One morning’s walk.

I went for a walk this morning. Without my headphones. Not deliberately, of course, I was too far down the road to to go back for them. Quite the extraordinary feat you know, going for a walk without headphones. But I persevered. The result was what might be referred to as Accidental Mindfulness.

What follows is an attempt to describe my walk. If I do an alright job, you’ll see or hear some of what I describe, you might even imagine yourself there. If I don’t, check out my friend Graham’s photos of the island; each image easily outdoes a thousand of my words.

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I sat at my doorstep to lace up my boots, the distant vibrations of the ferry telling me it was 0815. There was little sound, other than the ferry’s faint hum, my white(ish) sheets flapping on the clothes line, a bird or two twittering. The wind was westerly this morning so the water between Inis Meáin and Connemara was quiet, meek almost in its lapping of the shore. A cow lowed, another answered, a rooster crowed. They reminded me of a music ensemble tuning up.

The road was the island’s spine, running east to west, from the Inis Oírr side to the Inis Mór side, the coast of Connemara parallel-ish. Rain hung over the mainland, obscuring sections of it, giving the mountains a faintly mystical look. Ideal scenery for a moodsome film.

The air was damp and cold, and puffed clouds thwarted the sun’s effort to warm the land. Many of the fields to the front of the island are plains of limestone, with little grass. On sunny days, there’s warmth to be seen in the stone’s darkened colour. But in the dampness of this morning, the limestone was silver, cold even just to look at. Not all was grey however; traces of vivid blue battled through the clouds, and behind the ferry extended a trail of brilliant white surf.

A jet overhead broke my reverie. Flight Radar told me it was coming from Houston and heading to Frankfurt. I put my phone away.

I saw the blackberries were nearly all gone, shrivelled now. I made just one pie with them this year. How quickly time had passed when I hadn’t been looking.

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People were up. Men talked, I could not hear what they said but the intonation was clearly that of Irish. Cars passed, though admittedly not many. Another scooter. A walker or two, off checking cattle. I raised a hand to all, and they to me. I said their name if I knew it. If they knew my name, they didn’t say it; I am an múinteoir leis an rúitín,the teacher with the ankle. I suspect I will be for a long time.

I left the main road and took a swing right and up in the direction of Dún Chonchúir. I passed the ancient fort, but paused later to admire it from the back. Its mighty, round fortress walls sit on a high mound, lording over all beneath it; it’s what I imagine ancient Troy looked like.

I took this road to the back of the island. I was going south. I looked for Kerry. The lumps and bumps of the hills of Co. Clare near Loop Head had to suffice. The sky was still mostly grey and the sea would’ve been too, but the sun managed to shine through and now the sea shimmered golden. I was soon far enough back that road to glimpse Inis Oírr’s lonesome lighthouse across An Súnda Salach, Foul Sound. Beyond stood the Cliffs of Moher, navy almost in the morning haze. Co. Clare was not yet awake, I couldn’t see the green of fields or the white specks of houses.

Along I went. A cow with horns like a Viking eyed me warily. I met a man checking his animals. We talked of the weather. He complimented my Irish. I was delighted, for his is of the highest standard.

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I turned a corner, on to the new road; a stone trackway that requires good runners or boots, but is nonetheless an admirable achievement having been made entirely by local hands. I’d seen all I needed to see to the south; and now my eyes turned west to Inis Mór, whose cliffs stand defiant against an Atlantic that lashes mercilessly.

This is the most special part of Inis Meáin, these west-facing cliffs. If freedom had a face, this would be it. The cliff top is remarkable in its flatness, offering stunning views of waves crashing below. There’s a special sound or noise there – a ‘whompf’ sound, when swell is caught in the lower caves and spat back out. Amongst the brown rocks grow vividly coloured and hardy plants. Behind the brown, back from the edge, are masses of grey rocks thrust up by swells past.

Here on the island, we can see the weather coming – though I can’t read its direction so, often as not, it veers away and comes nowhere near me. Not this morning. It was a mist, as light as a dusting, as wetting as rain. So much for getting the sheets dried. When it passed, Inis Mór had been transformed, and the brightly coloured premises around Cill Ronáin gleamed in the sun.

I kept going. Eventually, tufts of green grass appeared at my feet. I picked my way across, past tall piles of rocks (well, something had to be done with them) and the prominent stone or two daubed yellow for cuairteoirí. I came to Cathaoir Synge and sat a while, paying my respects I suppose. My attention was drawn to two boats coming across the water; the 1030 Inis Mór and Inis Meáin boats. High time for breakfast.

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I hopped the stile and got back on the road. I was on a height, and saw mist hang gently over Inis Meáin, giving the notion of further mysticism, of otherworldliness. I heard the boat at the Calladhmór and the whirring of a weather vane on the UCD research hut. I could smell the wet grass. I made my way back to my own house, circle complete. I left my boots at the door, and hung my jacket out to dry.

Inside, my headphones were on the kitchen table. Just as I’d left them.

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