Leaving Inisheer
July 6th
The pier is just down from the hostel, which is good because at 8:28 a.m. I was walking as quickly as my packs would allow, while the 8:30 ferry seemed to be moving away from the pier. If I missed this boat, there wouldn't be another Inisheer-Rossaveel ferry until four, which would leave my boss more than a little unimpressed (though it'd be cool spending the day with Anne and Emily).
The moving ferry was, in fact, the one I would be taking, but it wasn't leaving, only pulling up alongside the pier. There was no hurry to leave, anyway; the sky was gray, with only a little sunlight chancing the morning chill, and the sea was choppy. Even moored to the pier, the boat bounced high on the rough waves.
I got inside the belly of the ferry quickly, and stashed my gear and sat down exactly where I had sat on the way over. This crossing would have none of the fury-into-calm of my Monday sailing; this sea was rough - not mean, but menacing. I don't suffer sea- or motion-sickness, fortunately, but I was tired and only wanted to lie down. Anne, Emily and I sat up talking until two in the morning, and I got up at 7:15 (but I woke them as I left, to say good-bye - hahaha!), so I slept the whole way back to Rossaveel, and most of the way to Galway.
As far as events go, that's all I need to say about the day. The only anything else noteworthy is my new living arrangement, but details of that are to your left. All that remains are my reflections and perceptions of Inisheer.
See, the place gets to me. Not in a bad way, but in that way certain places have of bringing your insides out (figuratively speaking). Inisheer is a place where I am most comfortable being myself, most comfortable being completely defenseless and open. As you've already gathered, Inisheer is the place to go for solitude or, rather, what the Irish call (and don't ask me how to pronounce this) "ciúneas gan uaigneas," which translates as "solitude without loneliness." That is what I find, or what finds me, on Inisheer. It is beyond comforting, and I love it.
As for the other islands, I can't say much about them. The closest I've been to Inishmor is Inishmaan, and I only stayed there a few hours. I can say that if you want to go to the islands, and want buzz and craic and people, go to Inishmor. It has the most villages, pubs, hostels and people; it is the largest island. It is also the most touristized and commercialized of the three, but that isn't a reason not to go.
Inishmaan is probably the most isolated and least visited of the three, as if "middle-child syndrome" extended to landmasses such as the Middle Island. There's one pub, fewer ferries than to Inisheer (though some Inisheer ferries stop at Inishmaan), and I don't think there's even a hostel. (I've heard tell of one opening there recently, but the people at Inisheer's hostel said there was no such thing; there are B&Bs, though.)
Inisheer is the only one of the three that truly draws me. I'm one of those travelers who gets very strong feelings about certain places, which makes me prone to disregarding others, and Inisheer is a place to which I feel that strange, mostly inexpressible, instinctive and slightly spiritual link.
Or maybe I just really like the bloody place, and damn the reason why, as no reason is required to justify affinity or attraction. I like Inisheer, godforsaken and isolated as it is (as recently as a few winters ago, storms were so bad that no ferries or planes could get over from the mainland, and the islanders almost ran out of food). I like riding around the island, on a sunny day in high tourist season, and seeing no breathing creature but a donkey. I like hearing nothing but the sound of birds, and smelling flowers and ocean in the air.
Over these last few entries I've given in to metaphor, metaphysics, poesy, fancy and probably more than a few outbursts of rococo wordiness, but I don't alter or apologize. Nor am I the first to take such license; it seems that whenever an outsider writes about the Arans, he or she can't help but write a little more wordily and figuratively. The islands, stark as they are, nonetheless defy minimalism and demand descriptions that allude to and reach for their not-quite-of-this-world essences.
The simplest I can put it, is that Inisheer has, well, a feeling of magic to it (if otherworldliness can be described as magic). Writer Arthur Symons, who came to the Arans in 1896, agrees: "Since I have seen Aran and Sligo, I have never wondered that the Irish peasant still sees fairies about his path, and that the boundaries of what we call the real, and of what is for us the unseen, are vague to him.... I have never believed less in the reality of the visible world, in the importance of all we are most serious about."
This is part of being on Inisheer, but I try not to forget that the sunny days are exceptions. The rule is that Inisheer is a harsh place, cold and wet, tormented by natural forces that are as ruthless as they are fickle. Through the centuries the islanders have lived by fishing and farming, but the sea took as many lives as it provided for, and farming was accomplished only by spreading an artificial soil, made of rotting seaweed and limestone sand, over an island that is, basically, a pile of boulders. I like Inisheer, but I literally am only a fair-weather friend. I could never live there, on an isolated island of 300 that is incessantly ravaged and savaged by ocean and sky.
I like it all the same. That isolation means that "solitude without loneliness" can be enjoyed and endured here. Inisheer is a good place for a writer; this isn't commentary, this is fact, as writers and artists have been coming to Inisheer and the other islands to seek solitude and inspiration, ever since J.M. Synge published "The Aran Islands" in 1907. For some, the islands are even worth relocating to (such as English writer Tim Robinson, who moved to the Arans in 1972, but his main influence was Robert Flaherty's 1932 documentary film "Man of Aran").
I'm content with a visit. I know I'll come back, but now it's time to return to the mainland, to Galway. When the ferry pulls up to pier in Rossaveel, I am smiling when I grab my packs and lug off to the Rossaveel-Galway bus.
All things have their time, their place - and it's time for me to change places, again.
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