Rain, - all day rain. From Dublin we passed along the sea toward Belfast, enjoying ourselves in our own compartment. The one interest, apart from the rich looking country - still very little tilled, - was Drogheda, of Cromwell's time. Apparently Ireland has few battle fields,-overlooking, of course, the personal encounters that do not interest the historian. For instance, in the evening at Portrush, one gray headed Irishman was most quarrelsomely ungentlemanlike in asserting his claim to a pool table over an American. A funny episode.
In Belfast we drove between stations, just making connections. We tried to get lunch on the train, but every time one of our six (12) put his head into the restaurant compartment, where there were but two vacant places, the waiter put us off, as if he were in panic at sight of so many. Finally we went back to our compartment, fortified with fruit, sandwiches, and chocolate that we plundered for a few pennies from a boy vender Only soon to be followed by the aforesaid waiter urging us now to return to his kind mercies, - but too late.
At Portrush we were in a quiet sea- side resort, at the very north of Ireland. Rocky headlands ran out to sea, and though the rain was driven at us by a brisk wind, three of us could not forego a walk across the rocks. The town is popular for golfers. In the hotel were numerous excursionists and "trippers", en route, as were we, to the Giant's Causeway, - many Americans.
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