Around Inisheer
July 4th
There used to be a mainland.
I remember it well, when I looked out from the pier, from the crags across the road from the hostel. When I arrived last night, I could look north, out over the bay and see the mainland and Rossaveel, could look to the east and see Clare, could look northeast, at the very edges of the land on both sides of the bay, and know that I was more or less looking at Salthill.
In the morning's haze, however, there is no mainland. Even Clare, a short ferry ride from Inisheer, is invisible. The Small Island must have kicked off its moorings last night, and set itself adrift on the Atlantic. To go by appearances, for all I know I could now be closer to New York than I am to Galway.
These are, of course, appearances and fancy; I'm prone to fancy when I haven't had my morning coffee. The blue sky and the hot sun have hazed over the horizon, but the islands have not moved: Inishmaan is still to the west (unless, of course, all the Arans got sick of being beaten about by the ocean, and decided to kick off to the doldrums for some peace and quiet).
After breakfast - and coffee! - I walk down to the bike rental. Today is a day for exploring; unlike April, when I left the hostel only to go to the pub, I plan on coming back to the hostel just long enough for lunch. This July day is lovely; the sun blazes (much to my chagrin, I gave my sunblock to Ram, but I never would have thought I'd need sunblock on Inisheer!) and the air is still, with only an occasional breeze.
I'm a little shaky: I can't remember the last time I trusted my life to two wheels and not four. Combined with Inisheer's roads - a term I use even more loosely than when describing Ireland's roads in general - I expect to end the day wincing when I sit down (nor am I proven wrong).
I bounce and wobble over to the western side of the island, and I don't see a soul. Unless sheep have souls, that is, in which case I saw four. The road changes from asphalt to gravel to round rocks to what looks a bit like the aftermath of a landslide, so I decide it's time to walk the bike.
At the end of a drystone wall, boulders slope down towards a solid, flat expanse of maroon rock - the coast. The rock drops off, and below the water beats against it; a few miles away, in the mid-morning sun Inishmaan is bright yellow and bright green, streaked with the gray lines of drystone walls.
Standing on this maroon sheet of rock, my first thoughts are visions of sunsets and picnic lunches - er, late suppers, that is, as the sun doesn't go down until well past 8 or 9. I stay here for a long time, looking and imagining: sitting with friends, watching the sun slip behind Inishmaan while we banter over a six-pack. When next I come to Inisheer, it shall be with my mates...
Back on the bike - once I again reach bikeable terrain, that is - instead of following the coastal road, the way I came, I instead turn onto another road, narrow, bordered on both sides by rock walls, and paved - a much easier ride. I explore side paths, and check out some of the places on the map; nearing the village, I've finally stopped wobbling - the bicycle knack really does come back to you - but the road suddenly turns twisty, turny and downhill; instead of working my legs on the pedals, my hands get a workout from constantly squeezing the brakes.
After dodging tractors, tourists and fences, I go to the beach for a break. Inisheer is said to have one of the nicest beaches in the west of Ireland; while I haven't seen the others, I don't think I can disagree. The beach is about 200 meters-long, crescent-shaped; the water is light blue and iridescent green, the sand white and brilliant. Children run along the shore, scaring each other with the jellyfish that are always washing up. I sit on the sand, and relax with the waves.
After a quick ride, I go back to the hostel for lunch, propping my bike against the wall outside; it's nice not having to worry about thieves. Lunch and a nap later, I ride around the eastern side of the island, pondering a writer's dilemma: whether or not to try to describe Inisheer to you.
Actually, I won't. I can't be arsed. So instead I'll tell you how to see Inisheer, while simultaneously broadening your comedy horizons.
To get an idea of what Inisheer looks like, rent a "Father Ted" video. A brilliant comedy - read that as "a piss-take on Ireland" - about three priests on a godforsaken island, "Father Ted" ran on the UK's Channel 4 from 1996 to 1998, until the unexpected death of Dermot Morgan, who played Father Ted. The opening shots sweep over Inisheer, from the shipwreck on the eastern shore (if you can call an expanse of rocks and boulders a "shore"), to the villages in the middle of the north side of the island. (The house the fathers live in, however, is in the Burren, Co. Clare, not Inisheer.)
The shipwreck is a freighter that washed ashore in 1960, and has been left to rust. Walking around it, I wish that I was wearing thicker clothes and had easy access to tetanus shots; guess I'll just have to chalk up another thing to do next time: crawl around freighter wreckage.
There is more to see from the eastern side than the west, but the west's seclusion is unbeatable. Should you want to get up at 5 a.m., however, the east has an expanse of rock, similar to the one on the west, from where you can watch the sun rise over the cliffs of Moher. In addition to the shipwreck, there's a lake, another pier (but smaller and not used for boats, only for fishing), and a lighthouse.
The lighthouse is a bit of a ride, but mostly on a gentle downhill grade. You can't go inside, though, as the lighthouse and the surrounding grounds are off-limits (unless you're a grazing cow). However, the silence and seclusion more than make up for this mild annoyance and, honestly, I couldn't tell you how long I sat on the pillars of the gate to the lighthouse grounds, looking at the cliffs, at the ocean, at the flowers and grass. Eventually I return to the village, but I don't know how long I was gone.
Soon after, I end my explorations. Resting on the beach again, the air starts to lose its warmth, and the breeze picks up a small chill. After returning the bike, a cold shower washes away the day's heat.
Later that night, once the sun has finally set, I take a walk. Once or twice I see men leaning on rock walls, and hear Irish roll through the warm air. Except for the lights of pubs, and for the music and conversation inside them, the island is dark and silent. Song and Guinness are alluring for a moment, but as I near a pub I only shake my head and walk past. Both would be brilliant, but I'm enjoying this time to myself. The pub will always be there, but a moment like this, of perfect bliss - in solitude - this is rare.
Walking along, alone, into the night, I smile and enjoy the air, the serenity, until finally I go to my bed, where sleep is waiting only for me to close my eyes.
Questions?
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