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.
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.
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