Inis Meáin II: I moved there

2020; the year of the pandemic, the year I came home from Chicago to spend six months in Clydagh, the year I got a job on Inis Meáin and moved there. Inis Meáin is the middle (‘meáin’) island of the Aran Islands, three Irish-speaking islands off the west coast of Ireland, a forty-five minute boat trip offshore. It all happened quite quickly but here’s what I know so far: I’ve a job there for a year, I live in the second last house on the island, the scenery is bewitching and because the shop closes at five, my crisp intake is set to plummet. It’ll take getting used to, but at the very least I’ll improve my Irish.  

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I’ve been talking about island-living for years now, since visiting Clare Island and Inisturk – the latter, to this day, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. Something in their containment, their remarkable beauty and the unfussiness of life there stuck with me – as it has with the countless visitors, adventurers and creatives that have flocked to the islands over the years.

I get where they were coming from. When I’m writing, I’m chasing the sensation of awe and wonder I’ve often found on the islands. I felt it on Inisbofin as the sun rose over Croagh Patrick and flooded us all with its golden glow. I felt it on Inisturk peering over wild cliff faces wondering if human foot had ever stepped below. In such moments I was overcome; the awe washed over me from my head to my toes, budding tears pricking at my eyes. When I sit down to write, it’s in the hope I’ll capture that feeling or, better still, feel it wash over me again.

When I read of artists coming here to islands, I like to think of them chasing that feeling too. 

And now it’s all at my door and my gable and on the walk to school. The side of my house looks out across at the mainland, and when perched on the garden gate I see before me Connemara and the rolling Twelve Bens, the stretch of Atlantic between us bisected by the ferry’s white trail. To the front of the house lie the Cliffs of Moher and the west Clare coast, to the back Inis Mór. From the other gable, the Atlantic is infinite (well, until Canada anyways). If I can’t knock some bit of inspiration out of such views, I’ll have no excuses left

Life here will take adjusting to. I’ll miss the comforts of home I never noticed. I was very comfortable at home. I knew who was coming up the path by their footstep or the hum of the car’s engine. I’d stick my head in the neighbours’ back doors to see what was cooking. I knew the roads so well I used no lamp at night. I threw the door open to the morning. If I wanted crisps I’d just pop to town. I knew how the tele worked. I felt twinges of guilt at burning turf, but loved the cosiness of a blazing fire (there’s no turf here and – interesting fact – no trees either). The dinner served to me every evening at six was nice too.

But then again, on the boat over the other evening, I could see my house – perched on the splendid height of Cinn a’Bhaile –  and I smiled, knowing there was adventure in them there hills. The sun sets over Inis Mór, flooding the cliffs of Dún Aengus with its fiery dying light. There’s a dog outside that brings the football to the door for me to kick and him to fetch – simple joys for us both, I suppose. The staffroom at Scoil Náisiúnta Inis Meáin must be the most scenic staffroom in the country. The waves crash off the shore below me. The air smells of the sea. I’m the second closest house to Synge’s Chair. The world’s troubles seem so far away.

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I’ve few illusions – the droch-aimsir (bad weather) has been mentioned several times – but, so perfectly did the stars align to land this opportunity in my lap, it almost must be right. That said, I lost my one TV channel the other evening when I put on the oven, and I’m still not exactly sure where the shopping comes from. The Irish will take time and patience to master.

Maybe I’ll get fit and swim every day. Maybe I’ll cook and take up yoga. I might love, I might write, I might plan. I might go back to Mass, write a novel, or read Joyce. Perhaps I’ll make smoothies in the morning or take up running (again). Maybe this is the year of sustainability, buying only what is needed, wanting little that I do not have. The year of fluency in my Irish, mastering fears of the tuiseal ginideach, reading the great Gaelic texts. Maybe it’s not a year for any of the above and I’ll come off this island wondering why I was there – no bad thing in itself, for it’s the lessons we don’t know we’re learning that often are the most precious.

My anticipation might read as exotic but we’re all in the one boat; who among us isn’t wondering what next year will bring, and who we’ll be at its end?

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Once again, I find myself in a situation that is as daunting as it is liberating. I’m leaning towards ‘liberating’ right now, for when the droch-aimsir comes my tune will likely change. Like everyone else this year, I’ll just go with it, see where it takes me, hope for the best. After all, just going with it has seen me through okay so far in 2020, y’know through a pandemic, the move from a global metropolis to a hill silent save for the sound of birds and distant mowers, several storms, a family wedding and a broken ankle.

What could possibly go wrong??

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