It Spoiled The View, It
Destroyed Any Pleasure The Scenery Might Have Afforded, And Yet Under
The Circumstances It Was Natural Enough On Their Part.
"We depend on the
tourists, this is our harvest," the carmen explained to us.
From the
hotel keeper to the beggar all depend on the tourist season.
After all it was something to have passed through between the
Macgillicuddy's Reeks and the purple mountain; something to see water
like spun silver flinging itself from the mountain top in leaps to the
valley below, to struggle up and up to the highest point of the gap and
look back at the serpentine road winding in and out beside small still
lakes through the valley far below. Of course we look into the Black
Lough where St. Patrick imprisoned the last snake. Of course we had
pointed out to us the top of Mangerton, and were told of the devil's
punch bowl up there. Down through the Black Valley we came to the point
where the boats waited for us, leaving the black rocks, the bare
mountains, the poor little patches of tillage, the miserable huts and
the multitudinous vendors of goat's milk and poteen behind. To our
surprise the way to the boats was barred by a gate, and at the gate
stood a man of Mr. Herbert's to receive a shilling for each passenger
before they could pass to the boats. "He makes a good thing out of it,"
remarked the boatmen. I do not know how many more fees are to be paid
for a look about the lakes of Killarney, but this gate, Torc Cascade and
Muckross Abbey cost each tourist two shillings and sixpence to look at
them.
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