Death On the Holy Mountain
“They were well behaved. They had, as yet, started no fights. They were polite to any locals they met. They had brought not a band, but a parson, or a minister as the clergymen of the Presbyterian Church were known. They consumed vast quantities of ham and eggs. The original mountain of potato bread baked in their honour by Dennis Ormonde’s cook had disappeared within hours of their arrival. Toasted, fried, eaten on its own with thick slabs of butter, the stuff disappeared like manna in the dese...rt. Dennis Ormonde was delighted with them. Even Powerscourt, who had entertained great suspicions about their impact on the local community, had to admit that so far the experiment had been a success. Johnny Fitzgerald, who kept taking the pulse of local opinion in Campbell’s public house at the foot of Croagh Patrick and at one or two other drinking establishments nearby, was not so sure.
‘There’s a sort of simmering resentment out there, Francis,’ he said, sitting on the lawn at the back of Ormonde House.MoreLess
‘There’s a sort of simmering resentment out there, Francis,’ he said, sitting on the lawn at the back of Ormonde House.MoreLess
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