The neighbourhood of Buttevant is full of interest to those who will turn aside from the usual tour of Ireland. To-day we are off through the green lanes for a visit to Kilcoman Castle, the home for some years of the poet Spenser, and where he wrote his _Faerie Queene_. We shall later visit the scenes of that poem.
In 1586 Spenser received some fifteen hundred acres of land from the crown, and on them stood this ancient stronghold of the Desmonds, which he made his home for years. Those were troublous times and he saw much of their misery, and their sadness tinges his great poem.
He received but small acknowledgment for his work from Elizabeth, and even that was objected to by Burleigh,--"What--so much for a song!"
This castle was sacked whilst he occupied it and he fled to London, where he died in poverty.
The ruins rise from the midst of a green meadow some seven miles from Buttevant, and consist of a lonely tower, to the top of which we mounted by its ancient staircase within the walls. The tower chamber still has its roof intact, but at its best the castle must have formed a poor abiding-place even three centuries ago.
The prospect from the top is rather dreary, and we leave the spot without regret.
Doneraile Court, in whose vast park were laid the scenes of the _Faerie Queene_, is very different. It is now the property of Lord Castletown.
One more fully appreciates the comfort of a motor-car when forced suddenly as we were last night to take a jaunting-car for a ride of nine miles to Doneraile. That distance would be nothing at all in the former vehicle, but is every inch of nine miles in the latter. It's no easy matter to hold one's seat in these cars. If you happen to have a trotting horse it's not so difficult, but if the beast is inclined to canter, as ours was, the wheels of the car will almost leave the ground with every canter, and chances are that you will desert the car altogether. I came near doing so several times last night, and reached the court in a breathless state, which the horse, with a wicked leer in his eye, seemed to enjoy to the full. Tom, the driver, secure on his perch in front, rode most of the way with his back to the horse, which appeared to know whither we were bound, Tom the while discoursing to me upon the charms of hunting in Ireland and showing me several of the favourite jumping places. I did not enthuse; though I have ridden all my life and hunted some, still a jump composed of a stone wall, a hedge, and a deep drop on the far side did not commend itself to me, especially as a man had "broken his neck there but lately." One can scarcely understand such clumsiness on his part as the drop was quite sufficient for horse and rider to turn a complete summersault, and still come out right side up. However, I shall not try the trick, but that I would hesitate for an instant, for such a reason, to join in the national sport stamps me as unsportsmanlike--as one who will not buy a horse, and that settles my position, in Ireland.