Arrived At Ballina After A Long, Tiresome Journey, Yet Like Everything
Else In This World It Had Its Compensations.
Ballina is a kind of
seaport town, in the Rip Van Winkle way.
An inlet from Killala Bay
called the Moy runs up to the town. There is no stir on the water, no
perceptible merchandise on the quay. One dull steamboat painted black,
in mourning for the traffic and bustle of life that ought to be there,
slides out on its way to Liverpool and creeps back again cannily. Unless
you see this steamboat I can testify that you might put up quite a while
at Ballina and never hear its existence mentioned, so it cannot be of
much account. The streets are thronged with barefoot women and ragged
lads with their threepenny loads of turf. The patient ass, with his
straw harness and creels, is the prevailing beast of burden everywhere I
have travelled since I entered Enniskillen with the exception of Sligo.
Sligo town, like Belfast in a lesser degree, has the appearance of
having something to do and of paying the people something who do it. The
traders who come to Ballina market seem to trade in a small way as at
Manor Hamilton. Still, the town is handsome and clean, a large part of
the population, prosperous-looking, in an easy going way, the ladies
fine-looking and well dressed. One wonders what supports all this, for
the business of the town seems of little account.
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