Everything Pleasant Comes To An
End, And We Land At Fahan, And While Waiting For The Train My Attention
Is Drawn To The Fair Island Of Inch, With Its Fields Running Up The
Mountain Side, And The Damp Black Rocks Through Which The Railway Has
Cut Its Way At Fahan.
The train comes along, and we go whirling on past
Inch, Burnfoot Bridge, and into Derry.
A Presbyterian doctor of divinity
is in our compartment, and some well-to-do farmers' wives, and again and
yet again the talk is of the land and the landlords. Instance after
instance of oppression and wrong is gone over.
But Derry reached, I must say good-bye to some agreeable travelling
companions, and take the mail car to Moville for a tour round
Innishowen; Innishowen, celebrated for its poteen; Innishowen, sung
about in song, told about in story.
"God bless the dark mountains of brave Donegal,
God bless royal Aielich, the pride of them all -
She sitteth for ever a queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of green Innishowen.
A race that no traitor or tyrant has known
Inhabits the valleys of green Innishowen."
From Derry to Moville is, as usual, lovely - lovely with a loveliness of
its own. Fine old trees, singly, in groups, in thick plantations;
beautiful fields; level clipped hedges; flowers springing everywhere,
under the hedges, in little front gardens, up the banks. The land is
dreadfully overrun with gentry's residences fair enough to the eye, some
of them very beautiful, but one gets to wonder, if the land is so poor
that it is spueing out its inhabitants, what supports all these?
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