We woke to that unlikeliest of things — a sunny day. We got ourselves organized and drove down to the ferry. We went a little earlier to look for swimmers, which we did not find. Cathy asked someone on the dock and he said they usually swam near “the old pier” and in the afternoon, not the morning. We bought scones with butter and strawberry jam since we had only had mini croissants and fruit for breakfast.
The ferry was quite packed and thank god it was a much quieter day on the ocean. We conclusively proved ourselves to be old ladies by sitting inside instead of on the upper or rear decks. We cruised for a while and then pulled up at a dock. “We’re here, we’re here,” we cheered, but we were not here. We had simply stopped at Inis Oir to pick up a cargo of schoolchildren in soccer uniforms. Our second stop was Inis Mor. No sooner had I stepped off the boat than a man thrust a laminated brochure at me with a picture of a horse and cart. He offered to take us up to Dún Aonghasa and a couple of other places and have us back by 3. We accepted and he said his name was Jerry (Gerry?). When we walked over to his car we met Jack, his horse. Jack works two days on and two days off; he splits the job with his partner Tommy.
Jack didn’t seem very excited about dragging us around the island; he had to be persuaded with some taps of the reins and sharp utterances in Irish to take us through the narrow uphill streets near the port. Jerry assured us we weren’t a large or heavy load, and once Jack cleared the initial difficult areas he seemed to settle in.
Jerry said his family had lived on the island for generations. He began pointing out features of the landscape as we trotted on. “That’s the Protestant church,” he said as we passed an old roofless stone ruin. “We forget about that one.” He told us Jack is an “Irish drafting horse” which is also known, unfortunately, as a “Gypsy Vanner.” The breed has traditionally been derided as a lowly horse used by Travelers, but has now become more fashionable. Jack needs new shoes every few weeks due to walking on pavement. Horses like him can work up until age 25. Jack is only ten so “I won’t be replacing him, he’ll be replacing me,” said Jerry, who told us he is 64.
He told us about movies that have been filmed on the island, including Leap Year and The Banshees of Inisherin. We asked if he’d seen The Quiet Girl. “The Quiet Man?” he asked, puzzled. Then a moment later he realized, “oh, you mean An Cailín Ciúin!”
We stopped across from an abandoned seaweed factory to look at the seals that hang around in the harbor. “Look at the gray rocks,” Jerry advised. “If they move, they’re seals.”
Our second stop was at a cafe for lunch. We asked Jerry if he wanted anything and he said he’d be grateful for a cup of coffee. Asked if he took cream and sugar, he said “Tell them it’s for Jerry, they’ll know how to make it.” When we pressed him to accept a sandwich he accepted but said “it didn’t matter” what kind.
We went into the cafe and ordered salad, potato gratin, soup and a slice of Victoria sponge to share. We asked what kind of sandwich Jerry might like and the proprietress said “Oh, he won’t care,” before adding, “he does get chicken a lot.” So we settled on chicken.
Lunch was far more delicious than a tourist restaurant with a guaranteed clientele needs to be. When we walked back to the cart, Jerry was standing nearby, chatting with the other drivers in Irish. He told us to go on up to Dún Aonghasa and meet him afterwards.
It was a long walk up a dirt track under a persistently sunny sky. We shared the path for some of the time with a family of two elementary school-aged girls and their little brother Ronan, along with their parents. They were allowed to run ahead on the path, but only with detailed instructions to stop and wait to one side of the entrance once they got to the fort, due to the dangerous open cliff edge.
The fort was indeed spectacular, perched at a dizzying height with a sheer drop down to the ocean. The stone wall surrounding it is semi-circular and some postulate that it was once complete until the cliff crumbled and carried part of it away. There’s a rectanglar rock platform in the middle but nobody knows why.
I was braced against the platform, taking a picture down the face of the cliff, when I heard Beth shouting. Apparently Ronan had been running straight for the edge and was only stopped by an alert man who grabbed his shirt and said “Oh no, buddy, go back to your mum.” His mother gave him a mild slap on the bottom and scolded him to tears.
On the way back we walked through the information center and an outdoor area with gift shops. I bought a book about the cliffside fort. We walked back down to find Jerry. He asked us if we wanted to look at a 7th-century church so we walked down a little track lined by shrubs. It was a small ruin and we spent a while looking around for a relief of a horse and rider that was mentioned on a plaque inside. This was probably a bad use of time because Jerry had promised to get us back for our 4 pm boat at 3 and it was already 2:40 when we finished looking at the church. (The horse and rider turned out to be underwhelming, too.)
Jerry urged poor Jack along as we headed back to the ferry, with occasional pauses insisted on by the horse in order to poop, and to allow vans to overtake us on the narrow road. When we were nearly back he said, apropos of nothing, “That’s where the babies are buried.”
“Uhhhhh, WHAT?” we chorused.
“That’s where they used to bury the babies who weren’t baptized,” he elaborated. “You couldn’t bury them in the church cemetery. And they wouldn’t let them do it during the day—the fathers used to come do it after midnight. Many a mother doesn’t know where her child is buried. My mother had two aunts buried there; she never knew where they were.”
We contemplated this as we hurried through the last narrow lanes. It was 3:30 and the ferry hadn’t arrived. We clambered out of the pony trap. Jack looked sweaty. We paid Jerry his fare (75 euros) and a tip. When the ferry arrived we boarded regretfully; we could have spent so much longer on the island.
We went back to the room and collapsed after a day in the sun. Since we wanted to hear a traditional Irish music session, and the next night would be Good Friday, we decided to go to dinner at Gus O’Connor’s, the granddaddy of live music pubs. We found a table next to the space set aside for musicians and Cathy and I split a veggie curry. I had a Powers whiskey that was unremarkable and a Green Spot that was lovely—floral and citrusy, almost like an IPA.
There were only three musicians—a guitarist, a flute player and an accordionist—but they had a beautiful, soft-edged sound. The guitarist occasionally sang and a little girl step-danced to the first few songs. They paused for several minutes in between tunes, which at first was a bit jarring but turned out to be kind of nice because it was easy to chat. We listened for about an hour. On the way out, Beth leaned over the seat and talked to the musicians. She mentioned she was a piccolo player. “What key is it?” asked the flutist, who seemed startled when she said it played all the keys. They invited her to get her instrument and come play, but she demurred.
Back in the room, Beth and I researched places to go on our last day but after looking at myriad hikes, shops, megalithic sites, etc., Beth and I came back around to Caherconnell, the medieval ringfort and sheepdog demonstration center I’d had my eye on for months. Everyone agreed but without huge enthusiasm.
Kopi Susu 2 