Two Days on Little Inisheer: An Aran Island Experience Part 3 of 3 - County Galway, Ireland

Two Days on Little Inisheer:
An Aran Island Experience

County Galway, Ireland

Inisheer lighthouse.

The young people who got off the pony trap earlier have finished inspecting the wreck (there is a sign that reads you shouldn't – inspect, that is) and climb across the rocks back to their transportation. We're all alone now. My boyfriend looks down at me, chewing my banana, and starts singing the theme song of Gilligan's Island:

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,

a tale of a fateful trip.

That started from this tropic port,

aboard this tiny ship.

The mate was a mighty sailin' man,

the skipper brave and sure.

Five passengers set sail that day,

for a three hour tour, a three hour tour.

The weather started getting rough,

the tiny ship was tossed.

If not for the courage of the fearless crew,

the Plassy would be lost; the Plassy would be lost.

I'm impressed with the altered lyrics and laugh. I'd like to sit here for an hour or two, but after 10 minutes of rest, I stretch my legs and get up. There's a lighthouse we have to reach today. As we stumble across the rocks to the road, one pony trap man is still standing there, maybe waiting for us to catch a ride, and we ask him how we can get to the lighthouse from here. Not on the road, he says. The road stops a little farther down the way and then there's only rocks and walls.

"You can walk along the beach," he says, tips his hat, and leaves us with a friendly goodbye.

"We can walk a long the beach?" I repeat. "There is no beach to walk along."

We look down, and below us we see a rocky stretch of land all the way down to the water. We look to our right and things don't look any better. There's no sand to walk on. Only rocks. Little ones, big ones, many rocks. They look impressive but not "walkable." We're not mountain climbers. Can we be "rocky beach" climbers?

"Do you still want to try to get to the lighthouse?" I ask, secretly hoping my boyfriend will say yes. I've already decided that I want to go.

"Well, yeah!" he says. "We've come this far. We'll make it to the lighthouse."

We climb limestones and rocks, jump across big gaps and little puddles of salt water, slither across wet stones, as the lighthouse appears far in the distance, far out on the headland. We concentrate on putting our feet on firm stones and rocks, but sometimes we take a rest. Then we drink some water, talk about the sea, the sky, the travels that lie behind us, the travels that lie before us – everything, anything and nothing in particular.

I put on my sunglasses, look at the opposite shore, across the water – and recognize the cliffs on the other side. I've seen them on many, many pictures.

"It's the Cliffs of Moher! This is where we're going to be in a few days," I say, excited, pointing across the water. The day is so clear, the shape of the cliffs so indistinguishable – I feel I can reach out and touch them.

I look at my boyfriend as the sun shines on his face and the sea air fills his lungs. He closes his eyes and takes deeps breaths through his nose. His lips curl up and he looks so serene, so free of trouble, that for a moment I can't think of a good reason to ever leave this place.

After two hours of climbing, resting, and taking pictures we reach the lighthouse. A wave of happiness and tiredness washes over me. As soon as I stand in front of the gate that keeps visitors from walking all the way to the lighthouse, my legs start to get heavy and shaky, and I get light-headed. I've read somewhere that your body functions as long as it needs to and when it's done doing what it's supposed to do, it may simply shut down.

The sun is burning down on us. Though not all too strong, the wind has been tearing on me for the past few hours. It has exhausted me so much, I plop down on a drystone wall and say: "This is good! We've reached our destination. Now I don't want to move anymore."

There's a road that leads away from the lighthouse, and we realize that this is the road we could have used, had we come from another direction. It wouldn't have led us past the Plassy, but it would have brought us directly to the lighthouse.

It's getting later in the afternoon, and now we know that we're all alone, without a pony trap in sight.

"I'd give anything for a pony trap, now." I can't believe that we've seen so many and now there's not a single horse in sight.

"Anything, even?" my boyfriend asks, curious. I nod, queasily.

"Why are there no ponies?" My voice is getting a little edgy. "Where are all the tourists when you need them?"

Inisheer's beauty and loneliness doesn't concern me at this point. It's essential for me now to get some place where I can rest. Now that I've almost run out of bottled water, now that I've been on my feet for the past six or so hours. But in front of me stretches a long, long dirt road, enclosed by high walls. My boyfriend's tall enough to look over them, but this time they're too high for me to see the sea. I see nothing but a forever-road and stones. I feel like I'm trapped in a maze. It takes a bit of coaxing on my boyfriend's side to get me moving again.

"Come on," he says, grabbing my hand. "Let's sing."

I am not quite sure whether I want to use the remainder of my breath for singing, but I nevertheless join in every song he starts. It helps. Walking rhythmically is easier than walking just for the sake of getting out of the stone maze.

The way back is shorter than I'd thought, and 30 minutes later we see houses and the white sandy beach by the pier. As my feet stumble through the sand, my boyfriend reassuringly, says: "Look, there's the Café na Tra. We're almost there. It's still open."

He's wrong. Open-mouthed, disappointed, and dead-tired I watch the young woman close the door in my face just as we get there. Ten minutes later, I drop on a corner bench in Tigh Ned's. My hands are shaking from exhaustion and hunger, but I feel good. In retrospect, we could have planned that trip to the lighthouse a little better. But, oh, what a day it was!

That night we hang out at the pub, listening to Irish fiddlers and singers. I watch fascinated as the foam cascades in my boyfriend's Guinness. I even have a few sips myself, and though I've always found beer to be too bitter, I like tippling Guinness. I like getting tipsy. I like the atmosphere. And I love how the cool sea air rushes from the dark night into the dimly-lit pub each time a new patron opens the door.

The next morning on the ferry to Doolin, County Clare, I climb up to the upper deck. And as the high waves rattle the little passenger ferry, and my wet sneakers try to gain some footing on the slippery floor, I take pictures of the Plassy wreck and the Inisheer lighthouse vanishing in the distance.

We know, we'll return.

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To Learn More about the Aran Islands

On the Arans, though beautifully dipped in the green of the fields, the blue of the water, and the many colors of the flowers growing on the stone walls, the islanders of times gone-by led lonely, harsh lives.

Books have been written about the inspiring islands, the most famous ones by John Millington Synge who lived on Inishmaan in the 1890s. His compatriot, William Butler Yeats, had suggested Synge go to the Aran Islands and write about the native islanders. The playwright followed the poet's advice. Find J. M. Synge's book "The Aran Islands" at Amazon.com.

To visit Inisheer, book a trip with Island Ferries at their Galway office or at the Galway tourist office. A bus will pick you up at the tourist office and take you Rossaveal harbor, where the ferry leaves. There are other options to get to the Arans – just ask the friendly staff at the tourist office.

Two Days on Little Inisheer: Part 1 of 3

Two Days on Little Inisheer: Part 2 of 3