278 ON THE TRACK OF THE MAIL-COACH 



The Point, it must be admitted, is a long way off 

 the track of the mail or any other coach. The 

 nearest railway-station, and certainly the nearest 

 town, is Midleton, ten or twelve miles distant. The 

 small village of Whitegate is close at hand, but 

 beyond that and a few cottages and the coast-guard 

 buildings, which lie as it were under the shadow of 

 Trabolgan — the home of the Eoche family — there 

 is nothing in < the way of civilization to vary the 

 monotonous occupation of looking out for the mail- 

 boats. 



Yet good servants of the Crown spend a lifetime 

 there without a murmur, undismayed by the absence 

 of variety and by the scarcity of entertainment in- 

 cidental to more populous places. When I was at 

 Eoche's Point, about twenty-three years ago, I found 

 my good colleague, Mr. Kennedy, in charge of the 

 telegraph- oflice. After thirty-four years' service he 

 is there still. 



On the Dublin and Wexford coach-road there were 

 seven changes in the seventy-four miles ; the acceler- 

 ated time of running was 11^ hours — a low speed, it 

 is true, but the stages were long, and the coach, 

 unlike the English mails, was heavily loaded. It 

 carried, when full, as many as twelve passengers, 

 besides coachman and guard. The average pace, 

 allowing for stops, was seven miles an hour. 



Once a coach-horse presented himself in advance of 

 the mail at his stables at Wexford. A wheel of the 



