Go to the Aran Islands. Live there as if you were one of the people themselves; express a life that has never found expression.
W. B. Yeats’ advice to John Millington Synge (1896). Synge followed Yeats’ advice and wrote The Aran Islands. (1907)
The complimentary breakfast at our hostel’s large main kitchen area was comprised of an instant coffee machine, a small conveyor-belt toaster, stacks upon stacks of thick-cut white bread, many jars of jam, random Tetra-Paks of juice, and a huge group of perky young Europeans swarming about like it was tryouts for a Mentos commercial. Everyone was responsible for securing his own food and washing his own dishes when done. As soon as I dried my coffee cup, some guy snapped it up.
Invigorated by our bejammed toast, Dana slung the Punto into a coastal drive to catch the ferry to the Aran Islands. What began as what I would call a “scenic” drive quickly evolved into what I would call “hurtling” as we realized it was taking longer than expected to reach the ferry launch site.
We literally sprinted from our car then sprinted some more to the dock after the parking lot attendant told us we just might catch the 10 a.m. ferry. We didn’t, but there was one leaving half an hour later so it was no loss.
If motion sickness is not your bag, you will not want to take the ferry to the Aran Islands; a plane is your other option. The pitching and bobbing shook the breakfasts loose from several on board and there was the usual zombie-like lurching about from people who couldn’t find their balance, but the ocean motion soothed me. Our destination? Inishmór, the largest and northernmost of the three islands. Narrow and about nine miles long, it’s covered in green grass, cows and sheep, thatch-roof houses, beaches comprised more of soft, pulverized shells than sand, and perilously beautiful cliffs. An incredible maze of low walls, built from large, loose stones without mortar, map out grazing territory and property lines. It’s what you think of when you think of Ireland, only with more tourists.
Tour vans are lined up to ensnare tourists departing the ferry, the guides standing hopefully outside, and I told Dana to pick the weathered Irishman who she thought would offer the most entertaining commentary. Alas, our fellow, although he looked like a grandfather with yarns to spin, spoke about 10 brief sentences, most of them answers to questions Dana asked. We stopped at a 1300-year-old cemetery with seven churches. (“This is a 1300-year-old cemetery with seven churches,” the guide told us as we disembarked and he remained brooding in the van.) We also found out that about 800 people live on the island, most making their living off the tourism racket, and that although many of the thatched-roof huts on the island look romantically snug, only two of them are lived in. We stopped at one of these to take pictures and Dana pet the hut owners’ dog.
The highlight of the island was Dun Aengus, a fort-like stone enclosure atop sheer cliffs that plunge 300 feet into the Atlantic. (It’s the one from which Dana waved to me on Easter.) The site is especially marvelous in that there are no barriers to prevent you from falling, intentionally or otherwise, off the island, and Lonely Planet Ireland claims delightedly that tourists have been blown off the edge to their death by the high winds alone. We saw what appeared to be a park ranger standing off to the side but he wasn’t even trying to convince the backpacking Europeans to take a safe step back, merely casting a jaded eye over the scene like he wasn’t in the mood to firehose jellied tourist remains off the island base again. I crept close to the edge to take a few photos, but did so flat on my stomach. The experience was a rush, as if I was peering over the edge of the world.
I ended up losing my hat to the winds and although I’d like to tell you it was swept majestically into the ocean, nearly taking me with it, it in fact merely gusted off my head when I was standing nowhere near the edge, swiftly lofting over a rock wall onto a field that I probably could have retrieved by attempting to persuade the ranger.
Back off the tour van, we begrudgingly paid our useless guide, walked to check out a beach and a church ruin, then perused the overpriced woolen items in one of the many stores near the island’s main bay.
After the return ferry ride and the drive back into town, we supped at Nimmo’s, “one of Galway’s coolest, smartest tables—a place to see and be seen,” according to Frommer’s Ireland 2005, and a dark, cozy little place that’s set back from the hubbub of the main tourist streets. On account of all the cows I kept seeing on the trip to date, I ordered a really tasty sirloin, with some potatoes and salad and washed it down with a half bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Dana got the clams linguini which was delicious as well, she reported.