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. Lake-horse of the mountain tarn near Aghla More

   Aghla More · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

   A lonely mountain-tarn in the lower hills behind Aghla More was reputed to harbour a lake-horse of Irish legend, harmless to sheep but dangerous to any mortal who disturbed its solitude. A man at the inn at Narin claimed to have seen the monster emerge from the little lake.

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   It may be noted that in the lower hills behind Aghla More, is a mountain-tarn, which is seldom visited by any but the wandering sheep. Here dwelt that lake-horse common to Irish legend, which does not seem to have borne the sheep any ill-will, but reserved its powers for any mortal who might come to disturb its solitude. I have not seen that lonely

   160 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 72

   As the companion tells it

   In the lower hills of Aghla More lies a mountain-tarn, seldom visited save by wandering sheep. A lake-horse of Irish legend dwelt there. It bore the sheep no ill-will, but reserved its powers for any mortal who came to disturb its solitude. The book records that its author never saw that lonely creature.

2. Teelin Port fishing station and approach to Slieve Liag

   near Teelin · population centre · Donegal

   Leaving the little fishing-station of Teelin Port on his left, the narrator truded between broken rocks to reach Bunglass, the starting point for his ascent of Slieve Liag by the One Man's Path.

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   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,

   ee

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 10

   As the companion tells it

   Teelin is a little fishing-station, and the place travellers set out from to climb Slieve Liag. The narrator here made ready to climb it by the shortest way, which he admits was neither the safest nor the easiest. He had often heard of the One Man's Path, and was determined to cross its razor-like edge to the broad eastern summit of what locals always simply call the mountain. Leaving Teelin Port behind after a long trudge between broken rocks, he reached Bunglass, where a narrow stretch of turf slopes down towards the sea.

3. Witch's white cow legend at Inishbofin

   Inishbofin · townland · Donegal

   Inishbofin, one of three small islands lying south of Tory Island, is associated with the famous witch's 'white cow' of Irish legend. The other two islands are Inishbeg and Inishdooey.

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   The breeze blew straight across from America, freshening every moment, ruffling the channel between Tory Island and the mainland near Derrybeg, and driving the whitening waves against the rocks of that barren land. It may be noted in passing, that Tory has nothing to do with party politics, nor is it synonymous with an Irish bog-trotter: it is a_name given to the island because of the towerlike cliffs on its north-eastern side. I noticed a dark cloud gathering over its western end, and the three islands which lie to the south of it, Inishbeg, Inishdooey and Inishbofin, to the last of which the famous witch’s ‘‘ white cow’’ of Irish legend found her way. I could not help fearing that a storm was gathering, though the sun was at that moment shining bright. But I resigned myself to all emergencies; at the worst, the signal tower was not far away, and though roofless it would shelter me from the western wind. The cliff descends abruptly on either side, while the extreme point literally hangs over the abyss. On that point I stood like Moses on Pisgah; but instead of looking over the fertile land of Canaan and the muddy Jordan, I looked out over the great deep, gradually growing greyer under the growing mantle of cloud.

   Turning to the east I looked down a gully eaten out of the head, steep, awful, rugged, stretching right down to the tossing waves below. Yet Nature’s careful fingers had trimmed it with all kinds of vegetation and thus veiled its sheer flanks from top to bottom of its extent. Far down its edge I could see tufts of the golden samphire, which were green and stunted now, though unmistakable to the eye of the trained botanist. In a few weeks they

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 30

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here lies Inishbofin, one of three small islands lying south of Tory Island. The other two are Inishbeg and Inishdooey. It was to Inishbofin that the famous witch's white cow of Irish legend found her way. The writer who recorded this crossed the channel between Tory Island and the mainland near Derrybeg, with a breeze blowing straight across from America, freshening every moment, driving whitening waves against the rocks of that barren land. He noted that Tory has nothing to do with party politics, nor is it synonymous with an Irish bog-trotter. The name was given to the island because of the tower-like cliffs on its north-eastern side. A dark cloud gathered over the western end of Tory, and over the three islands to its south. He feared a storm was gathering, though the sun was at that moment shining bright. He resigned himself to all emergencies. At the worst, the signal tower was not far away, and though roofless it would shelter him from the western wind. The cliff descends abruptly on either side, while the extreme point hangs over the abyss. On that point he stood, looking out over the great deep, gradually growing greyer under the growing mantle of cloud. Turning to the east he looked down a gully eaten out of the head, steep, awful, rugged, stretching right down to the tossing waves below. Yet Nature's careful fingers had trimmed it with all kinds of vegetation, veiling its sheer flanks from top to bottom. Far down its edge he could see tufts of the golden samphire, green and stunted now, though unmistakable to the trained botanist's eye.

4. Abandoned farms at the head of Altan Lough

   Altan Lough · lake or lakes · Donegal

   A narrow path led to two farms that once stood at the head of Altan Lough, surrounded by bog on all sides. Their inhabitants likely relied on sheep, small animals with dense trailing wool that wandered the brown expanse of the surrounding moorland.

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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

   At the head of Altan Lough in Donegal, a narrow path once led to two farms. What their inhabitants cultivated is not known. Bog and bog alone bordered that narrow way. The people who lived there likely depended on sheep. Small sheep wandered the brown expanse, the smallest of their kind, but covered in dense coats of trailing wool. That wool would have done something to clothe the two households and help to pay the rent. The farms are gone now. The writer who recorded them came this way after climbing down a glen. Had he not passed down it, he would not have believed there was any way up what seemed a sheer face with a dark corner of broken rocks. He had passed a high shelving rock behind which Balor had sheltered himself before the dawn of history, and stared in wonder at the deep furrows said to have been cleft by the poison of his evil eye. A cart-track then carried him between Dunlewey House and the marble church, and out to the high road within about quarter of a mile from a little public house.

5. Ards estate purchased from Wray by Stewarts

   Ards · townland · Donegal

   The Stewarts of Ards purchased the Ards estate from the head of the Wray family, whose lavish hospitality had brought him to ruin. This acquisition distinguished them from the Darnley-descended Stewarts of Horn Head.

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   The promontory of Horn Head fronts the north and derives its name from its resemblance to a pair of horns. It supports several fairly flourishing farms, the tiny hamlet of upper and lower Claggan, and the mansion of C. F. Stewart, Esquire, if indeed he be still living. His ancestor, an officer of King William III., obtained the property in 1700: his name was Charles, and he claimed to be a descendant of the Darnley family of Stewarts, a claim still jealously preserved by his descendants to distinguish them from the Stewarts of Ards, who purchased that estate from the head of the race of Wray, whose lavish hospitality brought him to ruin. Enraged by what he deemed to be a breach of his legal rights, that same ancestor when old and gouty challenged Mr. ‘Wray of Ards, the offender, to fight a duel with him. The latter was not slow to accept the challenge but added the stipulation that the duel should be fought on the top of Muckish, which could only be surmounted after a stiff climb of over two thousand feet. That would have proved a hazardous enterprise for an elderly and gouty hero, even if his anger had lent unwonted lightness to his feet. Fortunately, friends intervened, so that peace was made between the two hotheads.

   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,

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 27

6. Ards House behind Doe Castle

   Ards · townland · Donegal

   Ards House lay behind Doe Castle, embosomed in dense woodland, and its dairy occupied the castle's towers. The wooded banks of Ards were noted as habitat for wildlife including badgers.

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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

   Somewhere close to Ards, the grey walls of Doe Castle once rose proudly. This was the stronghold of the MacSwyne, all but impregnable by the feeble cannon of the early seventeenth century. Its unyielding towers held a surprise. When this traveller first saw them, they enclosed the modern dairy of Ards House, which lay behind the castle, embosomed in dense woodland. He had been eating pepper and salt from a paper cornet, a habit he had grown almost ashamed of, and stopped near the bridge over the Lackagh River. At that time the river was literally swarming with its jostling multitude of spring salmon on spawning intent. From there he came to Creeslough, where a protracted drought drove him into Harkin's Hotel. There he met the proprietor, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, crammed from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet with local history and folklore. The man was a keen sportsman with something of a naturalist's knowledge of the wild creatures of his native county. 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 a badger's earth in the wooded banks of Ards. But the traveller had no time to bait what he called 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 pleasant countryside. The hotelkeeper had been factor to the murdered Earl of Leitrim.

7. Bunglass viewpoint on Slieve Liag

   Bunglass · bay · Donegal

   At Bunglass the narrator found a narrow stretch of turf sloping downwards towards the sea, marking a key point on the approach to climbing Slieve Liag via the One Man's Path.

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   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,

   ee

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 10

   As the companion tells it

   Out near Bunglass in Donegal, a traveller once came walking between broken rocks, aiming to climb Slieve Liag. He left the fishing-station of Teelin Port behind him and set out for the One Man's Path, a razor-like edge leading to the broad eastern summit. He called it the shortest way, though not the safest or the easiest. When he reached Bunglass he found a narrow stretch of turf sloping downwards towards the sea. That was the mark of it, the point where the ground began to fall away toward the water on the approach to the mountain.

8. Columbkille visits Clonmacnoise

   Clonmacnoise · townland · Offaly · 585

   During his second return to Ireland, St. Columbkille visited the monastery of St. Kieran at Clonmacnoise. This visit is recorded by Adamnan as occurring ten years after the convention at Drumceat.

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   It must be borne in mind that Scotland owes its very name to Ireland, the people of which were always known in Europe as Scots. A large company of these Irish Scots conquered Argyleshire and most of Galloway, and ended by giving their name to the whole of the country, which at that time was for the most part peopled by the Picts. Columbkille’s second visit to Ireland occurred, according to Adamnan, ten years later, when he is said to have visited his own monastery of Durrow along with that of St. Kieran of Clonmacnoise. At Iona I leave him; the reader who wishes to know more of the last thirty years of his life in that remote island will find what he desires in his life by Adamnan. It is a most fascinating little work, nor is there anything just like it in the range of ecclesiastical literature. No doubt it is filled with an account of the Saint’s miracles and prophecies, for each of which the author cites witnesses, though some of them in somewhat vague and unconvincing terms.

   But the character study is nearly perfect: it presents the picture of a truly noble character, a Saint of God who needs no formal canonization to do justice to his merits. If it be true that once he suffered his feelings as a clansman to get the better

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 101

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here, St. Kieran founded a monastery that St. Columbkille came to visit. According to Adamnan, who wrote the saint's life, this was during Columbkille's second return to Ireland, ten years after the convention at Drumceat. On that journey he visited his own monastery of Durrow along with that of St. Kieran of Clonmacnoise. Adamnan's life of Columbkille is described as a most fascinating little work, with nothing just like it in the range of ecclesiastical literature. It is filled with accounts of the saint's miracles and prophecies. For each one the author cites witnesses, though some of them in somewhat vague and unconvincing terms. The character study is nearly perfect, presenting the picture of a truly noble character, a Saint of God who needs no formal canonization to do justice to his merits. Scotland itself owes its name to Ireland, for the people of Ireland were always known in Europe as Scots. A large company of these Irish Scots conquered Argyleshire and most of Galloway, and ended by giving their name to the whole country, which at that time was for the most part peopled by the Picts. At Iona the book leaves Columbkille, and the last thirty years of his life on that remote island are to be found in Adamnan's pages.

9. Croagh Patrick, the sacred mountain seen from Donegal

   near Croagh Patrick · mountain or mountain range · Mayo

   From a high vantage point in Donegal, the author observes Croagh Patrick across the bay, noting its distinctive bald crown. He later refers to it as 'the sacred mountain,' acknowledging its enduring spiritual and cultural significance.

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   Southward stood the rounded tops of the Blue Stack Mountains, gaily tinged with a delicate purple. Below them Donegal Bay stretched its blue length along the dark coast-line of County Mayo and the deep bay of Sligo. The irregular shape of the Mullet and the mountains of the Island of Achill faded into the sea towards the south-west: even the bald crown of Croagh Patrick lifted its broad head, and two pinnacles behind the sapphire cone of Nephin, looking like a sharply outlined silver cloud. Away to the east of the sacred mountain, Benbulben and the Ox Mountains drew a straight belt of pearly grey across the sky, bordered by a dull green shadow of dim woodland. Nearer, and across the bay, the long back of Slieve Liag hid its terrific precipices from sight : the lower mountains over Glencolumbkille were radiant with the splendour of a perfect day. The

   108 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 50

   As the companion tells it

   Out across the water, Croagh Patrick lifts its broad head. Seen from the high ground of Donegal, its bald crown is unmistakable. Donegal Bay stretches its blue length along Mayo's dark coast. The Blue Stack Mountains stand to the south, tinged a delicate purple. Nephin's sapphire cone rises beyond, and Benbulben and the Ox Mountains draw a straight belt of grey to the east. But the author calls this the sacred mountain, and it is the one that holds the eye. Its bare summit stands sharp against the sky, looking like a sharply outlined silver cloud. On a perfect day, with the lower mountains over Glencolumbkille radiant in the splendour below, the mountain keeps its quiet presence across the bay.

10. Crolly Bridge, trout-stream and granite boulders

    Crolly · townland · Donegal

    The narrator arrives at Crolly Bridge carrying messages from a mountain hostess to 'Paddy Gallaher and the misthress.' He is struck by the fine trout-stream and huge granite boulders scattered along the road, likening them to giants' quoits.

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    I was intensely amused with their conceit, and congratulating myself that I] was not destined to meet them at dinner in the insanity of evening dress, I turned to the left and soon found myself at Crolly Bridge. I was greatly attracted by the fine troutstream, no less than by the huge granite boulders, which lay scattered everywhere along this part of the road; it seemed as if a party of giants had just left off playing a game of quoits. But I had little

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 53

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, a traveller once turned left and came to Crolly Bridge. He was drawn by the fine trout-stream, and by the huge granite boulders scattered everywhere along that part of the road. He said it seemed as if a party of giants had just left off playing a game of quoits. He had been carrying messages for Paddy Gallaher and the mistress, sent by a hostess up on the mountain, but the bridge and its stones caught him first.

11. Cromlechs and prehistoric forts near Glencolumbkille

    Glencolumbkille · town · Donegal

    The wilderness stretching from Carrick to Malinmore and Glencolumbkille was sparingly dotted with farms and cottages and was memorable for several large cromlechs and two prehistoric forts, providing a real wilderness within a stone's-throw of the hotel.

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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

    Glencolumbkille sits in a stretch of wilderness that runs from Carrick to Malinmore on one side and Glencolumbkille on the other. It was, and is, a wilderness sparingly dotted over with farms and cottages, and memorable for several cromlechs of the largest size and two prehistoric forts. The author of this passage lodged at a pleasant hotel in Carrick, on the land side of the great cliff of Slieve Liag. That hotel is closed now, but in its day it housed a happy company of government officials, each succession going about their business. Two painters came to this place. Lord Leighton arrived to paint 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. The older men loved to tell of his stately courtesy and his unfeigned kindness of heart. Sir Noel Paton came for a similar purpose, 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, as the author says, 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.

12. Dawros Bay Hotel and cliff voyage

    Dawros · townland · Donegal

    The comfortable Dawros Bay Hotel, formerly the summer residence of a recorder of Cork, served as the starting point for the perilous cliff voyage along the Loughros Beg coast. By the time of writing the hotel was a thing of the past.

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    Before I left County Donegal I made up my mind to visit the last nesting-place of the golden eagle within its boundaries, the lonely and not easily accessible peak of Slieve-a-Tooey, which frowns over the narrow and wildly grand inlet of Loughros Beg. Whoever would see the full magnificence of that awe-inspiring scene must take a stout boat with a careful crew and a good captain, and row leisurely along under the precipitous cliffs. The voyage, which is best made from Dawros, is one of marvellous sublimity from beginning to end; but it is attended by so many risks that few undertake it. Only when the experienced captain notes the sea breaking with gentlest force upon Loughros Point will he pilot any by the side of that perilous coast. The comfortable Dawros Bay Hotel is now a thing of the past, which occupied the summer residence of a former recorder of Cork. It was my _ starting-point more than twenty years ago, and I had to delay my journey for five days before what the captain called “‘a flat sea ”’ was attainable and the voyage could be taken with comparative though not even then certain safety.

    There are about ten miles of cliffs varying from four hundred to fourteen hundred feet in height, cut into a thousand fantastic shapes. When the sun shines on them their colours are as varied and gorgeous as the fairest fabric wrought on some choice Indian loom, and infinitely brighter. As they front the north, it is best to see them near sunrise or sunset, at which times in the distance they look like a pale drab broken wall rising above water of an indigo blue. But a nearer approach reveals the artistry of Nature’s hand painting the bare crags with patterns as delicate as those on a butterfly’s wing. Enormous

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 18

13. Dunfanaghy, the fort of the fair warrior

    Dunfanaghy · town · Donegal

    Dunfanaghy, meaning 'the fort of the fair warrior,' lies at the head of the western arm of Sheep Haven, with its waters nearly reaching the town's guest-chambers at high tide. The author could not trace either the 'dun' or the 'fair warrior' from which the place is named.

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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

    Coming up through Dunfanaghy now, in Donegal. The name means the fort of the fair warrior, and the town sits at the head of the western arm of Sheep Haven. At high tide the water comes almost under the windows of the outer guest-chambers. The author could not trace either the fort or the fair warrior that gave the place its name. 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 it. The country towards Creeslough and towards Falcarragh is almost entirely brown bogland, with the occasional lough and deep ditch. It was once covered with fir-trees, clear from the remains of roots and branches all across the bog. The Elizabethan 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. Thirty years before the author's first visit to Donegal, a long car ran here from Letterkenny. It always carried more passengers than it could manage. The well sat between two back-to-back rows, piled with luggage and provisions shed along the route. A rail was supposed to keep the baggage from the passengers' backs, though loose packages still came down on their heads now and then.

14. Errigal's white cone and Wee Errigal

    Errigal · minor feature · Donegal

    The narrator describes Errigal towering like a great white cone flushed with faintly purple screes, with Wee Errigal peeping over its shoulder. The two mountains together present a magnificent picture of wildness and peace.

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    Behind towered Errigal like a great white cone just flushed with faintly purple screes, with Wee Errigal peeping over its shoulder. The two mountains, the greater and the lesser, presented a magnificent picture of wildness, yet of peace, which will not soon fade from my mind. Just at this moment there was a stir amongst the salmon, which leaped away on this side and on that: a boat made its appearance from some hidden creek in the stream, moving slowly towards the Gweedore Hotel. It contained a part of anglers, evidently rejoicing in their good catch: they laughed and sang and chaffed one another with the highest spirits. The head of the party, catching sight of me, offered to take me on to the hotel. I thanked him and remarked that I was going on to Crolly Bridge. I shall never forget the look of profound pity which spread over his features when he learned my destination. Manifestly he thought that he had made a mistake in addressing me at all: when he turned to his companions and repeated my information, their mirth faded from their countenances, and that stony look came over them, which an Englishman puts on when he wishes to assert his own measureless superiority in birth or wealth to one less fortunate, as he thinks him.

    I was intensely amused with their conceit, and congratulating myself that I] was not destined to meet them at dinner in the insanity of evening dress, I turned to the left and soon found myself at Crolly Bridge. I was greatly attracted by the fine troutstream, no less than by the huge granite boulders, which lay scattered everywhere along this part of the road; it seemed as if a party of giants had just left off playing a game of quoits. But I had little

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 53

    As the companion tells it

    A great white cone of a mountain, Errigal, flushed with faintly purple screes, with Wee Errigal peeping over its shoulder. The two mountains, the greater and the lesser, made what the writer called "a magnificent picture of wildness, yet of peace." At that moment there was a stir among the salmon, which leaped away on this side and on that. A boat appeared from some hidden creek in the stream, moving slowly towards the Gweedore Hotel. It held a party of anglers, rejoicing in their good catch. They laughed and sang and chaffed one another in the highest spirits. The head of the party, catching sight of the writer, offered to take him on to the hotel. He thanked the man and said he was going on to Crolly Bridge. He never forgot the look of profound pity that spread over the angler's features when he heard that destination. The angler turned to his companions and repeated the information. Their mirth faded, and that stony look came over them, which an Englishman puts on when he wishes to assert his own measureless superiority in birth or wealth to one less fortunate, as he thinks him. The writer was intensely amused by their conceit. Congratulating himself that he was not destined to meet them at dinner in the insanity of evening dress, he turned to the left and soon found himself at Crolly Bridge. He was greatly taken by the fine trout stream, no less than by the huge granite boulders scattered everywhere along that part of the road. It seemed as if a party of giants had just left off playing a game of quoits.

15. Protestant Cathedral in Derry dedicated to Columbkille

    near Derry · city · Derry

    The Protestant Cathedral in Derry, distinguished as the first Protestant cathedral built in Ireland, was dedicated to Columbkille. The author considers the dedication a well-deserved tribute to the saint's memory.

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    Just within the borders of County Donegal, on a hill overlooking the lovely waters of Lough Swilly, stood the ‘‘ Grianan of Ailleach,’’ or the ‘‘ plaisaunce’’ of the northern kings of Ireland. Near to this some of his great kinsmen had a lesser fortress known as Calgagh Derry, which they handed over to him out of admiration for his learning and his piety. Here he founded his first and favourite monastery on the site of the present City of Derry, which still bears its name from the oak-wood by the side of which the community settled. This foundation soon gained a high reputation throughout Ireland, and many monks from distant places came to study within its walls. Its memory is ‘preserved by the name of Long-tower Lane in the more modern city, where for many centuries stood a lofty round tower, which would not be built in his day. The Protestant Cathedral, which has the distinction of being the first Protestant Cathedral built in Ireland, has been dedicated to him, who well deserved the tribute to his memory.

    200 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 89

    As the companion tells it

    Derry takes its name from the oak-wood where Columbkille's first monastery settled. His kinsmen held a lesser fortress near the Grianan of Ailleach, the great stronghold of the northern kings on a hill overlooking Lough Swilly, just within County Donegal. They handed the fortress, known as Calgagh Derry, over to him out of admiration for his learning and his piety. There he founded his first and favourite monastery, on the ground where the city now stands. The monastery gained a high reputation throughout Ireland. Monks from distant places came to study within its walls. Long-tower Lane in the modern city preserves its memory, marking the spot where a lofty round tower stood for many centuries, though that tower would not have been built in his day. The Protestant Cathedral in Derry has the distinction of being the first Protestant cathedral built in Ireland. It has been dedicated to Columbkille, who well deserved the tribute to his memory.

16. The Great Horn of Horn Head after the storm

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    After the storm passed, the author gazed back at the Great Horn, describing its twin blunt horns, vividly coloured rock strata, and breakers dashing against its scarred base. He considered it one of Nature's sublimest sights, surpassing any poetic description.

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    On the land side were rolling expanses of grass and bog with occasional patches of sand, where rabbits began to steal out of their burrows and scamper over the scanty herbage. Ata suitable spot I turned to look back at the Great Horn, and was thrilled by the majesty of its shape and the beauty of its colour. Its full height cut the sky once more clear and blue, towering above the breakers now crested with white and dashing over its deeply scarred base with appalling fury. They must have risen many feet above their angry surface, so large were the clouds of snowy spray.

    The two blunt horns were its distinctive feature, giving abundant testimony to the exact appropriateness of its name. Under and behind its ledges were green lines of vegetation, but too far off to distinguish into its various kinds. The face of the huge cliff was scarred with a wonderful network of lines and fissures: the strata were very distinctly marked, and the two kinds of rock showed themselves in vivid colours in the renewed sunlight. But the varied shades of colour were beyond the skill of the artist’s brush, or the poet’s subtler pen, to suggest even faintly. I leave them to the imagination, which is after all the best landscape-painter when the scene is no longer before the eyes. I stood in rapt silence before one of Nature’s sublimest sights, bareheaded and full-hearted; nor could I recall a single line from my favourite poets, which did not seem bald and utterly trivial in the face of that grand reality. Let rural bards sing of soft sylvan scenes and prattling brooks, if they will; let Byron chant in deeper tone the sublimities of the Alps in his ‘“Manfred.”’ But let me satisfy my soul with gazing on the giant cliff soaring above the roaring sea, when a brief storm has just swept over its wrinkled face.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 32

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head, after a storm had passed, the author turned back to look at the Great Horn and was struck by the majesty of its shape and the beauty of its colour. Its full height cut the sky, now clear and blue, towering above breakers crested with white and dashing over its deeply scarred base with what he called appalling fury. The waves threw up clouds of snowy spray, rising many feet above their angry surface. The two blunt horns were its distinctive feature, giving abundant testimony to the exact appropriateness of its name. Under and behind its ledges were green lines of vegetation, too far off to distinguish into their various kinds. The face of the huge cliff was scarred with a wonderful network of lines and fissures. The strata were very distinctly marked, and two kinds of rock showed themselves in vivid colours in the renewed sunlight. But the varied shades of colour were, in his words, beyond the skill of the artist's brush, or the poet's subtler pen, to suggest even faintly. He left them to the imagination, which he called the best landscape-painter when the scene is no longer before the eyes. He stood in rapt silence before one of Nature's sublimest sights, bareheaded and full-hearted. He could not recall a single line from his favourite poets that did not seem bald and utterly trivial in the face of that grand reality. Let rural bards sing of soft sylvan scenes and prattling brooks if they will. Let Byron chant in deeper tone the sublimities of the Alps in his Manfred. But let him satisfy his soul with gazing on the giant cliff soaring above the roaring sea, when a brief storm has just swept over its wrinkled face.

17. Views from Errigal's summit and Altan Lough

    Errigal · minor feature · Donegal

    The author recalls two striking views of Errigal mountain and the panoramic prospect from its tapering summit, as well as looking down into the blue depths of Altan Lough from the narrow ridge.

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    In the meantime I was enjoying myself to the full as intensely: I did not need to talk; I was only obliged to put in such interjections as ‘‘ Really! * and the like, while my mind was free to meditate over what I had seen that day. The ‘‘ garron ’’ was going home, and though fatigued by its long journey, it needed no driving, so that my host had fair play for his imagination. His rapid narratives disturbed me no more than the vesper-hymn of the birds; they formed a sort of obligato to my thoughts, not unlike the pianoforte accompaniment to the modern reciter. My mind was filled with Errigal, so that there was no room for anything else. I was thinking of the two marvellous views of it which I had enjoyed, the one from near its base, the other from a considerable height. I was recalling the noble prospect in every direction from its tapering summit; I was gazing down into the blue depths of Altan Lough from the narrow ridge. Then, for the first time, I pictured to myself the horror of a fall from that sheer height, which had never entered into my mind when I was actually in danger of it.

    I was rethinking the thoughts which had flooded my brain, when I had seemed to hang almost in air above the sunlit landscape. Then Glenveagh with the tragic story of the old Irishman rose in my soul: I could see his face with its terrible look of passionate indignation. I could see the hapless wretches, old and young, men, women, and children turned out of their homes on a winter’s night, because ‘‘ someone had blundered.’’ It was a saddening thought, a sorrowful mental picture, which was too applicable to many parts of Ireland even at that very moment. In this way we trotted along, he driving and talking, I listening and thinking of something very different, while the

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 64

    As the companion tells it

    Errigal in Donegal is a mountain that fills the mind, leaving no room for anything else. The author recalls two marvellous views of it, one from near its base, the other from a considerable height. From its tapering summit there is a noble prospect in every direction. From the narrow ridge, the blue depths of Altan Lough open below. Standing there, the author had seemed to hang almost in air above the sunlit landscape. Only afterwards, for the first time, did the horror of a fall from that sheer height enter the mind, though it had never occurred when the danger was real. Then another thought rose. Glenveagh, and the tragic story of the old Irishman. The author could see his face, with its terrible look of passionate indignation. He could see the hapless wretches, old and young, men, women, and children, turned out of their homes on a winter's night, because "someone had blundered." It was a saddening thought, a sorrowful mental picture, too applicable to many parts of Ireland even at that very moment. The author had been travelling home, the horse fatigued but needing no driving. His host talked rapidly while the author listened and thought of something very different. The host's narratives disturbed him no more than the vesper-hymn of the birds, forming a sort of obligato to his thoughts.

18. Holy Well of Doon a pilgrimage site served by the railway

    Doon · townland · Donegal

    The Loughswilly light railway passes near the Holy Well of Doon, benefiting numerous pilgrims who visit the site. This is one of the few places of human habitation or significance that the railway route actually approaches.

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    Mr. Harkin was very full of the advantages which the extension of the Loughswilly light railway would bring to this part of the county. The light railway has since come into being, and no doubt fulfils some of his prophecies. But by a singularly false piece of economy this single-gauge line traces vast expanses of bog, and with one, or perhaps two, exceptions has succeeded in carefully avoiding the chief towns and villages, which it was intended to serve. For example, it is nearly two miles. from the important village of Church Hill, a full mile from the historic hamlet of Kilmacrenan, though it does pass near the Holy Well of Doon, and so benefits a numerous host of pilgrims. When it reaches Creeslough, by what

    56 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 25

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Doon, there is a holy well that draws pilgrims. The Loughswilly light railway was built through this part of Donegal, and it mostly misses the places it was meant to serve. It runs nearly two miles from Church Hill and a full mile from Kilmacrenan, tracing vast expanses of bog instead. But it does pass near the Holy Well of Doon, and so it benefits the numerous host of pilgrims who come there. A man named Harkin had spoken of the advantages the railway would bring, and in this one respect at least, the line seems to have fulfilled something of what he hoped.

19. Illicit whiskey still made in mountains near Dunfanaghy

    Dunfanaghy · town · Donegal

    Despite a bountiful supply of inns in Dunfanaghy, illicit whiskey is still known to be manufactured in the heart of the neighbouring mountains. This indicates continued poitín production in the area.

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    towns in the west of Donegal: it consists of one long straggling street opening out into the ‘‘ Diamond,” or market-place. It has three churches, the finest of which is the Presbyterian, the largest the Catholic Chapel, and the third belongs to the Church of Ireland. Round certain parts of Donegal it may be noted that there is a strong contingent of Presbyterians, especially in the neighbourhood of Milford. The older village is a group of more or less tidylooking cabins on the way to the Golf Links, and overlooking the harbour. The harbour itself is crossed by many. shoals and a considerable sand-bar, so that it is almost impassable except for smaller boats, though it is a pleasant sail across to Rosapenna with a flood tide and a fair wind. There is a bountiful supply of inns, notwithstanding the fact that illicit whiskey is still known to be manufactured in the heart of the neighbouring mountains.

    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

    Dunfanaghy is a town in the west of Donegal, a long straggling street that opens out into the Diamond, the market-place. It has three churches. The finest is the Presbyterian, the largest the Catholic Chapel, and the third belongs to the Church of Ireland. The older village is a group of cabins on the way to the Golf Links, overlooking the harbour. The harbour itself is crossed by many shoals and a considerable sand-bar, so it is almost impassable except for smaller boats, though it is a pleasant sail across to Rosapenna with a flood tide and a fair wind. There is a bountiful supply of inns here. Notwithstanding that, illicit whiskey is still known to be manufactured in the heart of the neighbouring mountains. The poitín makers kept at their work even with inns enough to serve the town. Among the shops there is one of those stores of a miscellaneous order, common in Ireland, where almost any less useful article can be bought and a few of the necessities of life. It had a dusty appearance. The boxes of matches were coated with dust, the packets of Murray's Mixture no less embedded in dust, as was the big coil of Limerick Roll. One morning a pair of laces was bought there, also thickened with dust. The very change, which took a long time in finding, was covered with dust. Little purchasing went on, yet the shop was often crowded with those who had come in to hear the news and contribute their own share of information. The Gaelic was much in evidence, its sonorous vowels emphasised by a liberal supply of gutturals. Frequent shouts of laughter told of the excellence of the conversation.

20. Kilclooney village near Loughrosmore between Ardara and Narin

    Kilclooney · townland · Cork

    Kilclooney is a small village situated on the road between Ardara and Narin, about a mile from the shore of Loughrosmore in County Donegal. Though it plays a small part in the county's economy today, it was once the scene of a pagan legend.

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    I will end this brief consideration of the traditions of County Donegal with the record of a pagan legend, which may yet have a faint hint of history concealed beneath its semi-mythical trappings. On the road between Ardara and Narin lies a pleasantly situated little village named Kilclooney, about a mile from the present shore of Loughrosmore. It plays but a small part in the economy of its county to-day; but once it was one of the scenes of an

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 78

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here is Kilclooney, a village on the road between Ardara and Narin, about a mile from the shore of Loughrosmore. It plays a small part in the economy of its county today, but once it was one of the scenes of a pagan legend. The writer says such a legend may yet have a faint hint of history concealed beneath its semi-mythical trappings.

21. Lord George Hill's hotel at Gweedore

    near Gweedore · locality · Donegal

    Lord George Hill built a hotel at Gweedore for anglers and sportsmen. A local family near Errigal recognised the hotel and noted that the author was instead heading to a smaller inn nearby.

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    Then I asked permission to leave my knapsack where it was until my return from the summit. It was readily granted, especially when the family learned that I was not going to the great hotel at Gweedore which Lord George Hill built for anglers and sportsmen, but intended to spend some days at Paddie Gallaher’s comfortable little inn. Clearly he was a friend or distant relative of theirs, for with one breath they assured me that he ‘‘ was a grand man entirely, and his wife was a jew’l of a woman.” Both of these eulogies in due time ! found to be not in the least exaggerated, but in the

    102 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 47

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Gweedore in Donegal, you're near where Lord George Hill built a great hotel for anglers and sportsmen. The author wasn't staying there, though. He was headed to Paddie Gallaher's smaller inn nearby, and a family he met close to Errigal were glad to hear it. They called Paddie "a grand man entirely" and said his wife was "a jew'l of a woman." In time he found both praises were not in the least exaggerated.

22. May Day fairy beliefs at Dungloe

    Dunglow · town · Donegal

    While staying at Dungloe on the first of May, the narrator notes that fairies and other mischievous beings are credited with especial power on this day, which they use to the prejudice of mortals. The passage describes a fine moonlight night over the Atlantic at Dungloe with ashen clouds, silver-lit waves, and a gentle breeze.

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    When I was staying at Dunglow, it happened to be the first of May, when fairies and other mischievous beings are credited with especial power, which they always use to the prejudice of mortals. It chanced to be a fine moonlight night: the ashen clouds here and there lighted up into a silvery splendour sailed swiftly over the deep blue dome, the Atlantic waves were lined with curves of living lustre, and a gentle breeze was breathing softly over the

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 70

    As the companion tells it

    You're passing through Dunglow in Donegal. A traveller once stayed here on the first of May, when fairies and other mischievous beings were credited with especial power, which they always used to the prejudice of mortals. That night chanced to be a fine moonlight one. Ashen clouds lighted up into silvery splendour and sailed over the deep blue dome, while the Atlantic waves were lined with curves of living lustre and a gentle breeze breathed softly over all.

23. Puffin colony and seabird creek on Horn Head

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    The author discovers a large colony of puffin burrows on the cliffs of Horn Head, then walks to a narrow creek running into the rocks where kittiwakes nest in dense rows on the ledges. The creek is also visited by common and Arctic terns skimming the waves at the narrow gap.

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    the darker rock, while they still scolded the wind and one another with piercing shrieks. But I was not long left to peaceful contemplation: a hoarse grumbling sound seemed to issue from beneath my feet; I turned quickly round and never moved so much as an eyelid, that I might see what it might be. In a moment a puffin started quickly from its burrow, where no doubt its mate was quietly attending to her maternal duties, and where it may have taken shelter from the storm. Its rapid flight and its parrot-like bill, its white cheeks and breast, and its brown back shot by me like a flash. It made me almost dizzy when I saw it fly straight over the precipitous ridge, drop down into the dark green waters, and dive beneath the swollen surface. I lay down by the side of the burrow, and stretched my arm up to the shoulder into its recess; but I did not come anywhere near the eggs, or the spot where the female bird may have been sitting in its dark security. I have no doubt that my misguided zeal for inquiry would have been rewarded by a fearsome punishment from the mother-bird, had my hand come within her reach. Past experience has taught me that puffins, even when taken at a disadvantage, are brave enough, and can bite to good purpose. Unwillingly I drew back my arm, stained with the soil of the burrow, and looked about me. I soon found that I was in the presence of a fairly large colony of similar burrows. But neither with stick nor arm could I induce any other birds to quit their shelter. At first I imagined that the colony had turned out a company of rabbits from their ancient homes: but I am convinced that the strong bill ‘of these active divers had done the whole of the work. I walked as cautiously as possible from the colony of puffins to a narrow creek, which ran far into the rocks. The waves tossed and thundered in its depths, still angered by the assault of the wind: but the tide was beginning to retreat, and

    72 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 33

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head, there is a puffin colony on the cliffs, and a narrow creek running far into the rocks. The author was standing on the darker rock when a hoarse grumbling sound came from beneath his feet. He kept perfectly still. In a moment a puffin burst from its burrow and shot past him like a flash, its parrot-like bill and white cheeks visible for an instant. It flew straight over the precipitous ridge, dropped into the dark green waters, and dove beneath the swollen surface. He lay down beside the burrow and stretched his arm in up to the shoulder, but could not reach the eggs or the female bird sitting in the dark. He knew from past experience that puffins, even at a disadvantage, are brave and can bite to good purpose. He drew his arm back, stained with the soil of the burrow. Looking about, he found himself in the presence of a fairly large colony of similar burrows. Neither stick nor arm could induce any other birds to leave their shelter. At first he imagined the colony had turned out a company of rabbits from their ancient homes, but he became convinced that the strong bills of these active divers had done the whole of the work. He walked as cautiously as possible from the puffin colony to the narrow creek, which ran far into the rocks. The waves tossed and thundered in its depths, still angered by the assault of the wind, but the tide was beginning to retreat.

24. The Great Horn of Horn Head

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    The Great Horn is the highest point of the cliff on Horn Head, rising sheer from the water like a Cyclopean fortress wall. A narrow green ridge leads to its extreme point, which hangs over the abyss with the cliff dropping abruptly on either side.

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    Straight in front was the Great Horn, or highest point of the cliff, though the hill behind was more than two hundred feet higher. It stood out of the water like the wall of a Cyclopean fortress, against which the rage of wind and wave spent their might in vain. The ridge leading to it was narrow, though not dangerous except to those who cannot accommodate themselves to heights and distances. The turf covering it was quite firm and wonderfully green, save where it was starred over with clumps of scattered daisies. As I stood on it two lines rushed into my mind which have haunted me from childhood, which I think were written by Charles Wesley when he stood on the desolate height of Land’s End, in Cornwall:

    Lo on a narrow neck of land ’Twixt two contending seas I stand.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 30

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head, the Great Horn stands as the highest point of the cliff, though the hill behind rises more than 200 feet higher still. It rises sheer out of the water like the wall of a Cyclopean fortress, against which wind and wave spend their rage in vain. A narrow ridge of firm green turf leads out to its extreme point, starred over with scattered clumps of daisies. It is not dangerous except to those who cannot accommodate themselves to heights and distances. Standing there, two lines came to mind that have haunted from childhood, thought to have been written by Charles Wesley when he stood on the desolate height of Land's End in Cornwall:

25. Altan Lough in the cleft between mountains

    Altan Lough · lake or lakes · Donegal

    From the narrow ridge between two peaks, the screes on the northern side appear to fall almost perpendicularly into Altan Lough, described as wild and lonely. The lake lies in the cleft between the screes and the precipitous Aghla More, with sapphire waters seemingly close enough to drop a stone into from the ridge above.

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    When I reached the middle of the ridge I paused to look down the screes on the northern side. The spectacle was sublime, and to dizzy heads appalling : the screes seemed to fall almost perpendicularly into the wild and lonely Altan Lough, which lay in the cleft between themselves and the precipitous Aghla More, or Wee Errigal. In the clear air the sapphire waters seemed not far away; nay it appeared as if I could have dropped a stone straight into their blue depths. Between the two mountains, and almost overhanging the lake, lies that magnificent series of precipices known as the Bheagy, which I have never

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 48

    As the companion tells it

    Altan Lough lies in Donegal, a wild and lonely lake seated in the cleft between mountains. From the middle of the narrow ridge between two peaks, the screes on the northern side seem to fall almost perpendicularly into its waters. The lake sits between those screes and the precipitous Aghla More, also called Wee Errigal. In clear air the sapphire waters look close, so close you might think a stone dropped from the ridge would fall straight into their blue depths. Between the two mountains, almost overhanging the lake, lies that magnificent series of precipices known as the Bheagy.

26. Bloody Foreland's ruddy tint from the heights

    Bloody Foreland · promontory · Donegal

    From a mountain summit, the author surveys the whole of County Donegal from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay. Among the crowded landscape of bays, islands, and capes, the ruddy tint of Bloody Foreland is noted.

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    The air was so clear that the distant landscape appeared to lie almost at my feet. The whole of County Donegal was in sight from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay. Surely there never was so fantastically cloven a coast-line outside of Norway, where the scenery no doubt is cast in a grander mould. Not even the noble coast of the west of Scotland is more curiously cut into quaint leaf-like patterns. Bay followed bay, inlet trod on the heels of inlet, cape rose after cape, patch of golden sand succeeded to patch, island floated next to island in bewildering profusion, all deeply outlined on the blue Atlantic, which in its turn blended with the blue sky. Much of the crag-bound coast which rises steeply over its belt of orange sand, was hidden from me, though here and there lines of deeper grey told of shattered rock and frowning precipice. Tory and its three attendant islets, the Rosses with Aranmore and a host of islands gradually decreasing into bare crags, the ruddy tint of the so-called Bloody. Foreland, rivers and streams in hundreds, lakes in thousands crowded the scene, which was dotted over with the

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 49

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Bloody Foreland, the land takes on a ruddy tint from the heights above. A traveller once stood on a mountain summit where the air was so clear the distant landscape appeared to lie almost at his feet. The whole of County Donegal was in sight, from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay. He said there never was 'so fantastically cloven a coastline' outside Norway, where the scenery is cast in a grander mould. Not even the noble coast of the west of Scotland is more curiously cut into quaint leaf-like patterns. Bay followed bay, inlet trod on the heels of inlet, cape rose after cape. Patch of golden sand succeeded to patch, island floated next to island in bewildering profusion, all outlined on the blue Atlantic, which blended with the blue sky. Much of the crag-bound coast was hidden, though here and there lines of deeper grey told of shattered rock and frowning precipice. Tory and its three attendant islets, the Rosses with Aranmore and a host of islands, rivers and streams in hundreds, lakes in thousands crowded the scene.

27. Bog and landscape of the Poisoned Glen

    Poisoned Glen · valley · Donegal

    The author describes crossing the boggy floor of the Poisoned Glen, noting its soft surface, rare bog-plants, sweet gale, and the stream running through it. Despite the guidebook's warning of 'detestable' terrain, he found it passable and picturesque, with towering white rocks above and firmer pebbly stretches along the water.

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    When after my long and toilsome descent I came to the bottom of the glen, I began to understand the force of the guide-book-maker’s expressive adjective “* detestable,’’ though I did not entirely sympathize with its malignity. No doubt the surface is boggy; but the bog, though of the ‘‘ soft order,’’ can be crossed with reasonable care. It is true that he has written for easy-chair travellers, as well as for the most adventurous; hence he has been wise in giving a strong caution to the first, which will only whet the appetite of the second. The true pedestrian in Ireland does not set out on his travels in satin slippers, nor can he reasonably expect to find dry walking whereever he goes. Bogs quite as ‘‘ detestable ’’ as that in the Poisoned Glen, and far less picturesque, are to be found on most of our British moors and mountainhollows, which need just as much nimbleness and caution as the one in question. Furthermore, little forests of sweet gale covered the softest spots, which breathed forth a pleasant and refreshing perfume: many rare bog-plants were to be seen, for the most part out of reach, and there was the unfailing company of the stream. This in itself was of much assistance to me; in the dry weather of the last fortnight it provided me with long stretches of firmer pebbly beach, on which I was able to tramp much at my ease.

    The sun shone fiercely down upon my bare poll, all the time that I was crossing that heaving surface : it seemed literally to bake the perpendicular white rocks towering above me into a heat matching their colour. But it had one advantage, it did to a certain

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 62

    As the companion tells it

    This is the Poisoned Glen in Donegal, a valley the road passes through or near. A guidebook once called its floor detestable, and that word sits in the mind, but the man who came down into it after a long and toilsome descent found it was not so bad as all that. The surface is boggy, yes, and of the soft order, but it can be crossed with reasonable care. The guidebook writer had to warn the easy-chair traveller, while knowing the adventurous sort would only be whetted by the caution. The true pedestrian in Ireland does not set out in satin slippers, and does not expect dry walking everywhere he goes. The softest spots were covered in little forests of sweet gale, breathing out a pleasant and refreshing perfume. Many rare bog-plants grew there, most of them out of reach, and the stream kept unfailing company. That stream was a help. After a fortnight of dry weather it offered long stretches of firmer pebbly beach to tramp along at ease. The sun shone fiercely down on his bare poll the whole time he crossed that heaving surface. It seemed to bake the perpendicular white rocks towering above into a heat matching their colour. But it had one advantage, at least to a certain degree.

28. Burton Port: great fishing station for northern Donegal

    Burtonport · town · Donegal

    The Loughswilly light railway terminates at Burton Port, described as a great fishing station for northern Donegal. The line ends there after bypassing most of the towns it was intended to serve.

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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

    Up ahead is Burtonport, where the Loughswilly light railway comes to an end after bypassing most of the towns it was meant to serve. The line runs four miles from Dunfanaghy and about three from Falcarragh, and one stretch crosses a viaduct through Barnes Beg Gap with foundations so shaky that trains crawl at no more than four miles an hour. It was described as a great fishing station for northern Donegal.

29. Dooish hiding Lough Veagh on its eastern flank

    Dooish · townland · Donegal

    Dooish is described as bare and rugged, with white rocks on its summit gleaming like snow through meagre green herbage. It hides Lough Veagh below its precipitous eastern flank, though from the summit ridge it appears dwarfed beside Errigal.

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    the most part, too majestic indeed for the calmersouled lover of the rural landscape. Retracing my steps I soon regained the summit which I had climbed first: there I sat down to spend, literally, some ‘melting moments,’’ while I surveyed the marvellous prospect which unfolded itself to my eager eyes. Though of no great height, Errigal towered above all of the neighbouring mountains: Muckish, a little more than two hundred feet lower, lay like a great back sloping gently upwards toward the north, {ts hollows and crevices flooded by the dazzling light, and its numerous streams like lines of silver finding their way to the valleys beneath. Dooish, though it hid Lough Veagh below its precipitous eastern flank, seemed completely dwarfed, and the white rocks on its summit gleamed like snow through its meagre curtain of green herbage.

    The air was so clear that the distant landscape appeared to lie almost at my feet. The whole of County Donegal was in sight from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay. Surely there never was so fantastically cloven a coast-line outside of Norway, where the scenery no doubt is cast in a grander mould. Not even the noble coast of the west of Scotland is more curiously cut into quaint leaf-like patterns. Bay followed bay, inlet trod on the heels of inlet, cape rose after cape, patch of golden sand succeeded to patch, island floated next to island in bewildering profusion, all deeply outlined on the blue Atlantic, which in its turn blended with the blue sky. Much of the crag-bound coast which rises steeply over its belt of orange sand, was hidden from me, though here and there lines of deeper grey told of shattered rock and frowning precipice. Tory and its three attendant islets, the Rosses with Aranmore and a host of islands gradually decreasing into bare crags, the ruddy tint of the so-called Bloody. Foreland, rivers and streams in hundreds, lakes in thousands crowded the scene, which was dotted over with the

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 49

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Dooish, the mountain rises bare and rugged, its summit scattered with white rocks that gleam like snow through a thin curtain of green herbage. Dooish hides Lough Veagh below its precipitous eastern flank, though from the summit ridge of Errigal it seems completely dwarfed beside that towering peak. The writer climbed Errigal and sat down on the summit to take in the prospect. Errigal, though of no great height, towered above all the neighbouring mountains. Muckish lay a little more than 200 feet lower, like a great back sloping gently upward toward the north, its hollows and crevices flooded by dazzling light, its streams like lines of silver finding their way to the valleys beneath. The air was so clear that the distant landscape appeared to lie almost at the writer's feet. The whole of County Donegal was in sight, from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay. The coastline was fantastically cloven, bay following bay, inlet treading on the heels of inlet, cape rising after cape. Patches of golden sand succeeded one another, islands floated next to islands in bewildering profusion, all outlined on the blue Atlantic blending with the blue sky. Tory and its 3 attendant islets, the Rosses with Aranmore and a host of islands fading into bare crags, the ruddy tint of Bloody Foreland, rivers and streams in hundreds, lakes in thousands all crowded the scene.

30. Finest viewpoints of Errigal from Ballygeeha Gap and Altan Lough

    Errigal · minor feature · Donegal

    The author identifies two locations offering the finest views of Errigal, the king of the Donegal mountains: from Ballygeeha Gap on the south side and from the foot of Altan Lough on the north.

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    I had sighted the marble church for some time, which looked very cold and white, as perhaps is fitting for the Protestant Church of Ireland: I do not think that I should be over-eager to worship in it, if it be true that it is only attended by three families. It is impossible, even with the gracious after-glow of memory, to describe the mingled glory and beauty of that majestic scene, nor will I make the vain attempt; but the sight of it repays a thousandfold the really hard labour of the descent and the subsequent inconveniences to be detailed in their place. From Ballygeeha Gap on the south, and the foot of Altan Lough of the north, the two finest views of the king of the Donegal mountains can be seen to best

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 61

    As the companion tells it

    This is one of the finest viewpoints of Errigal, the mountain called the king of Donegal. The author of Haunts of the Eagle found two places from which its glory shows best: Ballygeeha Gap on the south side, and the foot of Altan Lough on the north. Before reaching these views, he had sighted a marble church that looked very cold and white, attended, he was told, by only three families. Of the mountain itself he wrote that it is impossible to describe "the mingled glory and beauty of that majestic scene," but the sight of it repays a thousandfold the hard labour of the descent and all the inconveniences that followed.

31. Horn Head promontory and Atlantic cliffs

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    Horn Head is a great promontory forming the western boundary of Sheep Haven, joined to the mainland by a long isthmus of sand hills. Its cliffs stretch nearly ten miles from the Little Horn to MacSwyne's Gun, rising over six hundred feet at the Great Horn, composed of quartzite and diorite schist.

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    boundary of the romantic inlet of Sheep Haven. It is joined to the mainland by a long isthmus of sand hills, the home of tens of thousands of rabbits. It is true that this isthmus is crossed by a watercourse running under a stout bridge, which may be said to make an island of the great headland. Geologically its vast mass of rock consists of a schist made up of quartzite and diorite, the division of which can be seen clearly at a little distance. The cliffs stretch for a length of nearly ten miles from the Little Horn to MacSwyne’s Gun, rising abruptly out of the water to a height of over six hundred feet at the Great Horn. Their prevailing hue is white shot with a marvellous variety of colours wrought partly by weathering, partly by splashes of metallic gold, partly by the trailing ribands and minuter embroidery of vegetation. The magnificent crags are lashed by the full weight of the Atlantic Ocean; for Tory Island can hardly be said to break appreciably the onward rush of the great rollers from the west. When the sea is calm, the foaming waves dash themselves hungrily against the hard rock, here and there eating out a spacious cave, here and there a noble natural arch. But for the most part they fall back

    51

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 23

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head, a great promontory forms the western boundary of Sheep Haven. It is joined to the mainland by a long isthmus of sand hills, the home of tens of thousands of rabbits. A watercourse runs under a stout bridge across that isthmus, which may be said to make an island of the headland. The rock is a schist of quartzite and diorite, the divisions showing clearly at a little distance. The cliffs stretch for nearly ten miles from the Little Horn to MacSwyne's Gun, rising abruptly out of the water to over 600 feet at the Great Horn. Their prevailing hue is white, shot with a marvellous variety of colours wrought partly by weathering, partly by splashes of metallic gold, partly by the trailing ribbons and finer embroidery of vegetation. These magnificent crags are lashed by the full weight of the Atlantic. Tory Island can hardly be said to break the onward rush of the great rollers from the west. When the sea is calm, the foaming waves dash themselves against the hard rock, here and there eating out a spacious cave, here and there a noble natural arch. For the most part they fall back.

32. Knocklayd's height concealing Fair Head from view

    near Knocklayd · mountain or mountain range · Antrim

    From a Donegal mountain summit, the height of Knocklayd in County Antrim blocks the line of sight to Fair Head. The panoramic vista nonetheless stretches across Counties Derry and Antrim to the distant Scottish islands.

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    Almost the whole of County Derry, looking vividly green with its woods and fields, County Antrim as far as the height of Knocklayd which hid Fair Head from me, lay stretched out like a flower-garden of richly blended hues. Beyond smiled the ocean, where the white cliffs of Rathlin Island, the Scottish Cantyre, Islay, and the expressively named Paps of Jura shone far away on the horizon, draped in a mantle of palest blue. The Mourne Mountains in County Down, with Slieve Donard and Slieve Bingian overtopping the rest, rose on the extreme verge of the eastern sky, chastened with the softening light of distance. It was a truly amazing landscape, jewelled with intensely blue lakes, embroidered with shining rivers, cleft by mountain ranges like huge waves suddenly frozen into stone. High above all, the sun blazed in the full majesty of his power, heightening the lights and deepening the shadows into one vast panoramic picture with an infinite variety of form and colour.

    Southward stood the rounded tops of the Blue Stack Mountains, gaily tinged with a delicate purple. Below them Donegal Bay stretched its blue length along the dark coast-line of County Mayo and the deep bay of Sligo. The irregular shape of the Mullet and the mountains of the Island of Achill faded into the sea towards the south-west: even the bald crown of Croagh Patrick lifted its broad head, and two pinnacles behind the sapphire cone of Nephin, looking like a sharply outlined silver cloud. Away to the east of the sacred mountain, Benbulben and the Ox Mountains drew a straight belt of pearly grey across the sky, bordered by a dull green shadow of dim woodland. Nearer, and across the bay, the long back of Slieve Liag hid its terrific precipices from sight : the lower mountains over Glencolumbkille were radiant with the splendour of a perfect day. The

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 50

    As the companion tells it

    Knocklayd is the mountain in County Antrim, and its height is what hides Fair Head from view. Seen from a summit in Donegal, the whole of County Derry lay vividly green with its woods and fields, and County Antrim stretched out as far as Knocklayd itself. The writer described it as a flower-garden of richly blended hues. Beyond it the ocean smiled. The white cliffs of Rathlin Island, the Scottish Cantyre, Islay, and the Paps of Jura shone far away on the horizon, draped in a mantle of palest blue. The Mourne Mountains in County Down rose on the extreme verge of the eastern sky, with Slieve Donard and Slieve Bingian overtopping the rest, chastened with the softening light of distance. The landscape was jewelled with intensely blue lakes, embroidered with shining rivers, cleft by mountain ranges like huge waves suddenly frozen into stone. High above all, the sun blazed in the full majesty of his power, heightening the lights and deepening the shadows into one vast panoramic picture with an infinite variety of form and colour. Southward stood the rounded tops of the Blue Stack Mountains, gaily tinged with a delicate purple. Below them Donegal Bay stretched its blue length along the dark coast-line of County Mayo and the deep bay of Sligo. The irregular shape of the Mullet and the mountains of the Island of Achill faded into the sea towards the south-west. Even the bald crown of Croagh Patrick lifted its broad head, and two pinnacles behind the sapphire cone of Nephin looked like a sharply outlined silver cloud.

33. Lough Nacung beneath boggy hills

    near Lough Nacung · lake or lakes · Donegal

    The narrator walks the Gweedore road past Lough Nacung, describing it as a melancholy-looking lake nestling beneath low, bare, boggy-topped hills, its smooth waters occasionally rippled by rising trout.

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    The fresh air of the mountain had filled my lungs and purified my blood: the solitary thoughts which had been my companions, had invigorated my mind, so that I felt like anew man. The bog lay on my right, Lough Nacung on my left, nestling beneath its low, bare, boggy-topped hills, its smooth waters rippled ever and anon by some rising trout. I often turned to revel in the majesty of Errigal and its companion mountains: I looked up at both of the peaks, upon one of which I had sat for two hours, and I sang to myself with the ‘‘ Village Blacksmith ”’ of Longfellow, but to a tune “‘ of my own composing,”’

    ‘‘ Something attempted, something done Has earned a night’s repose.’’

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 53

    As the companion tells it

    Lough Nacung is a melancholy-looking lake, nestling beneath low, bare, boggy-topped hills. A traveller once walked the Gweedore road past it, filled with fresh mountain air, feeling like a new man. The lake lay still, its smooth waters rippled now and then by a rising trout. He turned often to look at Errigal and its companion mountains. He had sat on one of those peaks for two hours, and he sang to himself, to a tune of his own composing, lines from Longfellow's Village Blacksmith: 'Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.'

34. Mourne Mountains dominated by Slieve Donard and Slieve Bingian

    near Slieve Donard · mountain or mountain range · Down

    From the Donegal heights, the Mourne Mountains appear on the eastern horizon, with Slieve Donard and Slieve Bingian overtopping the rest, softened by the hazy light of great distance.

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    Almost the whole of County Derry, looking vividly green with its woods and fields, County Antrim as far as the height of Knocklayd which hid Fair Head from me, lay stretched out like a flower-garden of richly blended hues. Beyond smiled the ocean, where the white cliffs of Rathlin Island, the Scottish Cantyre, Islay, and the expressively named Paps of Jura shone far away on the horizon, draped in a mantle of palest blue. The Mourne Mountains in County Down, with Slieve Donard and Slieve Bingian overtopping the rest, rose on the extreme verge of the eastern sky, chastened with the softening light of distance. It was a truly amazing landscape, jewelled with intensely blue lakes, embroidered with shining rivers, cleft by mountain ranges like huge waves suddenly frozen into stone. High above all, the sun blazed in the full majesty of his power, heightening the lights and deepening the shadows into one vast panoramic picture with an infinite variety of form and colour.

    Southward stood the rounded tops of the Blue Stack Mountains, gaily tinged with a delicate purple. Below them Donegal Bay stretched its blue length along the dark coast-line of County Mayo and the deep bay of Sligo. The irregular shape of the Mullet and the mountains of the Island of Achill faded into the sea towards the south-west: even the bald crown of Croagh Patrick lifted its broad head, and two pinnacles behind the sapphire cone of Nephin, looking like a sharply outlined silver cloud. Away to the east of the sacred mountain, Benbulben and the Ox Mountains drew a straight belt of pearly grey across the sky, bordered by a dull green shadow of dim woodland. Nearer, and across the bay, the long back of Slieve Liag hid its terrific precipices from sight : the lower mountains over Glencolumbkille were radiant with the splendour of a perfect day. The

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 50

    As the companion tells it

    The Mourne Mountains sit in County Down, and from the heights of Donegal they appear on the far eastern horizon, a distant wall of stone softened by haze. Two peaks rise above the rest: Slieve Donard and Slieve Bingian, overtopping every other summit in that range. The light of great distance chastens them, lending a gentleness that close at hand they might not wear. Seen this way, from the western side of the country, they mark the verge of the sky. The writer who recorded this view stood high in Donegal, looking out across a vast landscape. Almost the whole of County Derry lay beneath him, vividly green with woods and fields, stretched out like a flower-garden of richly blended hues. County Antrim extended as far as the height of Knocklayd, which hid Fair Head from sight. Beyond Derry smiled the ocean, where the white cliffs of Rathlin Island, the Scottish Cantyre, Islay, and the Paps of Jura shone far away on the horizon, draped in a mantle of palest blue. The Mourne Mountains rose on the extreme verge of the eastern sky, with Slieve Donard and Slieve Bingian overtopping the rest. It was, he wrote, a truly amazing landscape, jewelled with intensely blue lakes, embroidered with shining rivers, cleft by mountain ranges like huge waves suddenly frozen into stone. High above all, the sun blazed in the full majesty of his power, heightening the lights and deepening the shadows into one vast panoramic picture with an infinite variety of form and colour.

35. Panoramic view of Errigal and lakes from Slieve Snaght spur

    near Slieve Snaght · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    From an outlying spur of Slieve Snaght, the author beholds a magnificent vista of Errigal's stately slope with Aghla More behind it, the sapphire-blue lakes of Dunlewey and Nacung below, and the white road winding to Gweedore between mountain and lough.

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    Turning back towards Doochary Bridge I looked . carefully for the cart-track leading to a quarry used principally for providing material for the mending of the roads. I soon found it, as it passed by a roughly built stone office carefully locked, though I cannot imagine that there was anything to steal from it. Here I climbed to the top of the hill, which is really an outlying spur of Slieve Snacht. The next moment one of the most wonderful views that I have ever seen, in its own kind, broke with startling suddenness upon my sight. The stately slope of Errigal, with Aghla More just behind it, rose in front, its twin peaks blending into one. Below it stretched the two lakes of Dunlewey and Nacung, of a deep sapphire blue, with the hills leading up to Slieve Snacht beyond them. The white road to Gweedore wound between mountain and lough, looking thin as an autumn gossamer, the combination of line and colour had a sublimity and grandeur rarely matched throughout the county. I sat on a big boulder to let the scene soak into my very being. The light was so clear, that the great pyramid did not seem a mile away. The sun illumined its lower green slope, its grey screes and its shining peak: I could have imagined it an Alpine height, so snowy was its tranquil brow.

    When I had had my fill of seeing, I looked out for the track—path it is not—to the Poisoned Glen which lay at least a thousand feet below. The track up to Ballygeeha Gap had been arduous enough to content

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 60

36. Port: a tiny inlet on the wild Donegal coast

    Port · townland · Donegal

    Port is a tiny inlet on the Donegal coast where perpendicular cliffs sink to the sea, with two or three houses overlooking the wild waters. A boat party once entered the pass leading into Port, including an American lady journalist whose notes were never published.

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    The cliffs sink suddenly to the margin of the sea at a tiny inlet with two or three houses overlooking the wild waters, and bearing the august name of Port. Here a vast rounded rock known as the Tormore lifts its bare crown above the waves like a huge erratic boulder to the height of at least three hundred feet. In the season this islet is visited by

    42 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 19

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here the cliffs drop suddenly to the sea at a tiny inlet called Port, with two or three houses looking out over wild water. A vast rounded rock known as the Tormore lifts its bare crown above the waves like a huge erratic boulder, rising to at least 300 feet. In the season this islet is visited by boat parties.

37. Religious ceremonial at Lough Derg

    near Lough Derg · lake or lakes · Donegal

    The author refers with deep respect to the religious ceremonial at Lough Derg, a pilgrimage site in County Donegal, though it does not accord with his own views on such matters.

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    which is denied to me, else I do not doubt that I could have culled more vestiges of ancient beliefs and customs than the few I have tried to tell of ina far inferior fashion to that of their original narrators. The observer needs to have his eyes about him as well as his ears if certain customs, not immediately obvious, are not to escape him. Even so commonplace an action as spitting often has the same mystical meaning, which it has brought down with it from the past and is to be seen chronicled in many an old medical work issued by a learned physician. I have labelled the story of Diarmid and Grania quasi-historical: though it is in great part legendary and comparatively late, it may deal with historical personages. 1 am aware that some _ over-wise mythologists wish to elevate Finn MacCumhal to the region of a solar myth, in spite of the fact that such explanations have become a by-word amongst the authorities on these topics. Its importance consists in the fact that it does reveal a primitive state of society, when kings and noblemen lived almost as plainly as the lowliest of their subjects. The once world-famous palace of Tara was simply a large wattled building, just as the merest hut was a small wattled building. Such a state of things continued long after the passing away of Finn; nay, it may be said to have endured into the time when the annalists told the most gorgeous tales of unspeakable splendour. This legend does give a peep into primitive society, which is not entirely without its counterpart in our so-called Christian society. _Elopements are not unheard of to-day, though the bride-elect does not usually hocus the drink of the wedding-guests. But if she is determined to elope, there is no sound reason to prevent her, if that can in any way serve her turn. But I must not pursue these reflections further, though they are born naturally out of the subject. Of the religious ceremonial at the Holy Well of

    188 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 84

    As the companion tells it

    Lough Derg in Donegal is a lake long known as a place of pilgrimage. The author who wrote of this region turned to the religious ceremonial practiced here with deep respect, though he admitted it did not accord with his own views on such matters. He was a man who believed the observer needs to have his eyes about him as well as his ears, or certain customs not immediately obvious will escape him. He had tried to tell of vestiges of ancient beliefs and customs, and wished he could have gathered more, feeling he had done so in a fashion far inferior to the original narrators. He had labelled the story of Diarmid and Grania quasi-historical, noting that though it is in great part legendary and comparatively late, it may deal with historical personages. He was aware that some over-wise mythologists wished to elevate Finn MacCumhal to the region of a solar myth, in spite of the fact that such explanations had become a byword amongst authorities on these topics. The importance of such stories, he said, consists in what they reveal of a primitive state of society, when kings and noblemen lived almost as plainly as the lowliest of their subjects. The once world-famous palace of Tara was simply a large wattled building, just as the merest hut was a small wattled building. That state of things continued long after the passing away of Finn. It may be said to have endured into the time when the annalists told the most gorgeous tales of unspeakable splendour.

38. Religious ceremonial at the Holy Well of Doon

    Doon · townland · Donegal

    The author speaks with deep respect of the religious ceremonial observed at the Holy Well of Doon, though it does not appeal to his own manner of thought on such themes.

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    which is denied to me, else I do not doubt that I could have culled more vestiges of ancient beliefs and customs than the few I have tried to tell of ina far inferior fashion to that of their original narrators. The observer needs to have his eyes about him as well as his ears if certain customs, not immediately obvious, are not to escape him. Even so commonplace an action as spitting often has the same mystical meaning, which it has brought down with it from the past and is to be seen chronicled in many an old medical work issued by a learned physician. I have labelled the story of Diarmid and Grania quasi-historical: though it is in great part legendary and comparatively late, it may deal with historical personages. 1 am aware that some _ over-wise mythologists wish to elevate Finn MacCumhal to the region of a solar myth, in spite of the fact that such explanations have become a by-word amongst the authorities on these topics. Its importance consists in the fact that it does reveal a primitive state of society, when kings and noblemen lived almost as plainly as the lowliest of their subjects. The once world-famous palace of Tara was simply a large wattled building, just as the merest hut was a small wattled building. Such a state of things continued long after the passing away of Finn; nay, it may be said to have endured into the time when the annalists told the most gorgeous tales of unspeakable splendour. This legend does give a peep into primitive society, which is not entirely without its counterpart in our so-called Christian society. _Elopements are not unheard of to-day, though the bride-elect does not usually hocus the drink of the wedding-guests. But if she is determined to elope, there is no sound reason to prevent her, if that can in any way serve her turn. But I must not pursue these reflections further, though they are born naturally out of the subject. Of the religious ceremonial at the Holy Well of

    188 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 84

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Doon is the Holy Well of Doon. The author who wrote of this place speaks of the religious ceremonial observed at the well with deep respect, though he tells us it does not appeal to his own manner of thought on such themes. He says the observer needs to have his eyes about him as well as his ears if certain customs, not immediately obvious, are not to escape him. Even so commonplace an action as spitting, he notes, often carries a mystical meaning brought down from the past, chronicled in many an old medical work issued by a learned physician. He labels the story of Diarmid and Grania quasi-historical. It is in great part legendary and comparatively late, but may deal with historical personages. He is aware that some over-wise mythologists wish to elevate Finn MacCumhal to the region of a solar myth, though such explanations have become a by-word amongst authorities on these topics. Its importance, he says, consists in the fact that it reveals a primitive state of society, when kings and noblemen lived almost as plainly as the lowliest of their subjects. The once world-famous palace of Tara was simply a large wattled building, just as the merest hut was a small wattled building. Such a state of things continued long after the passing away of Finn. This legend gives a peep into primitive society, which is not entirely without its counterpart in our so-called Christian society. Elopements are not unheard of today, though the bride-elect does not usually, as he puts it, "hocus the drink of the wedding-guests." But if she is determined to elope, there is no sound reason to prevent her.

39. Road winding between Errigal and Dooish to Crolly Bridge

    Errigal · minor feature · Donegal

    The narrator describes travelling along a road that winds like a white serpent between the mountains of Errigal and Dooish, en route to the Anglers' Inn at Crolly Bridge. The journey was undertaken on a sweltering late-May day.

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    T was towards the end of May, just past the noon I of a sweltering day, that I trudged gaily though damply along the road which wound like a long white serpent between Errigal and Dooish, on my way to the cosy Anglers’ Inn at Crolly Bridge. Of my own choice I had taken the mail-car from Dunfanaghy to Falcarragh, as I intended to make the round of the twin-peaked mountain and its satellites by way of Muckish Gap, whereby I could catch a glimpse of the lovely Lough Veagh at the expense of a couple of extra miles. The Irish mail-car of that period was peculiar to the country, nor do I imagine that it has altered greatly in the lapse of thirty years. It was a side-car of the ordinary size, heaped with the heaviest possible load, attached to the slowest horse, and timed to travel the longest distance in the shortest number of hours. In addition to all these disadvantages, the driver was expected to carry and deliver exactly a host of packages of various sizes, which had not the slightest connection with the General Post Office. As a crown to his woes, he was supposed by government to take as many passengers as he could at a definite fare, while all of his friends along the road demanded promiscuous “* lifts.” Larry, the driver of this particular car, was an unusually silent specimen of his class, who seemed

    93

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 43

    As the companion tells it

    Towards the end of May, on a sweltering day just past noon, the road between Errigal and Dooish wound like a long white serpent through the mountains, on the way to the Anglers' Inn at Crolly Bridge. The narrator trudged gaily, though damply, along that road. He had taken the mail-car from Dunfanaghy to Falcarragh, meaning to make the round of the twin-peaked mountain and its satellites by way of Muckish Gap, where he could catch a glimpse of lovely Lough Veagh at the expense of a couple of extra miles. The Irish mail-car of that period was peculiar to the country, and he did not imagine it had altered greatly in thirty years. It was a side-car of ordinary size, heaped with the heaviest possible load, attached to the slowest horse, timed to travel the longest distance in the shortest number of hours. The driver was expected to carry and deliver a host of packages of various sizes with no connection to the General Post Office. As a crown to his woes, he was supposed by government to take as many passengers as he could at a definite fare, while all his friends along the road demanded promiscuous lifts. Larry, the driver of this particular car, was an unusually silent specimen of his class.

40. Solitary gannet visitor to Horn Head in May

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    A male gannet in fresh courting plumage was observed on Horn Head in May, far from its breeding colony on the Lesser Skellig to the south-west. After a brief stay it flew off towards Tory Island and was not seen again on Horn Head.

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    it alighted, it completely dwarfed the rest of the gulls, which did not seem to take kindly to its unusual presence. What it was doing on Horn Head in May, when it ought to have been with its colony on the lesser Skellig far away to the southwest, I could not tell. I have seen the great birds fishing in great numbers in a little bay not far from Coomenoole, at the west end of Dingle promontory, with flight and stoop as noble as those of the peregrine itself. But here was a solitary stranger two hundred miles and more away from home, looking about with keen and inquiring eyes. It may have come to look out a site for a new home, to which it could lead a colony; it may have been a mateless bachelor, or a sorrowful widower seeking a solitary place to comfort its affliction.

    While I was thus meditating upon the fate of the stately bird, it rose suddenly, spread its broad wings which could not have been less than six feet from tip to tip, took its flight to Tory Island, and I saw no more of its kind then or afterwards on Horn Head. When it had gone, I left the narrow creek and pursued my westward path with the wind blowing full in my face, but as invigorating as a dip into the summer sea. I had not gone far when I found myself on a pleasant but slippery slope of green turf lying between two cliffs, and above a sheer descent into the dark depths. Behind the rocks at the back of me, there was a considerable rabbit warren, where I had just seen a number of rabbits, jet-black except the white scut and the belly, scurrying away at the sound of a human footfall. Doubtless the white scut serves the rabbit the same purpose of the rear-light of a bicycle, which is something of a nuisance to itself, but a sure guide to its fellows. The white scut on a black rabbit had quite a striking appearance, and would no doubt attract many enemies.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 34

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head, a remarkable visitor once appeared. A male gannet in fresh courting plumage alighted there in May, and it completely dwarfed the rest of the gulls, which did not seem to take kindly to its unusual presence. What it was doing on Horn Head in May, when it ought to have been with its colony on the Lesser Skellig far away to the south-west, the observer could not tell. Here was a solitary stranger 200 miles and more away from home, looking about with keen and inquiring eyes. It may have come to look out a site for a new home, to which it could lead a colony. It may have been a mateless bachelor, or a sorrowful widower seeking a solitary place to comfort its affliction. While the watcher meditated upon the fate of this stately bird, it rose suddenly, spread its broad wings which could not have been less than 6 feet from tip to tip, took its flight to Tory Island, and was not seen again on Horn Head. When it had gone, the observer left the narrow creek and pursued a westward path with the wind blowing full in his face, as invigorating as a dip into the summer sea. He had not gone far when he found himself on a pleasant but slippery slope of green turf lying between two cliffs, above a sheer descent into dark depths. Behind the rocks at the back, there was a considerable rabbit warren, where he had just seen a number of rabbits, jet-black except the white scut and the belly, scurrying away at the sound of a human footfall. The white scut serves the rabbit the same purpose as the rear-light of a bicycle, a nuisance to itself but a sure guide to its fellows. On a black rabbit it had a striking appearance, and would no doubt attract many enemies.

41. The older Abbey of Magherabeg near Ballyshannon

    Magherabeg · townland · Donegal

    The older abbey of Magherabeg, located a few miles from Donegal, lies near the road to Ballyshannon. It contrasts in plainness with the ruined Franciscan monastery at Donegal.

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    Founded by a benefactor of princely generosity and sincere devotion to his ancient faith, the foundation itself, though small in comparison with the magnificence of Fountains or Furness Abbeys, was handsomely built and munificently endowed. Its situation was well chosen, and as far as can be judged from the remains, the church and conventual buildings were planned on a scale not common in western Ireland at that time. Its great tower would be seen from afar by all who sailed up the wide waters of Donegal Bay, and its hospitality was well-known to strangers from far around. Its inside furniture in all departments of the conduct of worship was exceptionally varied and sumptuous, though the monks themselves might live plainly enough for the most part. The abbots, rejoicing in the protection and devotion of the O’Donnell chieftains, would be men of great influence throughout the neighbourhood. Even in its decay it stands in marked contrast to the plainer and older abbey of Magherabeg, which lies a few miles away, at a little distance from the road to Ballyshannon.

    The sacristan has given an inventory of some of its treasures in his vigorous and pathetic narrative of the destruction of the abbey by fire in 1600-1. It was then occupied by an English garrison and was undergoing a stout siege. he unlucky soldiers were driven out just at the moment when a ship, laden

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 104

    As the companion tells it

    Near here is the older Abbey of Magherabeg, a plainer foundation than the Franciscan monastery at Donegal. That grander abbey, a few miles away, was founded by a benefactor of princely generosity and sincere devotion to his ancient faith. Though small compared with Fountains or Furness Abbeys, it was handsomely built and munificently endowed. Its situation was well chosen. From the remains, the church and conventual buildings were planned on a scale not common in western Ireland at that time. Its great tower would be seen from afar by all who sailed up the wide waters of Donegal Bay, and its hospitality was well-known to strangers from far around. Its inside furniture was exceptionally varied and sumptuous, though the monks themselves might live plainly enough. The abbots, rejoicing in the protection and devotion of the O'Donnell chieftains, were men of great influence throughout the neighbourhood. Even in its decay it stands in marked contrast to this plainer and older foundation near here, at a little distance from the road to Ballyshannon. The sacristan gave an inventory of some of its treasures in his vigorous and pathetic narrative of the destruction of the abbey by fire in 1600 to 1601. It was then occupied by an English garrison and was undergoing a stout siege. The unlucky soldiers were driven out just at the moment when a ship, laden.

42. Trout in the Crolly River at dawn

    Crolly · townland · Donegal

    Rising at dawn, the narrator watched trout rising to natural flies in the Crolly River, spotting a deep pool occupied by a large 'grandfather trout.' He had no tackle and could not attempt the old poacher's trick of tickling fish.

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    I retired early to bed; but I slept uneasily, and was visited by horrid dreams, in which the eagle and the priest were inextricably mixed up, their one point of unanimity being a positive hostility to myself. Consequently I rose at dawn and went to look at the trout in the Crolly river while my breakfast was being made ready. I had no tackle with me, else I could not have refrained from whipping the stream, wherein I caught sight of more than one plump fish rising to the natural fly in a manner alike delightful and tantalizing. There was one particularly deep pool, which seemed to be the chosen preserve of a grandfather trout into which he would suffer no others to enter. I could not get a footing to try the old poacher’s trick of “‘ tickling,’’ though not quite unaccustomed to its joys on a suitable occasion. So I was fain to lick my disappointed lips and return to my breakfast at the inn, which consisted of the trout

    24 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 10

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here, a man once rose at dawn and walked to the Crolly River to watch the trout while his breakfast was being made ready. He had no tackle with him, or he could not have stopped himself from fishing the stream, where plump trout were rising to the natural fly. One deep pool caught his eye, the chosen preserve of what he called a grandfather trout, into which no other fish was allowed to enter. He could not get a footing to try the old poacher's trick of tickling, so he went back to the inn and ate trout for breakfast.

43. Witches, hares and the evil eye in Donegal

    Donegal · town · Donegal

    Witches in Donegal were believed to take the shape of hares and to possess the 'evil eye.' Peasants spat on the floor and blessed babies upon entering a cabin to counteract their spells, and wise-women were called upon to break their enchantments.

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    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.

    156 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 71

    As the companion tells it

    Coming through Donegal now. In this part of the country, witches were believed to take the shape of hares, and the peasantry of the western coast would not eat hare at all. The writer of one old account said he saw several witches himself and found them as harmless as they were ugly, though their neighbours dreaded to cast eyes upon them.

44. Pilgrims' Way descending the mountain

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    The Pilgrims' Way is a path leading down from the mountain summit, passing a quarry deeply hidden in the heart of the mountain. The narrator used this route after observing the golden eagle and discovering rare plants on the cliff edge.

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    The next moment he was gone: one by one the other birds returned to their wonted play; the scarts took up their station on a projecting ridge diving by turns, as one or the other caught sight of fish with their keen eyes; the gulls sailed through the air or rested on the gently heaving waters, and the shrill “jack, jack! ’’ of the jackdaws could be heard plainly far down the western face of the cliff. I turned my steps to the easier ‘‘ Pilgrims’ Way,’’ which leads down the summit, passing a quarry deeply hidden in the heart of the mountain. Just as I was beginning to descend, I caught sight of a little clump of low-growing white-petalled golden-centered flowers smiling in delicate loveliness. In my ignorance I thought them to be nothing more than blanched blooms of the burnet-rose, which grows always near the sea. But something unusual in their appearance attracted my closer attention, and examining them more minutely I found that each one of them had eight petals, or three more than are found in the flowers of any of our native wild roses. I knew then that I had lighted upon one of the least common of our wild plants, the mountain dryas (Dryas octopetala), and I rejoiced over so happy a discovery with the unsophisticated ardour of the youthful botanist.

    As I was carefully picking one or two specimens to be added to my herbarium, I saw something of a light green colour trembling in the breeze on the edge of the cliff. It was some little way down towards the sea; so lying at full length I reached over and took into my hand for the first time several fronds of the true maidenhair (Adiantum capillus-Veneris). I have

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 16

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League in Donegal holds a path called the Pilgrims' Way, leading down from the summit, passing a quarry deeply hidden in the heart of the mountain. The narrator had been watching birds on the cliff face. The golden eagle was gone in a moment, and the other birds returned to their wonted play. Scarts took their station on a projecting ridge, diving by turns as one or the other caught sight of fish with keen eyes. Gulls sailed through the air or rested on the gently heaving waters, and the shrill call of the jackdaws could be heard plainly far down the western face of the cliff. He turned his steps to the easier Pilgrims' Way and began to descend. Just as he started down, he caught sight of a little clump of low-growing flowers, white-petalled and golden-centered, smiling in delicate loveliness. He thought them nothing more than blanched blooms of the burnet-rose, which grows always near the sea. But something unusual attracted his closer attention. Examining them more minutely, he found that each one had eight petals, three more than are found in the flowers of any native wild rose. He knew then he had lighted upon one of the least common of our wild plants, the mountain dryas, and he rejoiced over the discovery with the unsophisticated ardour of the youthful botanist. As he was carefully picking one or two specimens for his herbarium, he saw something of a light green colour trembling in the breeze on the edge of the cliff. It was some little way down towards the sea. Lying at full length, he reached over and took into his hand for the first time several fronds of the true maidenhair.

45. Presbyterian presence strong around Milford in Donegal

    Millford · town · Donegal

    The narrator notes a strong contingent of Presbyterians in certain parts of Donegal, particularly in the neighbourhood of Milford. This is observed in the context of describing the three churches at Dunfanaghy.

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    towns in the west of Donegal: it consists of one long straggling street opening out into the ‘‘ Diamond,” or market-place. It has three churches, the finest of which is the Presbyterian, the largest the Catholic Chapel, and the third belongs to the Church of Ireland. Round certain parts of Donegal it may be noted that there is a strong contingent of Presbyterians, especially in the neighbourhood of Milford. The older village is a group of more or less tidylooking cabins on the way to the Golf Links, and overlooking the harbour. The harbour itself is crossed by many. shoals and a considerable sand-bar, so that it is almost impassable except for smaller boats, though it is a pleasant sail across to Rosapenna with a flood tide and a fair wind. There is a bountiful supply of inns, notwithstanding the fact that illicit whiskey is still known to be manufactured in the heart of the neighbouring mountains.

    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

    The road takes you past Milford, in Donegal. Around Milford, a strong contingent of Presbyterians was noted in this part of the county. The observation comes from a description of a town in the west of Donegal, a place of one long straggling street opening out into the Diamond, or market-place. That town has three churches. The finest is the Presbyterian. The largest is the Catholic Chapel. The third belongs to the Church of Ireland. The older village nearby is a group of more or less tidy-looking cabins on the way to the Golf Links, overlooking the harbour. The harbour is crossed by many shoals and a considerable sand-bar, so that it is almost impassable except for smaller boats, though it is a pleasant sail across to Rosapenna with a flood tide and a fair wind. There is a bountiful supply of inns, notwithstanding the fact that illicit whiskey is still known to be manufactured in the heart of the neighbouring mountains. Among the shops 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 a visitor took a keen interest in it. 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 a pair of laces was bought there, also thickened with dust. The very change took a long time in finding and was covered with dust. Little purchasing went on, yet the shop was often crowded with those who had come 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. The frequent shouts of laughter told of the excellence of the conversation.

46. Railway bridge foundations near Lough Finn laid four times

    near Lough Finn · lake or lakes · Donegal

    A light railway runs high above the dark Lough Finn, crossing a bridge whose foundations had to be laid four times due to the soft and treacherous bog on either side of the stream. The engineer personally told the author of these repeated construction difficulties.

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    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.

    Amongst the mountains behind Aghla More, dwelt a monstrous giant named Feargowan, whose housekeeper was his sister, Fin, a mighty enchantress in those parts: but her spells could not give her knowledge or save her life. A few miles from their dwelling appeared a mighty boar, huge as that of Calydon, which devastated the fields far and wide. The bravest and most skilful hunters for miles round had tried in vain to destroy the savage monster, which

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 71

    As the companion tells it

    The dark waters of Lough Finn lie narrow and wild-looking in Donegal, and a light railway runs high above them. At one point the line crosses a bridge, and the foundations of that bridge had to be laid four times. The bog on either side of the stream was so soft and treacherous that it would not hold them. The engineer told the author this himself. There is a tradition about this lough, heard from the oldest man in Narin, a village on Dunmore Head about 14 English miles away. The witches of an older time in these parts 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. By their spells they could destroy the small armies of the period, though they seldom gained the victory for those who consulted them. For a time they appeared to prevail, when some untoward circumstance destroyed the virtue of their enchantments along with their own lives. Among the mountains behind Aghla More, near Fintown, which overhangs the lough, dwelt a monstrous giant named Feargowan. His housekeeper was his sister, Fin, a mighty enchantress. Her spells could not give her knowledge or save her life. A few miles from their dwelling a mighty boar appeared, huge as that of Calydon, devastating fields far and wide. The bravest and most skilful hunters for miles round had tried in vain to destroy the savage monster.

47. The Poisoned Glen and Slieve Snacht

    Poisoned Glen · valley · Donegal

    The Poisoned Glen rises precipitous, rugged and snow-white behind the marble church near Dunlewey, while Slieve Snacht towers to the south shining like polished alabaster in the sunlight.

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    Dunlewey, with its fine house and belt of woodland, shone like a green oasis amid the prevailing expanses of brown. Farther on lay its companion, Lough Nacung, just as bare-flanked as its neighbour was thick with stately trees. Behind the church the sides of the Poisoned Glen rose precipitous, rugged, and snow-white, splashed with faint grey shadows, while high above, Slieve Snacht towered to the south, shining like polished alabaster in the sunlight. Opposite stood in solemn grandeur the huge pyamid of Errigal, though its brow was out of sight; at once an insane longing to climb it took possession of my heart, which could only be appeased by an actual fulfilment. Winding round the broad base at last I caught sight of the little public-house, which was built literally upon the southern slope of the great mountain. Like Dunlewey itself, that was also an oasis, though of another kind: it was a spring in the wilderness, though water was only used for cooking within its walls. It faced due south and was sheltered from the east, so that the patch of road in front of it was warm as a terrace in the Riviera, nor was the prospect in any high degree less picturesque, though the sea was far away.

    My. heart rejoiced exceedingly, the moment that

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 44

    As the companion tells it

    Not far from Dunlewey, with its fine house and belt of woodland, the Poisoned Glen opens up. Dunlewey shone like a green oasis amid the prevailing expanses of brown. Farther on lay its companion, Lough Nacung, just as bare-flanked as its neighbour was thick with stately trees. Behind the church the sides of the Poisoned Glen rose precipitous, rugged, and snow-white, splashed with faint grey shadows. High above, Slieve Snacht towered to the south, shining like polished alabaster in the sunlight. Opposite stood in solemn grandeur the huge pyramid of Errigal, though its brow was out of sight. The writer says that at once an insane longing to climb it took possession of his heart, which could only be appeased by an actual fulfilment. Winding round the broad base at last he caught sight of the little public-house, which was built literally upon the southern slope of the great mountain. Like Dunlewey itself, that was also an oasis, though of another kind. It was a spring in the wilderness, though water was only used for cooking within its walls.

48. Aghla More, the precipitous Wee Errigal

    Aghla More · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    Aghla More, also known locally as Wee Errigal, is described as a precipitous mountain overlooking Altan Lough. It forms one side of the cleft in which the lake lies, visible from the screes of the neighbouring twin-peaked mountain to the south.

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    When I reached the middle of the ridge I paused to look down the screes on the northern side. The spectacle was sublime, and to dizzy heads appalling : the screes seemed to fall almost perpendicularly into the wild and lonely Altan Lough, which lay in the cleft between themselves and the precipitous Aghla More, or Wee Errigal. In the clear air the sapphire waters seemed not far away; nay it appeared as if I could have dropped a stone straight into their blue depths. Between the two mountains, and almost overhanging the lake, lies that magnificent series of precipices known as the Bheagy, which I have never

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 48

    As the companion tells it

    Aghla More is a precipitous mountain in Donegal, known locally as Wee Errigal. It overlooks Altan Lough, which lies in a cleft between Aghla More and a neighbouring twin-peaked mountain to the south. From the middle of the ridge on that southern mountain, the screes on the northern side fall almost perpendicularly toward the lake below. The spectacle was sublime, and to dizzy heads appalling. In clear air the sapphire waters seem close enough that a stone could be dropped straight into their blue depths. Between the two mountains, almost overhanging the lake, lies a series of precipices known as the Bheagy.

49. Ascent of Errigal mountain

    Errigal · minor feature · Donegal

    The author recounted his ascent of Errigal to his traveling companion over breakfast, sharing the thoughts the climb had inspired. He had tramped some twenty miles Irish that day, including the Errigal climb.

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    There was no bath in the inn: we took our tub in the cool Crolly River, greatly disturbing the timid trout but hugely enjoying ourselves. Then over a hearty breakfast washed down by the always excellent Irish tea, I told my companion of my ascent of Errigal with some of the thoughts it had called up in my mind. To my serious regret he was going home that day, and the long drive to Letterkenny lay before him.

    I rode with him as far as Glenveagh Bridge, for I was minded to see the view of Errigal from Ballygeeha Gap before I left that part of the country. Mr. Gallaher drove us swiftly past the little publichouse : the whole family came out to welcome us, but we had not time to stop just then, and we contented ourselves with uttering loud salutations and waving our handkerchiefs till we were out of sight round the corner of Errigal. At the gates of Glenveagh Castle, we parted; nor have I ever seen the genial Professor since, though J have heard something of his doings and the high regard in which he is held by his students. If, as is often contended, the greatness of human pleasures consists chiefly of their unexpectedness, I had certainly had one of the greatest pleasures of my life in the unexpected renewal of an old friendship after the lapse of twenty years or thereabouts. I stood watching the car out of sight, waving my hands like the once famous ‘‘ Nancy Lee ”’ of the fine old song, before setting out on my forward way. A turn in the road bore them quickly out of sight on their journey to St. Conwall’s town, and I entered the gates in front of me.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 56

    As the companion tells it

    A mountain climb, Errigal, in Donegal. The author told the story of his ascent over breakfast at the inn, where there was no bath, so he and his companion took their tub in the cool Crolly River, greatly disturbing the timid trout. Then over a hearty breakfast washed down by excellent Irish tea, he told his companion of his climb of Errigal and some of the thoughts it had called up in his mind. His companion was going home that day, and the long drive to Letterkenny lay before him. The author rode with him as far as Glenveagh Bridge, for he was minded to see the view of Errigal from Ballygeeha Gap before he left that part of the country. Mr. Gallaher drove them swiftly past a little public house. The whole family came out to welcome them, but they had not time to stop, and they contented themselves with uttering loud salutations and waving their handkerchiefs till they were out of sight round the corner of Errigal. At the gates of Glenveagh Castle, they parted. The author never saw the genial Professor since, though he heard something of his doings and the high regard in which he was held by his students. If the greatness of human pleasures consists chiefly of their unexpectedness, he had certainly had one of the greatest pleasures of his life in the unexpected renewal of an old friendship after the lapse of 20 years or thereabouts. He stood watching the car out of sight, "waving my hands like the once famous Nancy Lee of the fine old song," before setting out on his forward way. A turn in the road bore them quickly out of sight on their journey to St. Conwall's town, and he entered the gates in front of him.

50. Eagle sightings from Dooish, Slieve League and Teelin Port

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    The author observed what he believed to be the same eagle on Dooish and from the brow of Slieve Liag, and later saw its mate in Teelin Port. At that time the pair had their nesting-place somewhere on Slieve-a-Tooey, many miles from either mountain.

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    The bird which I saw upon Dooish was, I am convinced, the same one upon which I gazed from the brow of Slieve Liag, whose mate I saw afterwards in Teelin Port. At that time they had their nestingplace somewhere on Slieve-a-Tooey, which is many miles from either mountain. But their great wings can bear them with lightning-like swiftness, and over wide distances. What is more, they can fly, even when they are carrying their prey in their crooked talons, which they by no means always devour upon the spot where they have taken it. Doubtless, if their chicks grew to maturity in too large numbers, one of the pair would drive them away, for a pair of eagles require a considerable area for their feedingground. But I fear that all of the kind have now left County Donegal, taking with them one of the chief attractions of a pilgrimage amidst its wild and noble scenery. Nor just now is the country so absolutely safe to the pedestrian as it was in past times, when, if he behaved with ordinary courtesy, the stranger was always warmly welcomed and sent on his way rejoicing.

    It is much to read of the eagle in song and legend, to see him pictured in books new and old. But to see him in his regal majesty is far more than all the reading, than all the pictures in the world. That has been one of my highest privileges as an indifferent naturalist; one of my keenest delights. The very recollection of it thrills me, whenever it rises in my mind. Once more I seem to hear the murderous shriek; I seem to see the splendid bird as I saw him more than twenty years ago, busied with his savage meal or floating over the great deep. By memory’s potent magic I can call up that unique experience of my life, now that it is becoming less easy to climb to the last nesting-places left him by the persecution of man and the withering blight of old age,

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 22

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League, in Donegal, is a mountain the road passes near, and it was from its brow that a man once watched an eagle. He had seen what he was convinced was the same bird before, on Dooish. Afterwards, in Teelin Port, he saw its mate. At that time the pair had their nesting place somewhere on Slieve-a-Tooey, many miles from either mountain. Their great wings, he wrote, can bear them with lightning-like swiftness over wide distances. They can fly even when they are carrying their prey in their crooked talons, which they do not always devour upon the spot where they have taken it. If their chicks grew too numerous, one of the pair would drive them away, for a pair of eagles require a considerable area for their feeding ground. He feared that all of the kind had now left County Donegal, taking with them one of the chief attractions of a pilgrimage amidst its wild and noble scenery. It is much, he said, to read of the eagle in song and legend, to see him pictured in books new and old. But to see him in his regal majesty is far more than all the reading, than all the pictures in the world. That had been one of his highest privileges as an indifferent naturalist, one of his keenest delights. The recollection thrilled him. He wrote that once more he seemed to hear the murderous shriek, seemed to see the splendid bird as he saw him more than 20 years ago, busied with his savage meal or floating over the great deep. He called up that unique experience, now that it was becoming less easy to climb to the last nesting places left to the eagle by the persecution of man and the withering blight of old age.

51. Gannets fishing near Coumeenoole on Dingle peninsula

    Coumeenoole · minor feature · Kerry

    The author recalls observing gannets fishing in great numbers in a small bay near Coumeenoole, at the western end of the Dingle promontory, diving with flight and stoop as noble as those of a peregrine falcon.

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    it alighted, it completely dwarfed the rest of the gulls, which did not seem to take kindly to its unusual presence. What it was doing on Horn Head in May, when it ought to have been with its colony on the lesser Skellig far away to the southwest, I could not tell. I have seen the great birds fishing in great numbers in a little bay not far from Coomenoole, at the west end of Dingle promontory, with flight and stoop as noble as those of the peregrine itself. But here was a solitary stranger two hundred miles and more away from home, looking about with keen and inquiring eyes. It may have come to look out a site for a new home, to which it could lead a colony; it may have been a mateless bachelor, or a sorrowful widower seeking a solitary place to comfort its affliction.

    While I was thus meditating upon the fate of the stately bird, it rose suddenly, spread its broad wings which could not have been less than six feet from tip to tip, took its flight to Tory Island, and I saw no more of its kind then or afterwards on Horn Head. When it had gone, I left the narrow creek and pursued my westward path with the wind blowing full in my face, but as invigorating as a dip into the summer sea. I had not gone far when I found myself on a pleasant but slippery slope of green turf lying between two cliffs, and above a sheer descent into the dark depths. Behind the rocks at the back of me, there was a considerable rabbit warren, where I had just seen a number of rabbits, jet-black except the white scut and the belly, scurrying away at the sound of a human footfall. Doubtless the white scut serves the rabbit the same purpose of the rear-light of a bicycle, which is something of a nuisance to itself, but a sure guide to its fellows. The white scut on a black rabbit had quite a striking appearance, and would no doubt attract many enemies.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 34

    As the companion tells it

    Coumeenoole sits at the west end of Dingle promontory, and in a little bay not far from it, the author once watched gannets fishing in great numbers. These are great birds. Their colony lies on the lesser Skellig, far to the southwest, and in May that is where they ought to be. But the author saw them there, diving with "flight and stoop as noble as those of the peregrine itself." Once, on Horn Head in May, a single gannet appeared. It completely dwarfed the rest of the gulls, which did not seem to take kindly to its unusual presence. It was a solitary stranger, 200 miles and more away from home, looking about with keen and inquiring eyes. What it was doing there, the author could not tell. It may have come to look out a site for a new home, to which it could lead a colony. It may have been a mateless bachelor, or "a sorrowful widower seeking a solitary place to comfort its affliction." While the author meditated on the fate of the stately bird, it rose suddenly, spread broad wings that could not have been less than 6 feet from tip to tip, and took its flight to Tory Island. The author saw no more of its kind then or afterwards on Horn Head.

52. Pilgrims' Way, hermitages and holy well above Teelin

    near Teelin · population centre · Donegal

    A breezy summit above Teelin Port features hermitages and a holy well, connected to the shore by the Pilgrims' Way. The descent leads past a streamlet beneath royal fern to the northern margin of Teelin Port's muddy inlet.

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    Reluctantly I left the breezy summit with its hermitages and holy well, took my road along the “ Pilgrims’ Way ”’ and dropped easily down to the northern margin of Teelin Port. To the left was a tiny streamlet rippling beneath a fairy forest of the royal fern (Osmunda regalis); to the right was the muddy shore of the little inlet left as high and dry as might be by the retiring tide. The dark sand was cut by the narrow salmon-stream, which cleft its winding way through rushes and saltwort to the open sea. On the farther side of the stream an object in the distance bearing some resemblance to a big bird arrested my attention, and I drew near stepping as silently as a cat upon hunting intent. The road was lifted a good height above the muddy beach to avoid the rare floods of stormy weather, so that I was well able to see, though the mud prevented me from crossing over to the margin of the river. Once more, and for the last time, I saw the golden eagle, but not the same bird as I had seen before. This one was a shade darker in the plumage, though fired along the back by the ruddy evening light, nor was the golden hue of the head and neck so clearly marked. It was considerably larger than the other, and at first I fancied that it was the sea eagle, so that I looked carefully for the white tail, which is its distinguishing mark. But I found on closer observation that it was the female of the golden eagle and almost certainly the mate of the bird which I had seen flying along the face of Slieve Liag.

    I could not get near enough to see exactly what she

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 17

    As the companion tells it

    Above Teelin, a breezy summit holds hermitages and a holy well, and a path called the Pilgrims' Way leads down from them to the shore. The writer left that summit reluctantly and followed the Pilgrims' Way, dropping easily to the northern margin of Teelin Port. To one side a tiny streamlet rippled beneath a fairy forest of royal fern. To the other lay the muddy shore of a little inlet, left high and dry by the retiring tide. Dark sand was cut by a narrow salmon-stream, winding through rushes and saltwort toward the open sea. On the farther side of that stream, something in the distance bore a resemblance to a big bird. He drew near, stepping as silently as a cat upon hunting intent. The road was lifted a good height above the muddy beach to avoid the rare floods of stormy weather, so he could see well, though the mud stopped him crossing to the river's margin. For the last time he saw the golden eagle, but not the same bird as before. This one was a shade darker in the plumage, fired along the back by ruddy evening light, and the golden hue of the head and neck was not so clearly marked. It was considerably larger. At first he fancied it was the sea eagle and looked carefully for the white tail, which is the distinguishing mark of that bird. But closer observation showed it was a female golden eagle, almost certainly the mate of the one he had seen flying along the face of Slieve Liag. He could not get near enough to see exactly what she was doing.

53. Tory Island and its three attendant islets

    Tory Island · townland · Donegal

    From a mountain summit, Tory Island is visible along with its three attendant islets, part of a sweeping view encompassing the Rosses, Aranmore, and a host of islands stretching along the Donegal coast.

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    The air was so clear that the distant landscape appeared to lie almost at my feet. The whole of County Donegal was in sight from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay. Surely there never was so fantastically cloven a coast-line outside of Norway, where the scenery no doubt is cast in a grander mould. Not even the noble coast of the west of Scotland is more curiously cut into quaint leaf-like patterns. Bay followed bay, inlet trod on the heels of inlet, cape rose after cape, patch of golden sand succeeded to patch, island floated next to island in bewildering profusion, all deeply outlined on the blue Atlantic, which in its turn blended with the blue sky. Much of the crag-bound coast which rises steeply over its belt of orange sand, was hidden from me, though here and there lines of deeper grey told of shattered rock and frowning precipice. Tory and its three attendant islets, the Rosses with Aranmore and a host of islands gradually decreasing into bare crags, the ruddy tint of the so-called Bloody. Foreland, rivers and streams in hundreds, lakes in thousands crowded the scene, which was dotted over with the

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 49

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Tory Island, the view from a mountain summit on a clear day takes in the whole of County Donegal, from Lough Foyle to Donegal Bay. The air was so clear that the distant landscape seemed to lie almost at the observer's feet. The coastline is fantastically cloven, compared to Norway's grander scenery, and more curiously cut than even the west of Scotland into what the writer calls quaint leaf-like patterns. Bay followed bay, inlet trod on the heels of inlet, cape rose after cape, patch of golden sand succeeded to patch, island floated next to island in bewildering profusion, all outlined on the blue Atlantic blending with the blue sky. Much of the crag-bound coast rising steeply over its belt of orange sand was hidden, though lines of deeper grey told of shattered rock and frowning precipice. Tory and its three attendant islets, the Rosses with Aranmore and a host of islands gradually decreasing into bare crags, the ruddy tint of Bloody Foreland, rivers and streams in hundreds, lakes in thousands crowded the scene.

54. Stone cashel and cromlech near Claggan

    Claggan · townland · Donegal

    A stone cashel stands near Claggan on the Horn Head promontory, with a cromlech on a neighbouring hill. The author considered these antiquities too far from Dunfanaghy to account for that town's name.

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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

    Somewhere around here on the Horn Head promontory stands a stone cashel, with a cromlech on a neighbouring hill. The author who wrote about them came looking for something else. He was trying to trace the name of Dunfanaghy, which means the fort of the fair warrior. He never found that fort, and he never found that warrior. The cashel and the cromlech were the nearest antiquities he could turn up, but they were too far from the town to account for its name, and so the origin remained lost. The country between the little town and Creeslough, and in the other direction towards Falcarragh, was almost entirely brown bogland, broken now and then by a lough or a deep ditch. Once it had been covered in a forest of fir trees. Their roots and branches were still visible all across the dull expanse. 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 all true Britons of the time. The author made his first visit to Donegal thirty years before he wrote his book. A long car used to run from Letterkenny, always carrying far more passengers than it could comfortably hold. The well lay between two rows of back-to-back occupants, piled sky-high with luggage and provisions for the public good, shed along the route at their proper destinations. A rail was supposed to part the baggage from the passengers' backs, but insecurely tied packages still fell and gave the occasional bonneting.

55. The long street of Dunfanaghy and the Stewart Arms

    Dunfanaghy · town · Donegal

    The narrator walks down the long street of Dunfanaghy to the Stewart Arms hotel, the only inn in the village. The hotel has a few guests and dogs that react to conversation in the common room.

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    I soon reached the sturdy bridge over the watercourse, which virtually makes Horn Head into an island, and marched steadily down the long street of Dunfanaghy to the Stewart Arms, where I had just quarter of an hour to get a good wash and change into my slippers. Further change I would not, nay I could not, make: a knapsack is too wise to find room for the needless cumber of that useless set of garments known as a dress suit. In my eyes the wearer of it seldom looks so well as a waiter, who is more used to the costume. It is tiresome enough at home to be constrained to abide by the usages of society and make a guy of oneself because others persist in doing so. If indeed we could return to the blue coat with brass buttons, the high collar and stock, the daintily flowered waistcoat, the silk kneebreeches and stockings, the buckled shoes and elegant shirt-frill of our ancestors, there might be something in the custom and the costume. The latter would at least be picturesque, and the wearer would look less like a waiter. But to carry this absurd fashion to a holiday-resort, except on the occasion of a dance, to which the patient has gone to seek rest and freedom, has always seemed to me not only foolish but positively snobbish.

    The two railway projectors and myself were the only guests: the elder of them asked me where I

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 42

    As the companion tells it

    Dunfanaghy is a town the road passes through. Its long street runs down to the Stewart Arms, which was the only inn in the village. A traveller once came down that street after crossing the sturdy bridge over the watercourse that makes Horn Head into an island. He had just a quarter of an hour to get a good wash and change into his slippers. Further change he would not make. A knapsack, he said, is too wise to find room for the needless cumber of that useless set of garments known as a dress suit. In his eyes the wearer of it seldom looked so well as a waiter, who was more used to the costume. He found it tiresome enough at home to be constrained to abide by the usages of society and make a guy of oneself because others persisted in doing so. If we could return to the blue coat with brass buttons, the high collar and stock, the daintily flowered waistcoat, the silk knee-breeches and stockings, the buckled shoes and elegant shirt-frill of our ancestors, there might be something in the custom and the costume. The latter would at least be picturesque. But to carry this absurd fashion to a holiday-resort, except on the occasion of a dance, seemed to him not only foolish but positively snobbish. The two railway projectors and himself were the only guests. The elder of them asked him where he had come.

56. Glen Head: perpendicular cliffs on the Donegal coast

    Glen Head · promontory · Donegal

    Glen Head is noted for its perpendicular cliffs, which together with the neighbouring coastline are described as sublime and terror-striking. Even on a so-called flat sea, huge Atlantic rollers come booming in with force enough to swamp boats.

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    It is impossible to convey more than a faint perception of the desolation of this terrific coast. Everywhere it bears abundant traces of the rude handiwork of the winds and the waves in their tempestuous fury at its supreme height. Whether the voyager turns his gaze towards perpendicular cliffs of Glen Head, or back again towards the primitive hamlet of Maghera, the jagged cliffs are alike sublime and terror-striking. Even in a so called ‘‘ flat sea’’ huge Atlantic rollers come booming in with force enough to swamp a hundred boats. Many years ago a merry party rowed in their boat and were just entering the ‘‘ pass ’’ leading into Port, keeping time to their oars with cheerful song. Amongst them was an American lady journalist who was busily engaged in taking rapid notes, which were destined never to find their way into print. Suddenly she looked up from her notebook and exclaimed with one of those detestably inappropriate adjectives dear to a certain type of feminine mind, ‘‘ Oh, how

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 19

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Glen Head, the perpendicular cliffs stand as part of a coastline a writer once called sublime and terror-striking. Even on what they call a flat sea, huge Atlantic rollers come booming in with force enough to swamp a hundred boats. Many years ago a merry party rowed into the pass leading into Port, singing to keep time with their oars. Among them was an American lady journalist, taking rapid notes destined never to find their way into print. She looked up from her notebook and exclaimed, in the words of the source, "Oh, how" — and there the passage ends, leaving what she saw untold.

57. Horn Head bridge makes peninsula an island

    near Horn Head · promontory · Donegal

    The narrator describes crossing a sturdy bridge over a watercourse that virtually transforms Horn Head into an island. This is noted as part of the approach to Dunfanaghy.

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    I soon reached the sturdy bridge over the watercourse, which virtually makes Horn Head into an island, and marched steadily down the long street of Dunfanaghy to the Stewart Arms, where I had just quarter of an hour to get a good wash and change into my slippers. Further change I would not, nay I could not, make: a knapsack is too wise to find room for the needless cumber of that useless set of garments known as a dress suit. In my eyes the wearer of it seldom looks so well as a waiter, who is more used to the costume. It is tiresome enough at home to be constrained to abide by the usages of society and make a guy of oneself because others persist in doing so. If indeed we could return to the blue coat with brass buttons, the high collar and stock, the daintily flowered waistcoat, the silk kneebreeches and stockings, the buckled shoes and elegant shirt-frill of our ancestors, there might be something in the custom and the costume. The latter would at least be picturesque, and the wearer would look less like a waiter. But to carry this absurd fashion to a holiday-resort, except on the occasion of a dance, to which the patient has gone to seek rest and freedom, has always seemed to me not only foolish but positively snobbish.

    The two railway projectors and myself were the only guests: the elder of them asked me where I

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 42

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Horn Head there is a sturdy bridge over a watercourse, which virtually makes the headland into an island. A traveller once crossed it and marched steadily down the long street of Dunfanaghy to the Stewart Arms, where he had just quarter of an hour to get a good wash and change into his slippers. Further change he would not, and could not, make. His knapsack was too wise to find room for the needless weight of a dress suit. He said the wearer of it seldom looks so well as a waiter, who is more used to the costume. It is tiresome enough at home to be constrained to abide by the usages of society and make a fool of oneself because others persist in doing so. If we could return to the blue coat with brass buttons, the high collar and stock, the flowered waistcoat, the silk knee-breeches and stockings, the buckled shoes and elegant shirt-frill of our ancestors, there might be something in the custom. That would at least be picturesque. But to carry this absurd fashion to a holiday resort, except for a dance, has always seemed to him not only foolish but positively snobbish. The only guests at the Stewart Arms that day were two railway projectors and himself, and the elder of the projectors asked him where he had come from.

58. Maghera: a primitive hamlet on the Donegal coast

    Maghera · townland · Donegal

    Maghera is described as a primitive hamlet on the Donegal coast, near Glen Head, where the jagged cliffs are sublime and terror-striking and huge Atlantic rollers boom in even on calm days.

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    Read off the scanned page by machine, so a word here and there is misread. Kept as the reading produced it, not corrected.

    It is impossible to convey more than a faint perception of the desolation of this terrific coast. Everywhere it bears abundant traces of the rude handiwork of the winds and the waves in their tempestuous fury at its supreme height. Whether the voyager turns his gaze towards perpendicular cliffs of Glen Head, or back again towards the primitive hamlet of Maghera, the jagged cliffs are alike sublime and terror-striking. Even in a so called ‘‘ flat sea’’ huge Atlantic rollers come booming in with force enough to swamp a hundred boats. Many years ago a merry party rowed in their boat and were just entering the ‘‘ pass ’’ leading into Port, keeping time to their oars with cheerful song. Amongst them was an American lady journalist who was busily engaged in taking rapid notes, which were destined never to find their way into print. Suddenly she looked up from her notebook and exclaimed with one of those detestably inappropriate adjectives dear to a certain type of feminine mind, ‘‘ Oh, how

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 19

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here is Maghera, a primitive hamlet on the Donegal coast. The writer called it impossible to convey more than a faint perception of the desolation of this terrific coast, which bears the rude handiwork of winds and waves at their tempestuous height. Whether you look towards the perpendicular cliffs of Glen Head or back towards Maghera, the jagged cliffs are sublime and terror-striking. Even in a flat sea, huge Atlantic rollers come booming in with force enough to swamp a hundred boats. Many years ago a merry party rowed in their boat, just entering the pass leading into Port, keeping time to their oars with cheerful song. Among them was an American lady journalist, busily engaged in taking rapid notes that were destined never to find their way into print. Suddenly she looked up from her notebook and exclaimed, beginning, "Oh, how" — and there the record breaks off.

59. Bryan's Bridge and salmon on the Clady River

    Bryan's Bridge · bridge · Donegal

    The narrator comes to Bryan's Bridge, possibly named after Brian Boru, which spans the beautiful Clady River. He observes fine salmon lying in deep water with their noses facing the current, before a boat of anglers emerges from a hidden creek.

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    In rather more than an hour’s time I came to Bryan’s Bridge, I think it is called possibly after Brian

    —_

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 53

    As the companion tells it

    This is Bryan's Bridge, spanning the Clady River. A man walking Donegal came to it and thought the name might come from Brian Boru. In the deep water beneath, fine salmon lay with their noses facing the current. Then a boat of anglers appeared from a hidden creek.

60. Crossing Bryan's Bridge and Crolly Bridge

    Bryan's Bridge · bridge · Donegal

    On the journey home the author crosses Bryan's Bridge at a rapid trot, with Crolly Bridge near at hand, and takes a last look at Errigal before it vanishes from sight.

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    ‘‘ sarron’’ was dreaming of oats and a long rest. The next moment we crossed Bryan’s Bridge at a rapid trot; Crolly Bridge was near at hand, and I took my last look at the great peak which suddenly

    vanished out of sighty

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 64

    As the companion tells it

    Bryan's Bridge in Donegal. Sarron was dreaming of oats and a long rest, and the next moment brought the crossing of this bridge at a rapid trot. Crolly Bridge was near at hand. The great peak of Errigal was there for one last look before it suddenly vanished from sight.