Inis Oirr, Aran Islands
Inis Oirr is Irish for ‘Small Island’. It is the baby of the three Aran Islands which lie off the country’s rugged West Coast. Renowned for being the last stronghold of Gaelic and traditional culture, they are flooded with tourists clamouring for a horse and buggy ride, fishing, walking and traditional music in summer.
Sixty percent of islanders still speak in their native tongue and woolly Aran jumpers are the prized garment to take home.
Mid-October, I am the only passenger on the ferry.
An azure blue sky washes over my eyes, streaked by buttery sunlight and the promise of perfect contemplation.
Once off the ferry I’m bursting to devour the island with my footsteps. I take a left on the road and spy a graveyard on a hill to my right that looks as old as the island itself. The history of generations living and dying here instantly grounds me to the place.
Inis Oirr is gorgeous and quaint- lush green fields are partitioned off by primeval stone walls comprised of stacked shingles. Ancient building practices means adhesive is unnecessary, the small cracks in the walls allow the fierce Atlantic winds to sail straight through.
I pad along the beach, my feet strong and buoyant in their durable hiking boots. The beach transforms swiftly from white sand surrounding a shipwreck known as ‘The Plassey’ into a natural road of dark grey rocks. I stop to make a little video, interviewing myself, overjoyed. Intuition tells me to document this day…there is magic here.
I have seen no one since leaving the ferry and head for the red and white striped lighthouse in the distance. The air is dewy and smells more like the farming fields than the wild ocean.
I bend to touch a rock. It is rough and charcoal coloured like ashen volcano. Immediately I am hit by an insatiable longing for times long ago. Inis Oirr, and indeed, all the islands of the Celtic lands seem to have this effect on me. The population is only two hundred and eighty here. Humans used to live in small communities where everyone knew each other and contact was warm, abundant and sincere — Inis Oirr has retained its old soul.
The lighthouse is suddenly upon me, wrenching me from my yearnings. I grimace as I see the wrought-iron gate is locked. Access denied! I turn away and walk inland.
I come to a street with houses on it, old and new side by side. Modern ones with solar panels though they do not look intrusive on the landscape. Some with thatched roofs and trellises of tiny flowers, and some with renovations — hinting at commitment and the cheerful willingness of many hands. A child’s brightly coloured play cubby adorns the front yard of the one I like best. It appears to be the oldest on the street and boasts a pluck of charming thatch. My lips bud into a smile. It is reassuring to see that there will be future generations on Inis Oirr to preserve what seems to me, the very definition of a good life.
I trek on towards the tiny white-washed chapel and enter with reverence — not because it is a holy place but because it is important to the islanders and represents a place of hope and stillness. There are no sounds except the wind rattling the door. Honeyed wood that has sweetened with age, ancient musty bibles and candle smoke tickle my nose.
I tiptoe over to the candles burning on a bench, each one symbolic of the person who placed it there. I dump my coins and light one for myself.
All that I have been, all that I have learnt, all that I will become from the spirit of this place…..awaits.
