Readers of the literature of that day will know what an influence Moore was in its intellectual circles—his wit, his geniality, his singing, “the effect of which,” writes N. P. Willis, who met him at Lady Blessington’s, “is only equalled by the beauty of his own words.” His voice was of small compass, but exquisitely modulated and expressing every shade of feeling and sentiment, so that women have been known to faint as they listened to his singing, which awakened, perhaps, a buried sorrow, a long past anguish.
Once enter the Gap of Dunloe and the scene utterly changes; gone is the soft verdure, the brilliant tinting, silent the song of birds. On either side rise huge rocks, of strange, fantastic shapes, often appearing half suspended over the path, while never far from it rushes the dark Loe, “a brawling and angry stream,” which traverses the whole length of the Gap, about four miles, often passing along heights, then tumbling into depths with rush and roar, now near, now distant, but ever voicing the wild emotions which seem to lurk amid the gloom of this stern defile. It expands into five lakes, called collectively the Cummeen Lakes, during its passage through the Gap.
Tradition ascribes the origin of this wild pass to a stroke from the sword of a mighty giant, which separated the mountains and left them apart for ever, MacGillicuddy’s Reeks on one side, Toomies and the Purple Mountain on the other. Very stern and grand look the Reeks, one of their peaks, Carn-tual (“the inverted sickle”) rising higher than any mountain in Ireland—3,414 feet above the level of the sea. There is softer beauty on the mountains to the left, the Purple Mountain in particular (2,739 feet in height). The lovely hue which pervades this mountain is generally ascribed to a purple heath, which covers its sides, almost to the top, with perpetual bloom. Its name, however, was originally derived from an immense pile of loose stones and slates of a purple tint, which becomes intense when the sun shines upon them.
It is from the Gap of Dunloe that the Purple Mountain should be ascended; it is not a formidable climb, but ponies await those who fear the fatigue. The view from the summit is magnificent.
The western base of this mountain descends into Augher Lake, and close to this spot is the Woodwork Factory, where carved specimens of arbutus and other woods can be obtained in inlaid tables, chess and backgammon sets, card cases, etc.
Chess is believed to have been played in prehistoric times by the ancient Irish, and the frequent mention of the game long before the Norman invasion shows it was a favourite one. “The chess board was called in Irish ‘fithcheall,’ and is described in the Glossary of Cormac of Cashel, composed towards the close of the ninth century, as quadrangular in shape, and having straight spots of black and white. Some of these were inlaid with gold and silver and adorned with gems. No entire set of the ancient men is now known to exist, though frequent mention is made of the brigade or family of chessmen in many old manuscripts. Kings of bone, seated in sculptured chairs, about 2 inches in height, have been found, and specimens of them engraved in recent antiquarian publications” (D’Arcy Magee’s History of Ireland).
The most striking part of the Gap is where the valley contracts so as to bring the precipitous sides very close together. The peasants have named this the Pike, and to the grotesquely formed rocks along the pass they have also given names—the Turnpike, O’Donoghue’s Heart, and so on. The impression conveyed as you proceed, is of gloom and of a certain aloofness from the ordinary. The eagle soaring above is no uncommon sight.
A little distance from the Pike is a lonely tarn called the Black Lake (Loch Dubh), where St. Patrick imprisoned the last Irish snake, which is supposed to live in its depths. A little south of the Pass the spot is pointed out where the last Irish wolf was slain.
There is a stamp of wild force in all that meets the eye while traversing the Gap, which is not diminished as at Gap Cottage the end is neared. At its commencement cars have had to be abandoned. You must ride or walk. If you have elected to walk you will probably now be footsore and weary. Even the sure-footed ponies generally used may not prevent fatigue from the rough, precipitous road, but it is forgotten when, on leaving the Gap, a turn in the path brings in view one of the most famous glens of Killarney—the Black Valley. This was formerly described as so black, so desolate, that it might have been named the Valley of the Shadow of Death. It owes this reputation merely to its English name—a mistranslation from the Irish one—Cumin Dubh (O’Duff’s Valley). No one knows who this O’Duff was, however, and the Black Valley is a more romantic name for a singularly wild and beautiful scene.
The path now inclines to the left, bringing in view the Upper Lake, its waters glowing like burnished gold, if, as often happens, it approaches the sunset hour when you reach it. How lovely it looks, guarded on every side by those great mountains which hold so many secrets!