated to him still stands, cut by him or perhaps not. It is barely possible he may have penned and illuminated the world-famous Book of Kells as well, the envy and despair of modern illuminators. He is said to have been tall and stately, with handsome features and exceptionally brilliant blue-grey eyes, though tradition holds he lost one of them. Like Saint Patrick, he was not commissioned by Rome and owed no allegiance to the Papal See.

58. Ray church and the broken cross from Tory

    Ray · townland · Donegal

    The old church at Ray contains a huge cross, said to have been originally cut in Tory Island, now lying broken into four pieces at the site.

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    There lay the Poisoned Glen, its gleaming rocks snow-white, grim, sheer: I fancied that I could see Balor lurking behind the crag, when his grandson, MacKineely, thrust his spear through the envenomed eye, and so gave its illomened name to that savage recess. I could see the ‘“‘little red men ’’ riding on their enchanted steeds to work revenge on any who might have insulted or injured them. I could picture the “‘ good people ’’ weaving their mystic dance to the tune of their weird and unearthly music; I could hear the banshee wailing with the foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. I could imagine Columba in his coragh following his mystic staff across the stormy sound of Tory, to plant the Cross in that barren land. I could see the old church at Ray, where the huge cross which he is said to have cut in Tory, lies broken into four pieces. I could see Falcarragh with its discarded battering-ram, and far out at sea I could just catch a glimpse of the brown sails of the fishing fleet, hardly bigger than butterflies’ wings, provided by the wiser counsel of the Congested Districts Board.

    A whole pageant of the past mingled with my thoughts of the present, transforming what I saw into a phantasmagoria of wonderful beauty and pathos. Then I saw, or thought I saw, how the very lie of the land had divided its people into warring factions, which persist to this day. I could gather something of the unconquered spirit of the modern Irishman, his chief inheritance from the past, which

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Ray, there is an old church, and in it lies a huge cross, broken into four pieces. The cross is said to have been cut in Tory Island by Columba. The story goes that Columba followed his mystic staff across the stormy sound of Tory in his coragh, to plant the cross in that barren land. This whole coast is thick with older legends. The Poisoned Glen takes its name from the day Balor lurked behind a crag, and his grandson MacKineely thrust a spear through his envenomed eye. The little red men rode on enchanted steeds, seeking revenge on anyone who insulted or injured them. The good people wove their mystic dance to weird and unearthly music. The banshee wailed with foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. At Falcarragh there was a discarded battering-ram. Far out at sea, the brown sails of the fishing fleet could just be caught as a glimpse, hardly bigger than butterflies' wings, provided by the wiser counsel of the Congested Districts Board. The author saw how the very lie of the land had divided its people into warring factions, which persist to this day. He gathered something of the unconquered spirit of the modern Irishman, his chief inheritance from the past.

59. Rocking-stones on the track to Poisoned Glen

    Poisoned Glen · valley · Donegal

    On the steep descent toward the Poisoned Glen, the author encounters rocking-stones set on their pivot by nature. He doubts that so-called 'logan-stones' owe their position to Druids, but concedes that priests or medicine-men might have exploited them to impress a superstitious people.

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    an experienced mountaineer who scoffs at easy going, but worse was yet in store. The way, in plain fact, was neither more nor less than the bed of a fair-sized stream, which as it happened was not too sheer to have any positive danger in it. But for all that, it needed wary walking, the white rocks mingling with stray blocks of granite were treacherous and slippery, though there was little vegetation to add to its risks. Some of the boulders proved to be rocking-stones set . on their pivot by the capricious hand of Nature, not by the inventive genius of the race of Druids. For myself I doubt if any of these so-called ‘‘ loganstones’ owe their peculiar position to human agency, though I have no doubt that priests or medicine-men of any kind would use them to rivet their fetters upon a superstitious race.

    Be that as it may, there I was in the midst of a solitude broken only by the hoarse clamour of a cloud of rooks rising above Dunlewey woods, and the rarer twittering of an unseen wheatear. The air was so still that I could hear and count the beating of my heart. Step by step I clambered down, looking well to my feet, and understanding for the first time the full meaning of the words of the hymn, ‘* One step enough for me.’’ Yet ever and anon I paused to lift up my eyes to the magnificent prospect before me, for I had a strong conviction that I should never pass that way again. The lower I descended, the loftier grew the huge pyramid of Errigal, the more striking the white flanks of the glen rising straight from the bog below. The two lakes at the same time grew lovelier, though they began to lose the sapphire hue which distance had lent them: they were so still that the reflected hills seemed to slumber beneath their glassy surface. A boat filled with anglers appeared on the lower one; I wondered whether it contained the gentleman who had received so rude a shock when I told him that I was going to the Anglers’ Inn. Peace be with him; so long as he is

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 61

    As the companion tells it

    In the Poisoned Glen in Donegal, there are rocking-stones that sit balanced on their pivots. The way down into the glen was the bed of a fair-sized stream, white rocks mingling with stray blocks of granite, treacherous and slippery, with little vegetation to add to the risks. Some of the boulders turned out to be rocking-stones, set on their pivot by the capricious hand of nature, not by the inventive genius of the race of Druids. The author doubted whether any of these so-called logan-stones owed their peculiar position to human agency, though he had no doubt that priests or medicine-men of any kind would use them to rivet their fetters upon a superstitious race. He was in the midst of a solitude broken only by the hoarse clamour of a cloud of rooks rising above Dunlewey woods, and the rarer twittering of an unseen wheatear. The air was so still he could hear and count the beating of his heart. Step by step he clambered down, looking well to his feet, understanding for the first time the full meaning of the words of the hymn, 'One step enough for me.' Yet ever and anon he paused to lift up his eyes to the magnificent prospect before him, with a strong conviction that he should never pass that way again. The lower he descended, the loftier grew the huge pyramid of Errigal, the more striking the white flanks of the glen rising straight from the bog below. The two lakes grew lovelier, though they began to lose the sapphire hue that distance had lent them. They were so still that the reflected hills seemed to slumber beneath their glassy surface. A boat filled with anglers appeared on the lower lake.

60. Ruined shrines of early hermits on mountain

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    Ruined shrines on the mountain summit are associated with a pair of world-weary early Christian hermits who came to the cliffs to survey earth and ocean. Sheep and goats now roam among the ruins, with patches of brighter verdure marking past cultivation.

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    ‘rarely attempt the dangerous journey to do them honour and to pray for their blessing. Only the curious visitor disturbs their rest, while the timid sheep and nimble goats profane the ruined shrines, where a patch of brighter verdure points to past cultivation. There I sat with the splendour of living nature around me and the ruined memorials of the hallowed dead behind me to recall in my thoughts the long-past times, when Ireland was famed throughout Europe for her learning and piety but a little time after this pair of worldwearied hermits came hither to survey earth and ocean in their mighty magnificence.

    I turned once more to the sea, then creeping cautiously along the edge I looked down into the recess, where once had been the ‘‘ Eagles’ nest.’’ My eye ranged along the cliff, when I saw movement in what I had taken to be one of its smaller projections. Instantly I drew back and sought a place from which I could watch without danger, if I should make an incautious movement. Soon I had my reward: once again I saw the golden eagle spreading his broad wings to the quiet air. He had come to the spot from which one of his kindred, perhaps a far-off ancestor, is said to have carried off a child from the brow of the mountain to be the prey of his fierce nestlings. Those who saw the theft fell on their knees and prayed with all the fervour of their Irish hearts, as the mighty bird holding the babe in his talons flew ever seaward. It seemed at first as if he would never come back, but the true men and women never ceased praying for a moment. At last the eagle turned and sailed back to his nest bearing his precious quarry, which he placed by the side of his nestlings and their dam.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 15

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League in Donegal holds the ruined shrines of a pair of world-weary hermits who came to these cliffs to survey earth and ocean in their mighty magnificence. This was a little time after Ireland was famed throughout Europe for her learning and piety. People rarely attempt the dangerous journey to do the hermits honour and to pray for their blessing. Only the curious visitor disturbs their rest, while the timid sheep and nimble goats profane the ruined shrines, where a patch of brighter verdure points to past cultivation. The writer sat there with the splendour of living nature around him and the ruined memorials of the hallowed dead behind him. He turned to the sea and crept cautiously along the edge, looking down into the recess where the Eagles' nest had once been. He saw movement in what he had taken to be one of the cliff's smaller projections and drew back to watch from safety. A golden eagle spread his broad wings to the quiet air. He had come to the spot from which one of his kindred, perhaps a far-off ancestor, is said to have carried off a child from the brow of the mountain to be the prey of his fierce nestlings. Those who saw the theft fell on their knees and prayed with all the fervour of their Irish hearts, as the mighty bird holding the babe in his talons flew ever seaward. It seemed at first as if he would never come back, but the true men and women never ceased praying for a moment. At last the eagle turned and sailed back to his nest, bearing his precious quarry, which he placed by the side of his nestlings and their dam.