"There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-valleyed Desmond--a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains; There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow; As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. And its zone of dark hills--oh! to see them all bright'ning; When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning; And the waters rush down, mid the thunders deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming."... The "green island" is a little over half an acre in extent. In its centre is a quadrangle, with walls at parts fourteen feet thick, in which are eight cells or cloisters rudely arched over. Within, on a raised platform, is a large cross with five steps ascending to it. There is a large flagstone here with an inscription, giving directions how "the rounds" are to be performed on the vigil and forenoon of the feast days of St. Finbarr and St. John the Baptist, to whom there is a special cultos all over Munster. The road from Gougane runs through Inchigeela and Ballingeary by a wild stretch of river inches, called the Gearagh, to Macroom, where the old Castle and Convent are worth visiting. In the latter the kindergarten system has been introduced with great success. It is also here that the Gaelic Feis or Festival is held for the locality, which contains a large percentage of Irish-speaking people, including numbers of children. From Macroom train runs direct to Cork. In the visitors' book at Inchigeela Hotel some vagabond rhymester penned the following farewell:-- Sweet Inchigeela, fare thee well, to-morrow we depart On Mrs. Brophy's outside car, for Gougane B. we start; I add my mite of doggerel to all I have read here, And put my X to all that's writ of this hotel's good cheer. O charming Inchigeela, were mine the poet's pen, How I would do the Longfellow, in praising rock and glen; Among thy mountains, hills, and lakes, six happy days we passed, And sigh to think the day draws near that's doomed to be the last. We've climbed the rocky mountains, we've plodded o'er the plain, We've bid a wild defiance to the drizzling, drenching rain; And yielding to the influence of your coquettish weather, We've grilled beneath the sunshine on thy "tick" infected heather. O lovely Inchigeela! O cosy Lake Hotel! O Hannah! best of waiting-maids, and civilest as well; O were I not so sleepy, a great deal more I'd say, But I must grasp my pilgrim's staff and wend my onward way.