Read the copy these stories were drawn from on the Internet Archive.
- 32
- stories drawn from it
- 32
- placed on the map
- 1
- county: Donegal
- 5,869
- words in the passages on this page
The stories, best first
32 in all
Each story keeps the passage it was read from. Open one to read the passage as the book has it, and, where the companion has written its own telling, that too.
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Slieve League cliff face and Eagle's Nest
Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal
Opposite the cliff-head at Bunglass rises Slieve League, its cairn a thousand feet higher than the viewing point. Halfway up the precipitous rock-face is a scarped streak called Nead an Iolair, the Eagle's Nest.
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delightfully warm, and the fragrance of sea and bracken and ling is in our hearts. In time we reach Carrigan Head, with its martello tower, seven hundred feet odd over the Atlantic. Southwards the blue waters of Donegal Bay spread themselves, with just the slightest ripple on their surface, glinting in the warm sunlight. In the distance the heights of Nephin Beag and Croagh Patrick in Mayo are faintly discernible, and westwards the illimitable ocean stretches to the void. From Carrigan Head we follow a rough mountain trail, and in a short time reach Loch O' Mulligan, a lonely freshwater tarn, lying under the shadow of Slieve League. Back of the loch a grassy hill rises. We climb this, the younger boys leading about fifty yards in front, jumping along the short grass and over the stones like goats. Arrived at a point called in Irish Amharc MSr, or "Great View," a scene of extraordinary beauty bursts on us. We are standing on Scregeighter, the highest of the cliffs of Bunglass. A thousand and twenty-four feet below us, in a sheer drop, the blue waters of Bunglass advance and recede — blue as a sapphire, shading into emerald and white where they break on the spit of grass-covered rock rising like a sceilg-draoidheachia, or " horn of wizardy," out of the narrow bay. Right opposite us is Slieve League, its earn a thousand feet higher than the point on which we stand. In the precipitous rock-face, halfway up, is a scarped streak called Nead an lolair, or the Eagle's Nest. The colouring is wonderfully rich and varied — black, grey, violet, brown, red, green — due, one
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich
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Bunglass cliffs and the Great View
Bunglass · bay · Donegal
From a point called Amharc Mór or 'Great View' on Scregeighter, the highest cliff of Bunglass, a scene of extraordinary beauty unfolds with a sheer drop of over a thousand feet to blue waters below.
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delightfully warm, and the fragrance of sea and bracken and ling is in our hearts. In time we reach Carrigan Head, with its martello tower, seven hundred feet odd over the Atlantic. Southwards the blue waters of Donegal Bay spread themselves, with just the slightest ripple on their surface, glinting in the warm sunlight. In the distance the heights of Nephin Beag and Croagh Patrick in Mayo are faintly discernible, and westwards the illimitable ocean stretches to the void. From Carrigan Head we follow a rough mountain trail, and in a short time reach Loch O' Mulligan, a lonely freshwater tarn, lying under the shadow of Slieve League. Back of the loch a grassy hill rises. We climb this, the younger boys leading about fifty yards in front, jumping along the short grass and over the stones like goats. Arrived at a point called in Irish Amharc MSr, or "Great View," a scene of extraordinary beauty bursts on us. We are standing on Scregeighter, the highest of the cliffs of Bunglass. A thousand and twenty-four feet below us, in a sheer drop, the blue waters of Bunglass advance and recede — blue as a sapphire, shading into emerald and white where they break on the spit of grass-covered rock rising like a sceilg-draoidheachia, or " horn of wizardy," out of the narrow bay. Right opposite us is Slieve League, its earn a thousand feet higher than the point on which we stand. In the precipitous rock-face, halfway up, is a scarped streak called Nead an lolair, or the Eagle's Nest. The colouring is wonderfully rich and varied — black, grey, violet, brown, red, green — due, one
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 16
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Sunday Mass-goers near Slieve League
Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal
On a Sunday morning near Slieve League, mountainy people walk for miles on bare feet to Mass, carrying their cleaned shoes over their shoulders and putting them on near the chapel. The narrator observes the social life and Irish greetings among the congregation.
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morning air. The fragrance of peat, marjoram, and wildmint hangs like a benediction over the countryside. A lark is singing ; the swallows are out in hundreds. The road turns and twists — past a cabin, over a bridge — between fringes of wet grass. It dips suddenly, then rises sheer against a wisp of cloud into the dark bulk of Slieve League behind. I see the mountainy people wending in from all parts to Mass. I am standing on high ground, and can see the hiving roads — the men with their black coats and wide-awakes, and the women with their bright-coloured kerchiefs and shawls. Some of them have trudged in for miles on bare feet. They carry their brogues, neatly greased and cleaned, over
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 14
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Carrigan Head martello tower and view
Carrigan Head · point · Donegal
The party reaches Carrigan Head with its martello tower, over seven hundred feet above the Atlantic. Southwards Donegal Bay spreads out, and the heights of Nephin Beag and Croagh Patrick in Mayo are faintly visible.
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delightfully warm, and the fragrance of sea and bracken and ling is in our hearts. In time we reach Carrigan Head, with its martello tower, seven hundred feet odd over the Atlantic. Southwards the blue waters of Donegal Bay spread themselves, with just the slightest ripple on their surface, glinting in the warm sunlight. In the distance the heights of Nephin Beag and Croagh Patrick in Mayo are faintly discernible, and westwards the illimitable ocean stretches to the void. From Carrigan Head we follow a rough mountain trail, and in a short time reach Loch O' Mulligan, a lonely freshwater tarn, lying under the shadow of Slieve League. Back of the loch a grassy hill rises. We climb this, the younger boys leading about fifty yards in front, jumping along the short grass and over the stones like goats. Arrived at a point called in Irish Amharc MSr, or "Great View," a scene of extraordinary beauty bursts on us. We are standing on Scregeighter, the highest of the cliffs of Bunglass. A thousand and twenty-four feet below us, in a sheer drop, the blue waters of Bunglass advance and recede — blue as a sapphire, shading into emerald and white where they break on the spit of grass-covered rock rising like a sceilg-draoidheachia, or " horn of wizardy," out of the narrow bay. Right opposite us is Slieve League, its earn a thousand feet higher than the point on which we stand. In the precipitous rock-face, halfway up, is a scarped streak called Nead an lolair, or the Eagle's Nest. The colouring is wonderfully rich and varied — black, grey, violet, brown, red, green — due, one
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 16
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Feis at Teelin and prize for storytelling
near Teelin · population centre · Donegal
Children tell the narrator about the Feis at Teelin, where great prizes were offered and a boy of eight from their own school won first prize for telling a wonder-tale in Irish.
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with the crowd. If one could see me behind I must look like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, so many children have I following alongside me and at my heels. They come to know by my talk that I am interested in Irish — an enthusiast, in fact — and they all want to tell me at once about the Feis at Teelin, and about the great prizes that were offered, and how one out of their own school, a little fellow of eight years, won first prize for the best telling of a wonder-tale in the vernacular. The quieteyed lad asks me would I like to see Bunglass and the great view to be had of Slieve League from the cliffhead. I tell him that I am going there, and in an instant the crowd is running out in front of us, shouting and throwing their caps in the air — delighted, I suppose, at the prospect of a scramble for coppers on the grass when we get to the end of our journey. For boys are boys the world over, let the propagandists carp as they will ! and when I was young myself I would wrestle a ghost under a bed for a halfpenny — so my grandmother used to tell me, and she was a very wise and observant woman. We have come to Teelin village — a clean, whitewashed little place on a hill, built " all to one side like Clogher " — and from there we strike up to the right by a sort of rocky, grass-covered loaning which leads to the cliffs. We pass numbers of houses on the way, each with a group of gaily-dressed peasants sunning themselves at the door. The ascent is gradual at first, but as we go on it gets steeper, and after a while's climbing we begin to feel the sense of elevation and detachment. The air is
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 16
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Ballad singer performing on an Ardara street
Ardara · town · Donegal
A ragged ballad singer performs on the street in Ardara, howling out verses including 'I'm a Good Old Rebel' with dramatic gestures and buck-jumps reminiscent of ancient dancing-songs. Local women either throw him money or shout at him to stop wakening the children.
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He howls out the verses in disjointed, unmusical bursts. He acts with head and arms, and at places where he is worked up to a particular frenzy he takes a run and gives
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 10
As the companion tells it
As you pass through Ardara, you might picture a ragged ballad singer who once worked this street. He howls out the verses in disjointed, unmusical bursts, acting with head and arms. At a frenzy he takes a run and gives a buck-jump, like the ancient dancing-songs. Women throw him money or shout at him to stop wakening the children.
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Children speaking Irish at Bunglass cliffs
Bunglass · bay · Donegal
The boys converse among themselves in Irish with an un-English intonation, thickened I's and thrilled R's, making the narrator feel the language of Niall Naoi Giallach is not dead.
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would think, to the complex stratification and to the stains oozing from the soft ores, clays, and mosses impinging between the layers. We step back from the cliff-edge, and sit down on a flat slab of stone, the better to enjoy the view, and the boys spread themselves out in various attitudes over the short grass before and behind us. They are conversing among themselves in Irish, speaking very rapidly, and with an intonation that is as un-English as it can possibly be. The thickened I's and thrilled r's are especially noticeable. To hear these children speak Irish the way they do makes one feel that the language of Niall Naoi Giallach is not dead yet, and has, indeed, no signs of dying.
One could spend a day in this place sunning oneself on the cliff-head, or loafing about on the grass, enjoying the panorama of mountain and sea and sky spread in such magnificence on all sides. But we have promised to be back in Carrick for lunch, and already the best part of the forenoon is gone. "Cad a-chlog S anois?" I ask one of the boys. He looks into the sky, calculates for a while, and answers: 'T^ st suas le h-aon anois. Feach an ghrian.'' (It is upwards of one o'clock now. Look at the sun.) In a remote, open country like this the children are wonderfully astute, and well up in the science of natural things. Coming up the hill I had noticed a number of strange birds, and when I asked the crowd the names of them in Irish they told me without once having to stop to think. We are ready to go now, but before setting out we decide on having a scramble. My friend, R. M., takes a sixpence
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 17
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Congested Districts Board men near Carrick
Carrick · town · Donegal
On the road back to Carrick, the narrator meets well-dressed people including a Maynooth student discussing Mr. Birrell's latest Land Bill and men in the uniform of the Congested Districts Board.
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from his pocket, puts it edge down on the turf, and digs it in with his heel, covering it up so that no sign of it is visible. He then brings the boys back over the grass about a hundred yards, handicapping them according to age and size. One boy, the youngest, has boots on, and he is put in front. At a given signal — the dropping of a handkerchief — the race is started, and in the winking of an eye the crowd is mixed up on the grass, one boy's head here, another's heels there, over the spot where the sixpence is hidden. Five minutes and more does the scramble last, the boys pushing and shoving for all they are worth, and screaming at the top of their voices. Then the lad who reached the spot first crawls out from underneath the struggling mass, puffing and blowing, his hair dishevelled, the coat off him, and the sixpence in his hand ! We have got back to Carrick, an hour late for lunch, and with the appetites of giants. "We met many people on the road as we returned, all remarkably well-dressed — young men in the blue serge favoured by sailors, and girls in white ; a clerical student, home on holidays from Maynooth, discussing the clauses of Mr. Birrell's latest Land Bill with *a group of elderly folk; big hulking fellows with bronzed faces, in a uniform that I hadn't seen before, but which a local man told me was that of the Congested Districts Board ; and pinafored children. One young man we noticed sitting on a rock over the water with his boots off, washing his feet, and several boys sailing miniature boats made out of the leaves of flaggers.
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 17
As the companion tells it
Coming up now is Carrick in Donegal. The road back into the town is where the narrator met a crowd of people, all remarkably well dressed. There were young men in blue serge, girls in white, and a clerical student home on holidays from Maynooth, discussing the clauses of Mr. Birrell's latest Land Bill with a group of elderly folk. He also passed big hulking fellows with bronzed faces, wearing a uniform a local man told him was that of the Congested Districts Board. Earlier, before reaching the town, he had watched a game on the turf. A man hid a sixpence edge down in the turf, covered it so no sign was visible, then brought boys back about a hundred yards and handicapped them by age and size. The youngest, who had boots on, was put in front. At the drop of a handkerchief the race started, and in the winking of an eye the crowd was mixed up on the grass over the hidden coin. The scramble lasted five minutes and more, boys pushing and shoving and screaming at the top of their voices. Then the lad who reached the spot first crawled out from underneath the struggling mass, puffing and blowing, his hair dishevelled, his coat off him, and the sixpence in his hand. They got back to Carrick an hour late for lunch, with the appetites of giants.
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Gap of Maum shepherds' house
Maum · pass · Donegal
The author spent a night yarning with two shepherd brothers who live by themselves in the Gap of Maum, a very lonely place, and was urged to sit by the fire rather than leave it to the fairies.
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I WAS in a house one night late up in
THE FAIRIES . ^ . , , i , ,_^
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 4
As the companion tells it
Somewhere about Maum, the author spent a night in a house up in the Gap, yarning with two shepherd brothers who lived there by themselves. It was a lonely place. They urged him to stay by the fire rather than go out and leave it to the fairies.
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Old woman's insleep on the Glengesh–Ardara path
Ardara · town · Donegal
Walking on a path through the fields from Glengesh mountain to Ardara wood, the author converses with an old woman who stops suddenly at a stream, scratches her eyebrow, and declares she has an 'insleep' — a premonition or superstitious feeling she hadn't had in a long time.
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AN INSLEEP ^^ ^^^'^^ talking together the other evening — an old woman and myself — on a path which leads through the fields from Glengesh mountain to Ardara wood. We had got as far as the stream which crosses the path near the wood when she stopped suddenly. She looked west, and scratched her eyebrow. " I've an insleep," says she. " I hadn't one this long time ! "
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 12
As the companion tells it
As you come through Ardara, there's a path through the fields from Glengesh mountain to the wood. An old woman was walking it one evening with a companion. When they reached the stream crossing the path near the wood, she stopped suddenly. She looked west and scratched her eyebrow. "I've an insleep," she said. "I hadn't one this long time!" An insleep was her word for a premonition she hadn't felt in a long while.
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Blind fiddler Donal O'Gallagher from Falcarragh
Falcarragh · town · Donegal
At a house in the road's mouth, the author gathers to hear old Fenian stories and fiddle music, with Donal O'Gallagher, a blind dark man from Falcarragh, playing for dancers.
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maybe, a tune played on the fiddle, if Donal O' Gallagher,
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 5
As the companion tells it
You're coming through Falcarragh now, in Donegal. This was home to Donal O'Gallagher, a blind dark man who played the fiddle. The author of the notes gathered at a house at the road's mouth here, where old Fenian stories were told and Donal played tunes for dancers.
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Poor man with striking voice near Maghery
Maghery · electoral division · Donegal
On the roadside near Maghery, the author encounters a poor, ragged man with an unshaven chin and wild eyes, barefooted children playing in the mud at his feet. Despite his poverty, the man speaks in a deep, resonant voice that the author finds remarkable.
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Whitman, " is folded in a great vocalism." I spoke to a man to-day on the roadside, near Maghery. He was a poor, raggedy fellow, with a gaunt, unshaven chin and wild eyes, and a couple of barefooted children played about the mud at his feet. He answered me in a voice that thrilled me — deep, chestfull, resonant ; a voice, that had he been an educated man, might have won fame for him, as a politician, say, or a preacher, or an actor. And voices like his are by no means uncommon along the western seaboard of Ireland. Men address you on the road in that frank, human, comrade-like way of Irishmen, out of deep lungs and ringing larynxes that bring one back to the time when men were giants, and physique was the rule rather than the exception. In such voices one can imagine the Fenians to have talked one with the other, Fionn calling to Sgeolan, and Oisin chanting the divine fragments of song he dreamed in the intervals of war and venery. Will Ireland ever recapture the heroic qualities — build
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 21
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Woman walker on Glengesh mountain
Glengesh · townland · Donegal
The author meets an elderly woman walking up Glengesh who outpaces him despite her age. She remarks that only salt and iron never go grey, pointing to a turf-stack as comparison for her formerly black hair.
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_ _ I MET a woman up Glengesh going in
TWO THINGS ^, ,. ^. r/ ^ f Qu
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 11
As the companion tells it
Somewhere around here on Glengesh, the author met an elderly woman walking up the mountain. Despite her age she outpaced him on the climb. She pointed to a turf-stack and said only salt and iron never go grey, noting her own hair had once been black like the turf.
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Opinion of Derry people in Donegal
Donegal · town · Donegal
An old woman in Donegal expresses a dismissive opinion of people from Derry, saying they lack gentility and approach things like a day's work. The narrator notes Donegal borders the 'marching county' of Derry.
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marching county — an old woman said to me the other day : " Och, there's no gentihty about the Derry people. They go at a thing like a day's work ! "
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 15
As the companion tells it
As you pass through Donegal town, you are in a county that borders the marching county of Derry. An old woman here once told a traveller, "Och, there's no gentility about the Derry people. They go at a thing like a day's work."
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Owenwee river staining skin dark brown
Owenwee · river · Donegal
The Owenwee river, meaning yellow river, like all Donegal rivers is brownish in colour and stains everything it touches; the author suggests the dark skin of local people is partly due to washing in it.
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between two boulders serving as a sort of gateway to the house. His face is tanned with sun and exposure, and he is in his bare feet. We greet him in Irish and he answers — a little surprised, no doubt, at hearing the language from strangers. Then another man comes forward — a brother, if his looks don't belie him. He is in his bare feet also, and hatless, with a great glibbe of black hair falling over his eyes. "You have the Irish?" he says. " It's newance to hear it from townsfolk." We talk for a while, enquiring further as to our direction over the hill, and then we push on. Near the head of the gorge we sit down to have a rest, sitting on a rock over the stream, and bathing our hands and faces in the brown, flooded water. All the rivers of Donegal are brownish in colour, and the Owenwee (rede Abhainnbhuidhe, " yellow river ") is no exception. The water stains everything it touches, and I have no doubt but that the dark colour of the people's skin is due, partly, to their washing themselves in it. Coming through one's boots, even, it will stain the soles of the feet.
We resume our journey, and after some rough and steep climbing reach the plateau head. Loch Nalughraman, a deep pool of mountain water, lies to the east of us, shimmering in the grey morning light. All around is bogland, of a dull red colour, and soaking with rain. We make through this, jumping from tuft to tuft, and from hummock to hummock, as best we can, going over the shoe-mouth occasionally in slush. In an hour or so we come on a bridle-path of white limestones, set on
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 7
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Turf scarcity around Lochros and the Owenea river
Owenea River · river · Donegal
In the Lochros district, turf is scarce, compelling farmers on the Point to keep horses for drawing turf from the moss north of the Owenea river over poor roads.
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The turf is then footed (sometimes by girls) along the causeway ditches, and when properly seasoned — say about the middle of July — is piled in stacks on high ground convenient to the moss, and covered on top with a lot of old mouldering " winter-stales," to keep the rain off it. " Winter-stales " are sods that have been left over from the previous season's cutting — the wet setting in and leaving the bog-roads in such a state that no slipe or wheeled car could get into them. Of course, most of the carrying in Donegal is done by creel or ass-cart ; but in the Lochros district turf is scarce, and the farmers on the Point are obliged to keep horses to draw the turf in from the moss on the north side of the Owenea river, some miles off, and over roads that are none too good for wheeled traffic. In some cases I have noticed the " winterstales" built up in little beehive-shaped heaps on dry ground, to be carted or creeled away as soon as the weather begins to mend. But it is only the more provident farmers who do this.
HIS OLD "My old mother's ailing this twelvemonth MOTHER back," said a man to me to-day. " I'm afeard she'll go wi' the leaves."
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 10
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Arrival at Carrick in rain and darkness
Carrick · town · Donegal
The author describes arriving at the village of Carrick after a long wet walk from the south. The village has a chapel with a square tower and an inn where the travellers find hot coffee, muffins, and poached eggs.
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on a side-car zig-zagging up hill on its way to the Glen. There are two occupants, a priest — presumably the curate of Glen parish going over for Sunday's Mass — and the driver. It is quite dark now, and the rain increases in intensity. Tramping in a mountainy country is a delightful sport — none better ! But it is on such a night and at the end of such a journey as this that one begins to see that it has a bad as well as a good side to it. The rain is coming down in sheets, our clothes are soaked through, the darkness is intense, the roads are shockingly muddy, we are tired out walking, and still we have another stiff mile to go before we see the friendly lights of the inn at Carrick. Two of us — R. M. and myself— stop at a bridge to have a look at the ordnance sheet which has stood us in such good stead all through our journey. Torrential rain beating on a map — even a " cloth-mounted, water-proofed " one like ours — doesn't improve it ; but we have qualms about our direction. We think we should have arrived at Carrick ere this, and we just want to make sure that our direction is right, and that we haven't taken a wrong turning in the darkness. After some trouble we manage to get a match lighted. The first misfires on the damp emery, the second blows out, the third is swallowed up in rain pouring like a spout through the branches overhead, the fourth .... "Carrick! Carrick! Carrick ! " The frenzied cries of the advance guard tell us that the town is in view. We put up our map resignedly, shaking great blabs of water out of it, and push ahead. In five minutes we have passed the chapel, with
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 11
As the companion tells it
You are coming into Carrick, a town in Donegal that the road passes through. The author of this passage came here on foot from the south, arriving in total darkness with the rain coming down in sheets, his clothes soaked through, the roads shockingly muddy, and still a stiff mile to go before the friendly lights of the inn. He and his companion R. M. stopped at a bridge to check their ordnance map, struggling to light a match on the damp emery, the first misfiring, the second blowing out, the third swallowed by rain pouring through the branches overhead. Then the advance guard began shouting the name of the town three times over, and they knew it was in view. In five minutes they had passed the chapel with its square tower and reached the inn, where they found hot coffee, muffins, and poached eggs waiting.
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Maghery village beneath Slieve a-Tooey
Maghery · electoral division · Donegal
The village of Maghery is described as a mere clachan of unmortared stone and rain-beaten straw huddling at the foot of Slieve a-Tooey, with the defile of Maum opening beyond it.
Read the passage
A patch of sea-bog before, exhaling its own peculiar fragrance — part fibre, part earth, part salt. Ricks of black turf stacked over it here and there, ready to be creeled inland against the winter firing. The dark green bulk of Slieve a-Tooey rising like a wall behind, a wisp of cloud lying lightly upon its earn. The village of Maghery, a mere clachan of unmortared stone and rain-beaten straw, huddling at its foot. A shepherd's whistle, a cry in torrential Gaelic, or the bleat of a sheep coming from it now and again, only to accentuate the elemental quiet and wonder of the place. The defile of Maum opening beyond, scarped and precipitous, barely wide enough to hold the road and bog-stream that tumble through it to the sea. The rainbow air of our western seaboard enfolding all, heavy with rain and the fragrance of salt and peat fires.
>-^Ar-LJTXT^ T3V CoACHiNG by thc stars, night-walk- COACHING BY . u ^ ^u u^ t x: j
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 2
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Navvies laying road foundation in Maum gorge
Maum · pass · Donegal
In a lonely and desolate part of Maum gorge, the author encounters a squad of wild-looking navvies laying down a foundation of brushwood and stones to carry a track further into the hills.
Read the passage
fellow with no teeth ; the other a youngish man, very raggedly dressed, with dark hair and features like an Italian. The old man tells us in Irish (which we don't follow very clearly) to keep up by the river-bed, and we can't possibly lose our direction. A quarter of a mile further on we meet another man. He bids us the time of day in passably good English. I answer in Irish, telling him that we are on the road for Glen-Columcille, and asking him the easiest way over the hills. He repeats what the old man told us, viz., to keep to the riverbottom, and to cut up then by the fall at the head of Maum to Laguna, a cluster of poor houses in the mountain under Crockuna. " When you get there," he says, "you cannot lose your road." He comes a bit of the way with us, and then we leave him at a point where the track ends in the heather, and where a squad of navvies is engaged laying down a foundation of brushwood and stones to carry it further into the hills. It gives us a shock, in a way, to come on this squad of wild-looking men in so lonely and desolate a place.
We are now well into the gorge, and a wild place it is ! Half-way up we come on a house — if one could call it such — with a reek of blue smoke threading out of a hole in the thatch. No other sign of life is visible. The walls of the gorge close in darkly on every side except the north. On that side is the sea, white on Maghery strand, and stretching away, a dull copper-green colour, into the sailless horizon beyond. Hearing the voices, a young man comes out from
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 7
As the companion tells it
Somewhere about Maum, in this lonely and desolate gorge, a traveller once came upon a squad of wild-looking navvies laying down a foundation of brushwood and stones, carrying a track further into the hills. He was tramping through Donegal for Glen-Columcille. An old toothless man had told him in Irish to keep by the river-bed, and a quarter of a mile on, another man wished him the time of day in passable English and repeated the advice. Keep to the river bottom, he said, then cut up by the fall at the head of Maum to Laguna, a cluster of poor houses under Crockula. "When you get there," he told the walker, "you cannot lose your road." He walked along a bit, then left him where the track ended in the heather and the navvies were at work. The author said it gave him a shock to find these men in so lonely a place. Beyond, the gorge closed in darkly on every side but the north, where the sea stretched away, a dull copper-green, into a sailless horizon.
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Slieve League shrouded in mist
Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal
Slieve League rises on the right of the road south of Carrick, but only its lower slopes are visible as the cairn on top is completely covered by driving mist during heavy rain.
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building, with a queer detached belfry — the little grey, straggling village street (some of the houses with slate roofs, some with thatch), the crosses standing up like gallan-stones on every side of it, the deep valley-bottom green as an emerald, Ballard mountain silhouetted against the sunset, and the vast Atlantic tumbling through mist on the yellow strand beyond. The air smells deliciously of peat. In Donegal one notices the smell of peat everywhere ; in fact, if I were asked to give an impression of the county in half a dozen words I should say : " Black hills, brown rivers, and peat." The road is fairly level now, and we continue our course in a south-easterly direction. A wild waste of moorland stretches on every side of us, brightened here and there by little freshwater lakes, out of which we see the trout jumping in hundreds — Loch Unshagh, Loch Unna, Loch Divna, and another quite near the road, where we got, at the expense of wet feet and knees, some lovely specimens of the lilium aureum, or golden lily, which grows, I think, on every little shallow and flat and bywater in South Donegal. After an hour of pleasant walking the road begins to drop and the rain to fall again. Slieve League is on our right, but we can only see the lower slopes of it, for the cairn is completely covered with driving mist. The wind has risen, and the rain beats coolingly on our cheeks, and exasperatingly, at times, down our necks. We pass a shepherd on the road making for Malin Mor, a shawled figure with a lantern, and several groups of boys and asses with creels bringing turf into the stackers ; and farther
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 11
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Teelin village described
near Teelin · population centre · Donegal
Teelin is described as a clean, whitewashed little place on a hill, built 'all to one side like Clogher,' from which the party strikes up a rocky, grass-covered loaning toward the cliffs.
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with the crowd. If one could see me behind I must look like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, so many children have I following alongside me and at my heels. They come to know by my talk that I am interested in Irish — an enthusiast, in fact — and they all want to tell me at once about the Feis at Teelin, and about the great prizes that were offered, and how one out of their own school, a little fellow of eight years, won first prize for the best telling of a wonder-tale in the vernacular. The quieteyed lad asks me would I like to see Bunglass and the great view to be had of Slieve League from the cliffhead. I tell him that I am going there, and in an instant the crowd is running out in front of us, shouting and throwing their caps in the air — delighted, I suppose, at the prospect of a scramble for coppers on the grass when we get to the end of our journey. For boys are boys the world over, let the propagandists carp as they will ! and when I was young myself I would wrestle a ghost under a bed for a halfpenny — so my grandmother used to tell me, and she was a very wise and observant woman. We have come to Teelin village — a clean, whitewashed little place on a hill, built " all to one side like Clogher " — and from there we strike up to the right by a sort of rocky, grass-covered loaning which leads to the cliffs. We pass numbers of houses on the way, each with a group of gaily-dressed peasants sunning themselves at the door. The ascent is gradual at first, but as we go on it gets steeper, and after a while's climbing we begin to feel the sense of elevation and detachment. The air is
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 16
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Darkness of Donegal frontier at Lifford
Lifford · townland · Donegal
The author describes crossing the frontier at Lifford and being struck by the darkness of Donegal, with the forty-mile journey through hills to Ardara deepening the impression of gloom.
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people who have seen them in the original have criticised their darkness, as if they were all drawn "in twilight and eclipse." But the darkness of Donegal was the first thing that struck me when I crossed the frontier at Lifford, and the forty miles' journey through the hills to Ardara bit the impression still more deeply into me. And if I were asked now after a year's exile what I remember most vividly of the county, I should say its gloom. I can see nothing now but a wilderness of black hills, with black shadows chasing one another over them, a gleam of water here and there, and just the tiniest little patch of sunlight— extraordinarily brilliant by contrast with the general darkness — on half a field, say, with its mearing-stones, to relieve the sense of tragedy that one feels on looking at the landscape.
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 1
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Laguna cluster of poor houses under Crockuna
Crockuna · hill or hills · Donegal
Locals direct the travellers to cut up by the fall at the head of Maum to Laguna, a cluster of poor houses in the mountain under Crockuna, assuring them they cannot lose their road from there.
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fellow with no teeth ; the other a youngish man, very raggedly dressed, with dark hair and features like an Italian. The old man tells us in Irish (which we don't follow very clearly) to keep up by the river-bed, and we can't possibly lose our direction. A quarter of a mile further on we meet another man. He bids us the time of day in passably good English. I answer in Irish, telling him that we are on the road for Glen-Columcille, and asking him the easiest way over the hills. He repeats what the old man told us, viz., to keep to the riverbottom, and to cut up then by the fall at the head of Maum to Laguna, a cluster of poor houses in the mountain under Crockuna. " When you get there," he says, "you cannot lose your road." He comes a bit of the way with us, and then we leave him at a point where the track ends in the heather, and where a squad of navvies is engaged laying down a foundation of brushwood and stones to carry it further into the hills. It gives us a shock, in a way, to come on this squad of wild-looking men in so lonely and desolate a place.
We are now well into the gorge, and a wild place it is ! Half-way up we come on a house — if one could call it such — with a reek of blue smoke threading out of a hole in the thatch. No other sign of life is visible. The walls of the gorge close in darkly on every side except the north. On that side is the sea, white on Maghery strand, and stretching away, a dull copper-green colour, into the sailless horizon beyond. Hearing the voices, a young man comes out from
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 7
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Sheepdog with geese near Letterkenny
Letterkenny · town · Donegal
Near Letterkenny, the narrator sees a sheepdog guarding a flock of geese halted by a bridge on their way to market, with the owner squatting smoking under the parapet — a dark-visaged man of Donegal.
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NEAR LETTERKENNY A sheepdog with a flock of
geese (a most unusual charge, I'm sure) halted by a bridge on their way to market. The owner squats smoking under the parapet — a darkavis'd man, with the slouch hat, slow eye, and wide, mobile mouth of Donegal. I greet him, and pass on.
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 18
As the companion tells it
Coming up near Letterkenny. A traveller once passed a bridge here and found a sheepdog guarding a flock of geese on their way to market. The owner sat smoking under the parapet, a dark-visaged man with a slouch hat, slow eye, and the wide, mobile mouth of Donegal.
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Sunday road between Carrick and Glengesh
Glengesh · townland · Donegal
On the Sunday road between Carrick and Glengesh, the narrator observes country boys playing skittles and paired couples walking with arms about each other's waists like a procession on Bride's Sunday.
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The Shooting Star 45 Sunday on the Road between Carrick and Glengesh 45
A Roany Bush 46
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich
As the companion tells it
Somewhere close to Glengesh, on the Sunday road between Carrick and Glengesh, a traveller once noted country boys playing skittles. Couples walked past with arms about each other's waists, like a procession on Bride's Sunday. It comes from a notebook of tramping through Donegal.
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Slieve League as dark mountain backdrop
Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal
Slieve League rises on the left of the road as a dark, shadowy bulk of mountain, cutting off the view to the south. The surrounding landscape is moorland with a stream in spate and small patches of tilled land and brown-thatched cabins.
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more familiar now. We pass many houses, with fleeces of dyed wool — green and blue and madder — drying on bushes outside the doors, and men busy stacking turf and thatching. Here and there on the road flocks of geese lie sunning themselves, head-under-wing. As we draw near they get up and face us with protruding necks, hissing viciously. Dogs bark at us occasionally, but not often. (I had heard ill accounts of the Donegal dogs from travellers, but on the whole, my experience of them has not been quite so bad as I had been led to expect.) Slieve League rises on our left, a dark, shadowy bulk of mountain, shutting off the view to the south. All around is moorland, with a stream in spate foaming through a depression in it, and little patches of tilled land here and there, and the inevitable brown-thatched cabin and the peat-reek over it. After some miles' travelling we come on a little folk-shop by the road — a shop where one might buy anything from a clay-pipe or a lemon to Napoleon's Book of Fate. The window looks tempting, so we go in. The shopkeeper is a quiet-mannered little man, not very old, I would think, but with greyish hair, and eyes that look as if they were bound round with red tape — burnt out of his head with snuff and peat-smoke. We ask him has he any buttermilk to sell. He hasn't any, imfortunately — he is just run out of it — so we content ourselves with Derry biscuits, made up in penny cartons, and half a dozen hen-eggs to suck on the way. Some people may shiver at the idea of it, but raw eggs are as sustaining a thing as one could take on a journey ! We
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 8
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The defile of Maum near Maghery
Maum · pass · Donegal
The defile of Maum is described as scarped and precipitous, barely wide enough to hold the road and bog-stream that tumble through it to the sea, opening beyond Maghery.
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A patch of sea-bog before, exhaling its own peculiar fragrance — part fibre, part earth, part salt. Ricks of black turf stacked over it here and there, ready to be creeled inland against the winter firing. The dark green bulk of Slieve a-Tooey rising like a wall behind, a wisp of cloud lying lightly upon its earn. The village of Maghery, a mere clachan of unmortared stone and rain-beaten straw, huddling at its foot. A shepherd's whistle, a cry in torrential Gaelic, or the bleat of a sheep coming from it now and again, only to accentuate the elemental quiet and wonder of the place. The defile of Maum opening beyond, scarped and precipitous, barely wide enough to hold the road and bog-stream that tumble through it to the sea. The rainbow air of our western seaboard enfolding all, heavy with rain and the fragrance of salt and peat fires.
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 2
As the companion tells it
Somewhere about Maum, the road presses through a defile that is scarped and precipitous, barely wide enough to hold the road and the bog-stream that tumble through it to the sea. Behind it rises Slieve a-Tooey, and at its foot huddles Maghery, a clachan of unmortared stone and rain-beaten straw. The air here is heavy with rain and the fragrance of salt and peat fires, what the writer called the rainbow air of our western seaboard. You may catch the bleat of a sheep or a cry in torrential Gaelic, only to accentuate the elemental quiet of the place.
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Wilderness of black hills around Ardara
Ardara · town · Donegal
The author recalls Donegal as a wilderness of black hills with black shadows, a gleam of water, and tiny patches of sunlight on fields with mearing-stones relieving the sense of tragedy in the landscape.
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people who have seen them in the original have criticised their darkness, as if they were all drawn "in twilight and eclipse." But the darkness of Donegal was the first thing that struck me when I crossed the frontier at Lifford, and the forty miles' journey through the hills to Ardara bit the impression still more deeply into me. And if I were asked now after a year's exile what I remember most vividly of the county, I should say its gloom. I can see nothing now but a wilderness of black hills, with black shadows chasing one another over them, a gleam of water here and there, and just the tiniest little patch of sunlight— extraordinarily brilliant by contrast with the general darkness — on half a field, say, with its mearing-stones, to relieve the sense of tragedy that one feels on looking at the landscape.
'tttt:^ iTrAXTTAT-T^ Sea-ribbons have I cut, and gathered THE WANDER- ,. , „ , • , r • • , , ^ • T TTQT ^ing 5 talked with fairies; heard Lia
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 1
As the companion tells it
As you come through Ardara in Donegal, the country around it made a deep mark on one traveller who crossed the frontier at Lifford and took the forty miles of road through the hills to this town. After a year away he remembered nothing so vividly as the gloom. He saw a wilderness of black hills with black shadows chasing one another over them, a gleam of water here and there, and the tiniest patch of sunlight on half a field with its mearing-stones, relieving what he called the sense of tragedy one feels on looking at the landscape.
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A beetle's journey toward Naran
Naran · townland · Donegal
The narrator encounters a black beetle travelling along the road toward Naran, three miles away, and watches it laboriously climb over stones the narrator likens to miniature Errigals.
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I WAS going along the road this evening when I came on a clock (some would call it a black beetle), travelling in the direction of Narin. The poor thing seemed to have its mind set on getting there before dark — a matter of three miles, and half an hour to do it in ! The sense of tears in me was touched for the clock, and I stooped down to watch it crawling laboriously along in the dust, over a very rough road, tired and travel-stained, as if it had already come a long way ; climbing stones (miniature Errigals) twenty times as high as itself; circumventing others, falling into ruts headlong, and rising again none the worse for its awful experience ; keeping on, on, on, " with a mind fixed and a heart unconquered." I couldn't help laughing at first, but after five minutes I felt a sort of strange kinship with the clock — it was a wayfarer like myself, " a poor earth-born companion and fellow-mortal " — and I stood watching it, hat in hand, until it disappeared out of view. The last I saw of it was on the top of a stone on rising ground, silhouetted against the sunset. Then it dropped over . . . and I resumed my journey, thinking.
Here there is quiet ; quiet to think,
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 15
As the companion tells it
Close to Naran, somewhere around here, a walker on the road one evening came upon a black beetle heading in this direction, three miles away and half an hour before dark. He stooped to watch it crawling laboriously through the dust, climbing stones he called miniature Errigals twenty times its own height, falling into ruts headlong and rising again none the worse, keeping on with what he called "a mind fixed and a heart unconquered." After five minutes he felt a strange kinship with the creature, a wayfarer like himself, "a poor earth-born companion and fellow-mortal," and stood watching hat in hand until it disappeared. The last he saw of it was silhouetted against the sunset on top of a stone on rising ground, before it dropped over and he resumed his journey, thinking.
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Meenacross Post-office and the strand of Glencolumbkille
Meenacross · townland · Donegal
The travellers reach Meenacross Post-office at four-thirty, and an hour later arrive at the age-worn strand of Glencolumbkille where the Atlantic tumbles through rain. The post-office serves as a waypoint on the road from the hills to the coast.
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pay our score, and get under way again. At a bridge where the road forks we sit down and eat our simple repast. A bridge has always a peculiar fascination for me — especially in an open country like this where one's horizon is not limited by trees and hedges — and I could spend hours dawdling over it, watching the play of sun and shadow on the water as it foams away under the arches. Here there is a delightful sense of space and quietness. The heather-ale is in our hearts, the water sings and the wind blows, and one ceases to trouble about time and the multitude of petty vexations that worry the townsman out of happiness. Did I say one ceases to trouble about time? Even here it comes, starting one like a guilty thing. We reach Meenacross Post-office at four-thirty, and an hour later see the Atlantic tumbling through rain on the age-worn strand of Glen-Columcille.
„ I MET an old man on the road, and
Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 8
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Beevna and the crosses of Glencolumbkille in darkness
Glencolumbkille · town · Donegal
In the dark valley of Glencolumbkille, Beevna and the crosses are visible only as shadows, with one friendly light burning in the valley. Rain and the boom of surf fill the air, evoking the remoteness of this ultimate western landscape.
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Beevna is a shadow, the crosses shadows. Only one friendly light burns in the valley. The patter of rain and the dull boom of the surf ring ceaselessly in my
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 8
As the companion tells it
As the road takes you through Glencolumbkille, Beevna and the crosses are shadows in the dark. One friendly light burns in the valley. Rain patters and the surf booms dull and ceaseless, the sound of this far western shore.
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Glengesh pass and its austere bareness
Glengesh · townland · Donegal
The author describes Glengesh as a place of darkness and austerity, its lines having the splendid bareness of early architecture, its colour suggesting time-stained walls with quiet aisles and mouldering altars.
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Its lines have something of the splendid bareness of early architecture ; its colour suggests time-stained walls, with
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Internet Archive mearingstoneslea00camprich, Chapter 2
As the companion tells it
Somewhere around here is Glengesh. A writer who passed through called its lines "something of the splendid bareness of early architecture," its colour suggesting time-stained walls.
This book is in the public domain; how the books' rights are judged. The passages are quoted as the scan has them, spelling and all; a story's place is the gazetteer's best reading of the text and can be wrong.