KERRY, CONNEMARA AND CLARE 248 



lights on Crew Bay, the islands dotted on the 

 sea, and inland the hills and the brown stretch 

 of bog, and then wooded and beautiful the Killary 

 crouches before you in the sheltered valley and 

 the wildness of the coast is left behind. 



I came across a sea garden out off Innestaygle. 

 It was spring tide with the waters sucked back 

 off rocks seldom uncovered. It lurked beneath 

 two seaweed-hung boulders, a mermaid's garden 

 of violet and red and green, set with little pink 

 anemones, and great crimson anemones further 

 back, all open, these fringed the sea flowers. Above 

 the rock was hung with fern fronds of delicate weed, 

 little silvery shells formed borders in the water. 

 The colouring kept me there until an angry wave 

 soughed at my feet, jealous of the sea treasure 

 which I had seen. One could think of the sea 

 people coming up to tend that garden of theirs 

 and glory in its wealth of colour — its wondrous 

 beauty . . . sheltered under the beetling rock. 



On the way back from wild Innestaygle with the 

 sea thrashing at its shelves of Hmpet-covered rocks, 

 and the sound of waters everywhere there is an 

 island where white heather grows in quantities. 

 No one lives on it, there are only little nervous 

 black-faced sheep huddling on the brows of the 

 steep cliffs, but the lucky pure white bells are 

 everywhere. 



They have a legend there that the white heather 

 was once a fairy princess, who escaped some 



