I Was Told That From These Knock-Me-Le-Down Mountains, I Could
See A Glimpse Of The Galtees, But The Mountains Began To Array
Themselves In, What The Sullen Driver Called Fog, Cloaks Of Gray Mists
That Fell In Curling Folds Down Their Brown Sides.
Up and up we climbed,
along a road that twisted itself among the solemn giants of the hills
sitting in veiled awfulness.
We passed a boundary ridge that separated
the Duke of Devonshire's lands from the next landlord, and I thought we
were at the highest point of the pass, and here the storm came down, and
the mountain rain and mountain winds began to fight and struggle round
every peak and through every glen. I have never ventured among the
mountains yet without rousing the fury of the mountain spirits. The
jaded horse got himself into a staggering gallop, and so, chased by the
storm, we threaded our way about and around on the downward slope of the
mountains. It grew very dark, and we jaunted along a bit in one
direction, and then turned sharp and jaunted off in another, the driver
informing me that this was the V of the mountains, and miles
immeasurably spread seemed lengthening as we hurried on.
We reached at length, at the foot of the hills, the "town of nate
Clogheen, where Sergeant Snap met Paddy Carey." As far as the darkness
permitted us to see, Clogheen is still neat Clogheen. A little further
west is the classic little town of Ballyporeen, which has danced to
music that was not wedding music more than once during late years.
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