CHAPTER IX
ALIGHTING AT THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY
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Weascended from Limavady at 8:30. We were once more cheered to the echo as we left the earth. After leaving Limavady, we came to a low range of hills, and Mike had to use his raising levers freely as we climbed their sides. We saw the familiar heather and peat, and even the little cabins, much the same as we saw in County Mayo. At the top of the hills we had a magnificent view. We could see Coleraine clearly, nestling beside the Bann river, and, away in the distance, we saw again the sea. The surrounding country was like a panorama. We glided swiftly down the mountain side, and flew around the quaint old town of Coleraine. Scotch-Irishmen live in Coleraine, and it has the reputation of having the best bakers in the whole island. Mike and I did not condescend to test this, although it was perhaps as well for us not to alight there, for Coleraine is famous for something besides bread. Fine old Coleraine whisky is known throughout the length and breadth of Ireland. A Donegal clergyman, on hearing of a sermon against drink, said: “Sure, I am forever at them about it. It’s the bad stuff they take that does the mischief. I have told them from the altar that I never touched a drop myselfbut the best Coleraine.”
Sky-pilots, whether spiritual or atmospheric, have to leave whisky alone nowadays, so, in spite of its fame, we merely circled over the city. Coleraine is known for many centuries in Irish history. St. Patrick built a church here. Columba visited it in 590. Later on the salmon fishing in the river Bann, which flowed through the city, made Coleraine a place of some commercial importance. Like Derry and Enniskillen, Coleraine was besieged in 1689 by the troops of JamesII., and the garrison was compelled to evacuate the town, and retreat to Derry.
After passing over Coleraine, we came to the seacoast again at Portstewart. I could see the row of houses along the quay, in one of which Lever used to live. Lever’s home was in Dublin, but he spent a year as a dispensary doctor at Portstewart, and did some writing here. A stiff breeze was blowing along the coast, and Mike was kept busy handling the airship. Leaving Portstewart, we went along the rough coast to Portrush. This was formerly a dreaded coast, many a brave ship going to pieces on the rocks. Portrush is the fashionable watering place of the North of Ireland, and it is crowded with visitors during July and August. The town is built on a ridge that projects into the sea. The strands are beautiful. The ridge on which the town is built ends in a hill, called Ramore hill, which is a favorite promenade. We could see the bathers swimming in the surf, as we skimmed along the strand towards the White Rocks. These are cliffs of a strange white formation.A little beyond the White Rocks Mike slowed up, and passed around the picturesque ruins of Dunluce Castle. This ancient ruin crowns a high cliff, and, before men could fly, was a difficult place to reach. Right in front of us we could see the headlands above the Giant’s Causeway. I did not very much enjoy my sail from Dunluce to those headlands. After leaving the Castle, Mike turned directly out to sea, instead of following the coast, and crossed a bay of a few miles to the Causeway. I remembered our experience over the river Foyle, and I did not altogether appreciate Mike’s daring. I was really relieved as we rose over the great cliff that over-hangs the Causeway, and circled around with the earth under us. We were both delighted to reach the Northern end of the Island. It was not quite ten o’clock when we arrived.
There are two large hotels on the high cliff, and we could see the tourists, many with field glasses, watching us in the air. Mike, in the exuberance of his joy and self-confidence, made three great circles before landing. In making the last circle he went out over the sea again, and then alit beside the Railroad hotel as lightly as a bird could have done. The crowd cheered us as we stepped out, and some of the men came forward to shake hands and congratulate us. We were asked if we were the Wright Brothers, and when we said we were not, some of them suggested Curtiss, Farnam, and other well-known aeronauts. When we explained we were simply tourists, using the latest and best way oftravel, they looked at each other, and when Mike told how we had come from Cork, they laughed outright. I do not believe half a dozen in the crowd thought we had come any further than from Portrush. I expect they would not have believed we could fly at all had they not seen us alight.
One Englishman laughed so contemptuously that I noticed Mike looked at him in disgust.
“It reminds me of the Manager of the Chicago Stockyards,” said the Englishman.
“Why, what about the Manager of the Chicago Stockyards?” asked Mike hotly.
Not noticing Mike’s rising temper, the Englishman went on to tell of a couple of Irishmen who went to Chicago, and while there, visited the Stockyards. One of the managers noticed the interest Erin’s sons took in the great institution, and thought he would play a joke. Pointing to a large herd of cattle, which were being driven into one of the lower buildings, the Manager called attention to them, and when the last tail had disappeared, he waited a few moments and then pulled a great freight elevator rope and down came a large elevator loaded with canned meat.
“There,” said the Manager, slyly winking at an employee near by, “there are all those cows you saw, hides, horns, hoofs, and every thing, all canned and ready for market. Did you ever see anything like that in Ireland, Pat?” he asked.
Pat at once took out his note book and began towrite. The Manager looked over Pat’s shoulder and read on Pat’s note book: “The Manager of the Chicago Stockyards is the biggest liar I have met yet.”
Mike was furious as he heard the crowd join in uproarious laughter at our expense.
“Do you call me a liar, sir,” said Mike, squaring himself in front of the joking Englishman.
The Englishman was taken aback at Mike’s earnestness, and, not knowing what to say, merely laughed in a foolish kind of way.
“I allow no man to call me a liar,” said Mike, as he stepped closer to his antagonist. Mike was a Yankee, but I knew there was Irish blood in his veins, and this rash Englishman had aroused him.
I was afraid our aeroplane trip was going to end in a fiasco, when something altogether unexpected happened.
“I believe you, sir,” said a sweet, charming, musical voice, “and you must tell us all about your wonderful voyage over Ireland. It must have been delightful.”
Mike turned to see the speaker, and, in a moment, every trace of anger left his face, and he stood like a blushing schoolboy.
At the same time a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked girl, of nineteen or twenty, clad in a dainty white sailor dress and cap came forward, holding out her hand.
Mike recovered himself, clasped her hand, saying: “I thank you, Miss—.”
“Edith O’Neill,” added the girl.
“I am glad to meet you, Miss O’Neill,” said Mike, and I never saw him look more manly.
The crowd burst into applause, and all was good cheer again. That was the first meeting of Mike and Miss O’Neill, and it was fraught with more meaning than any of us thought at the time. I found out later in the day that Miss O’Neill was a descendant of the famous Irish O’Neill family. Her father was a wealthy Dublin lawyer, and she and her parents were taking a short holiday at the Causeway.
After seeing that the aeroplane was carefully stored away in a corner of the hotel yard, Mike and I retired to our room until lunch. Mike was in splendid humor, and he had every reason to be. Our aeroplane trip was a success. We had conquered the Irish air. An Irish heiress is still more difficult to conquer, but it is wonderful what one can do in the Irish atmosphere.