Off the western shores of Ireland lie the Aran Islands - rugged, rocky, and battered by harsh waters and even harsher winds. The land is near fallow, and the rocky cliff faces drop more than 300 vertical feet down to the sea below. From the look of it, not exactly the most inviting landscape. This is likely not the Ireland you picture, with the luscious, rolling emerald hills depicted on the front cover of nearly every book ever written about the country, but something equally as beautiful and as magical.
The Aran Islands are comprised of three islands: Inishmaan, Inisheer, and Inishmore, which all lie almost 30 miles off the coast from the Republic of Ireland's fourth-largest city, Galway. The largest of these Islands, Inishmore, fittingly meaning "the big island” in Irish (Inis= island, Mor = big), has a population of around 850. Yes, only 850. This is quite a large population though, given that the soil on the island is so thin and so devoid of nutrients that tons of seaweed needs to be applied to the soil each year to keep it even close to plantable. Even when it is able to reap a harvest, that harvest is almost solely potatoes. Almost all foods needed for basic survival are imported from Galway via the nearby Rossaveal Harbor and delivered to one of about seven pubs and restaurants on the island or the sole grocery store -Tesco - once a week.
Generally the people of Inishmore are either in the tourism or wool industries. From the only real “city” on the island, Kilronan, one can catch a bus, bike, or even carriage tour of the island and stay in one of a handful of bed and breakfasts or beachside cottages, as well as take guided tours of some of the island’s better known destinations. The Aran Sweater Market, a large stone building and the go-to for all things woolen, is one of the first sights visitors see when disembarking the ferry at Kilronan. Debarking the ferry at Kilronan is where my experience with Inishmore begins. Well, almost...
On January 25 of this year, as part of my semester studying abroad in Ireland, I, along with 40 other students studying at Dublin Business School, boarded a ferry at Rossaveal Harbor after taking a 3 hour bus ride from Dublin. As our boat pulled out of Rossaveal on this gloomy January morning, we spotted Inishmore off in the distance, just a little bump at this point. The more seasick among us, after gulping down some Dramamine tablets and a few glasses of water, tried to determine just how long it would be until we reached dry land once more. It was only about a 50 minute ride out to Inishmore, but the waves were quite choppy, and seeing my fellow students teeter to and fro across the deck trying to maintain balance, until they decided to simply take a seat and wait out our arrival, was rather amusing.
When we arrived at Kilronan - with the few small shops, cobblestone walkway, and the bayside pub - I thought to myself how quaint of a place this was. Little did I know that this small area, with about twenty-odd people besides my tour group walking about, was the most populous area I would see for the rest of my visit to Inishmore.
I wrapped my scarf around me a little tighter as we packed onto the frigid Aran Bus that would be taking us around the island to our main destination. Dun Aonghasa: an Iron Age fort which overlooks the seemingly endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and was constructed more than 3,000 years ago by some of the island’s first inhabitants.
On the way to Dun Aonghasa, however, our driver told us several stories about the island and its inhabitants, including their superstitious belief (now more tradition than superstition) of the existence of leprechauns on the island. We drove by the oldest home on the island, more than 300 years old, complete with yellowing, once white walls and a thatched roof. The home itself was impressive, but what was even more interesting than this relic of old Irish architecture was the almost exact scale model of the aforementioned house placed just a few yards away to the right side of the home. This was not a model of the home for visitors to examine, but was rather a leprechaun house. It is a tradition for home owners on Inishmore to have a leprechaun house, with some home owners even building several small knee-high homes next to their own. To see this tradition that had started more than 300 years ago was fascinating.
As we left the old leprechaun house for a more ancient site, we drove along a winding, rocky, one lane path, pulling over to the side of the almost nonexistent road to accommodate other tour busses coming in from the opposite direction. I looked out at the barren fields, divided into almost perfect squares by dilapidated walls of rocks standing about three feet high. I looked out at the dark ocean, at the harsh limestone Burren, and started to take in the unconventional beauty of the place. However, this was all nothing compared to what awaited us at the top of a 20 minute hill climb to Dun Aonghasa.
Upon reaching Dun Aonghasa one immediately takes in the large dry stone wall surrounding the Iron Age fort wrapping around almost 900 meters around. One sees the patches of green grass with jagged limestone rocks in between, but what one does not see at first, is the most spectacular view. Continue walking toward the fort, duck to fit through the low lying stone archway that acts as an entrance to the fort’s interior, and continue to walk along to the edge. The edge of what, you ask? The literal edge of the grass, but what feels like the metaphorical edge of the world, a 300 foot vertical drop to the dark blue-grey water below. These sea cliffs seem to have sprung up from nowhere, and would be left completely unnoticed if visitors do not walk to the edge, but once there, it encompasses one’s entire being.
I stared out for over an hour, just stared, walking around the cliff’s edge at different points, climbing up and down piles of rocks placed delicately on the edge, and stared. The abyss. The beauty of everything and nothing all together. There was nothing but the Atlantic for thousands of miles, a grey sky above my head, and a sea breeze that, in the crisp January air, chilled me to the bone. It made me feel so insignificant but also so full of life. Even with more than 40 of us there, the place was near silent, everyone gazing longingly out to the sea, searching for something, and that something being different for everyone. As our group leader called for everyone to start walking back down the hill to the buses, everyone froze, seeming not just hesitant, but almost scared to leave this place that seemed so filled with magic. In Ireland, we would undoubtedly see much more beauty, but would we ever feel beauty as we had felt it at Dun Aonghasa?
We walked back, everyone a little wiser, a little more thoughtful, and much more aware.
We passed by this area called Seven Churches ("Na Seacht Teampaill" in Irish) with several broken down churches dating back to the ninth century A.D., and gorgeous old tombstones topped with Celtic crosses. Everyone walked around slowly, contemplating the gravity of the place, but our minds still stuck on the cliffs of Dun Aonghasa.
As we were dropped off back in town for lunch, everyone went in search of a place to eat, only to find that there was only one café open, that it only held about 12 people, and that by the time that we arrived, the woman working the walk-up counter had to tell us that she was out of just about everything except ham, cheese, veggies for sandwiches, and of course, coffee. There was a rush to the counter so big that we had just about run the place dry, and that was after the woman had made several stops to the Tesco grocer the next door down to buy the supplies to make more sandwiches. Lesson learned- bring your own food if you plan on visiting an almost barren island in the off-season.
My last stop was the Aran Sweater Market, a staple shop located right next to the wharf, and a large source of revenue for the island. After perusing the store for almost half an hour, picking up sweater after sweater, trying to find my size, I gave up, too overwhelmed by the selection. I decided to purchase a bright red woven wool scarf and burgundy socks for myself, as well as a pair of forest green mittens for a friend.
I walked with my purchases and still-growling stomach to the ferry once more. We all departed Inishmore, gazing back longingly as the boat pulled out to sea, wanting to remember forever the mystical feeling of this beautiful place that you really have to experience to understand.
The Aran Islands are like a step back in time to a simpler lifestyle, to the simplicity of just trying to survive, but in the process, being able to really live. Inishmore will forever hold a place in my heart.
