five o’clock
I stood upon a little peninsula which separates the Shannon from the wide Atlantic . On one side the placed river flowed on its course , between fields of waving corn , or rich pasturage -- the beautiful island of Scattery , with its picturesque ruins reflected in the unrippled tide -- the cheerful voices of the reapers , and the merry laugh of the children were mingled with the seaman 's cry of the sailors , who were `` heaving short '' on their anchor , to take the evening tide . The village , which consisted of merely a few small cabins , was still from its situation a pleasing object in the picture , and the blue smoke that rose in slender columns from the humble dwellings , took from the scene its character of loneliness , and suggested feelings of home and homely enjoyments , which human habitations , however , lowly , never fail to do . `` At any other time , '' thought I , `` and how I could have enjoyed all this , but now -- and , ha , I find it is already past five o'clock , and if I am rightly informed I am still above a mile from ` Carrigaholt , ' where we were to meet . '' I had dismissed my conveyance when nearing the village , to avoid observation , and now took a foot-path over the hills . Before I had proceeded half a mile , the scene changed completely . I found myself traversing a small glen , grown over with a low oak scrub , and not presenting , on any side , the slightest trace of habitation .