Continuing from :County Laois or Leix Richard Hayward 1949 (From 'This is Ireland, LEINSTER and the City of Dublin) We came well out of our way to visit this region of Kilkenny, for the direct road from Carlow to Abbeyleix only covers twenty-four miles and we shall travel more than twice that distance, but the interest was compulsive. And we were still in Kilkenny when we reached Ballyragget, with its fine sixteenth-century tower with bartizans, home of the amazonian Margaret Fitz-Gerald, who became celebrated as the great Countess of Ormonde, and who, as Stanihurst tells us, 'led her retainers in military enter- prises and was a lady of such port that all . . . crouched unto her'. Daniel Axtell, the regicide, came into this property by political means, but ended his life at the end of a rope at Tyburn. We crossed to the west bank of the Nore beyond the town and ran up the lovely valley of that river to Durrow, which must not be confused with the famous Durrow farther north in Offaly, and soon crossed the Nore again to reach Abbeyleix - Mainistir Laoighise, the Abbey of Leix-so named from the abbey founded., there, in 1183, by Conor O Moore, and the only place to retain the old tribal name of the territory on the maps of the long English occupation. Abbeyleix is a sweet town, well-mannered and clean as a whistle, and through the lovely arcade of limes, which grow down one side of the street, one glimpses houses of good design, with tenderly sculped doorways and pleasant fan-lights full of light and shade and simple grace. I was not surprised to hear that the big house had escaped the fanatics, and that Lord de Vesci still lives in it and cares for his most attractive little town. The way to Borris-in-Ossory-Buirgheas Mór Osruidhe, the Big Borough of Ossory-lay along side-roads of great beauty, with the splendour of the Slieve Blooms to the right and the glorious golden browns of the bogland on every hand. The place-name originated with the Normans, and wherever you see the component Borris you may know that it refers to one of those burgages or boroughs which the invaders created here and there as part of their administrative plan. This small place, close to the Tipperary border, was once of great importance, for it commands the chief pass into Munster, and the ruined castle of the FitzPatricks is a reminder of the circumstance. Borris lies just east of the Nore, here but a baby stream close to its source, but, seven miles to the north-east, that same river, now boisterous and extremely picturesque, sweeps south-east in a wide bend through Castletown, which of old was fortified by Sir Oliver Morres, son-in-law of Ormonde, to curb the power of the Fitz-Patricks. There is a preparatory college here, run by the de la Salle French Christian Brothers, and I was delighted to meet my old Waterford friend, Brother Brendan, who is now principal of that establishment, and who received us with his customary grace and friendly hospitality. A fine Christian gentleman, God bless him. The road from Castletown to Mountrath-Móin Ratha, the Bog of the Fortress-is excellent, and we were interested to see road metal being prepared by manual labour in the old leisurely way, the stonebreakersseated astride their heaps at the roadside, their eyes protected by steel-mesh spectacles, and the tap-tap of their hammers reminding us of the jolly song about the leprechaun. Mountrath is a neat town on the Mountrath River, a lively tributary of the Nore, and passed to that Sir Charles Coote whose vindictive excesses in the 1641 stain the memory of one who had the qualities of an otherwise capable soldier. His son became Earl of Mountrath in 1660, but the title was extinct by 180?.. More peaceful thoughts came to us as we stood in the old Friends Sleeping Ground here, and remembered that the Quakers brought industry and good living to this place in the seventeenth century, and made it one of their chief centres in Ireland. They have gone now, alas, and left nothing but that air of cleanliness and simple grace which lies so sweetly about every place that ever felt the touch of their blessed hands. Sleep well, good Friends, for you always laboured for the health and happiness of Ireland, with comeliness and Christian charity. >From Mountrath we travelled the delightful mountain road towards Arderin, only 1734 feet high but the highest peak of the Slieve Blooms and looking formidable in this flat countryside. In a mile-and-a-half we swung up the road to the left at Rushin House, the old home of John Pim, founder of the great Irish Quaker family. It is a sweet old house, and John must have loved -its peace and solidity when he came here from Leicester in 1655. Two descendants of his founded the town of Mountmellick, another created the great business house in Dublin, and for the last few hours we had been driving in the car of yet another, my good friend Samuel Pim of Mountmellick, and in his genial company we seemed to be a very part of this countryside which his people have done so much to enrich. Up then we went, along that road to the left, over the Delour River, which is a tributary of the Nore, and on a little to the west of Cardtown House, where we took to our feet. Here a small stream, the Killeen, flows musically down to the Delour from Glendine Gap, and to that gap you must walk by the side of that same singing stream. The gap cuts east and west across the northern shoulder of Arderin, and a, small effort will take you to the summit, across which runs the county boundary between Leix and Offaly. Until recently an annual tug-of-war took place here, between the Kings and Queens, who took their titles from the English names of their counties, and for twelve months after each event the losing side was finding excuses for having been pulled over into foreign country. The name of this small mountain is as sweet as that of the range which it dominates: Arderin- Árd Éireann, the Height of Ireland- and we can imagine the early people of the Central Plain, unaccustomed to anything more than an esker ridge, bestowing this proud title on what they thought must be one of the major elevations of the whole country. Arderin may be small and the Slieve Blooms but a heathery ridge, but they are both as sweet and delightful as their names, and at any season of the year they fill the eye with beauty and the lungs with their fragrant delicious air. There is magic in this region, whether it be the magic of the full blaze of summer's colour, the wistful wizardry of the subdued but unforgettably endearing tints of autumn, the sterner browns and deeper greens of winter, or the fragile promise of delicate loveliness that comes in early spring, when every small mountainy tree decks itself like a bride and the wild birds begin to send their hopeful songs across the great solitude of the boglands. Get you to the Slieve Blooms at any season and see whether I have spoken truth. We regained the car, turned towards whence we came, and took the first turn to the left up the military road to Kinnity, which is on the other side of the Slieve Blooms and in Offaly. We stopped at the summit, astride the county boundary, partook of a picnic lunch which our host-for Sam Pim was our host now and for several happy days to come- had provided, and sat for a long time in contemplation of the magnificent panorama that was stretched before us, away down the Baureigh Valley and far beyond. It was breathtaking in its splendour of foreground, the spruce and larch of the afforested lands bringing a fascinating touch of metallic blue to the predominant browns, yellows and greens of the native flora, and in the farther-flung grandeur of the wide be-rivered plain that rolled away, in atmospheric blues, to the distant tumble of the mighty Wicklows and the adorable line of the be-shadowed sleeping Blackstairs. This indeed was an Ireland little known to the average holidaymaker, an Ireland off the beaten track, and an Ireland lovable and lovely in every fold and dip of its comely landscape. Back down that military road we came, turned left at the point where we had joined it, left again before we reached Rushin House, and away with us north to the Cathole Bridge which crosses the baby Owenass- Abhainn Easa -the River of the Waterfall-a stream that grows apace as it journeys to Mountmellick. We passed, on our right, the beautiful Italianate mansion of Ballyfin, once the home of Ireland's premier baronet, Sir Algernon Coote, but now a monastery, and near the Cathole Bridge we stopped once again and left the car. Above is the ridge of Capard-Ceap Árd, the high stake or tree-trunk-and a pleasant walk beyond that ridge takes you to a secluded valley in which rises the River Barrow. This is a favourite spot for summer picnics, and some very picturesque scenery will reward you if you stroll along the bank of the young river until you come to the clamp-hole, where the stream, already more boisterous, dashes over a rocky sill and makes a fine show of a waterfall. They say that from the top of the ridge, on a clear day and with good binoculars, you can see as far west as Galway Bay and as far east as Howth Head, but I cannot vouch for this from personal experience, for on my visits to that ravishing spot either the weather was hazy or I had no glasses. From this region the Barrow flows on to the very border of Offaly, turns abruptly south-cast without crossing it, passes to the north of Mountmellick with a mile to spare, and sweeps on for another six miles before it flows through its first town, Portarlington.