After We Left Clogheen And Struck Through A Wide Plain For Cahir The
Moon Came Out And Touched The Dark Mountains With Silver And They Folded
Away Their Gray Robes Until We Should Return.
Those eight Irish miles
from Clogheen to Cahir were the longest miles I have ever met with,
exceeding in length the famous Rasharken miles.
Here in a rambling,
forsaken like assemblage of stairs and passages, called a hotel, we
found a room and I rested for the remaining hours of the night. I never
bestowed whip money so grudgingly as I did on the sullen driver who
brought me through the Knock-me-le-down mountains. Under his care all my
bags and parcels came to grief in the most innocently unaccountable way
and were carried in in a wrecked condition.
In the morning the melancholy waiter who set my little breakfast at one
end of a desert of a table in a dusty wilderness of a room, commenced
bemoaning over the poverty of the country. It was a market morning and
there were many asses, creels and carts with fish drawn up in the market
place. I ventured to suggest a fish for breakfast, which was an utter
impossibility. Cahir has a handsome old castle standing close to its
main street which is still inhabited.
We dropped down by rail through Clonmel to Waterford, our companions by
the way being all returning tourists, English and Welsh people over for
a holiday to see the disturbances in Ireland, which they had always
missed seeing some way.
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