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In July 2020, the Irish Times published an article “Island escapes: Slow down with salty dips and cliff walks” recommending the best accommodation on Ireland’s offshore islands. A friend and I followed the Inis Meáin recommendation and came for two days. I stayed for four years.
They were the makings of me.
I left the island in August, for reasons as vague and varied as the future I’m gone in search of. Leaving was hard, but being gone was hard too. A tangle of memories, decisions, experiences and emotions. So, when I was asked one day, ‘what was living on the island like?’ it took me a good minute to come up with a mumbled, ‘I dunno, eh grand I suppose, fine like’, followed by a swift change in conversation.
What was it like?
Well now.
Isn’t that the question.
It was – for me – ordinary to the point of mundane, extraordinary to the point of rapture. 150 people, as many as in a mid-sized housing estate, proximity making cast members of us all. It was the sun setting over Inis Mór, islands the offspring of the Burren, next stop Canada, COVID, ‘there’s dinner on the table here if you’re around’, lá breá atá ann inniu, rumble of the boat, roar of the plane, harsh rock, soft speakers, a reserved people. The weather and each other the staples of conversation – just like any other rural community.
I was so comfortable there. And safe, always safe. Stood completely still, and happy at that time to be so. And if happiness is sparks of joy every day – and the eyes to see them with – then happiness hummed to me on Inis Meáin; galaxies streaking silver across black skies, sea still as glass a mirror to the sinking sun, the yellow gold of the sun rising over Clare, meadows dappled and marbled by wildflower. Palpable beauty; fingers’ tingle, heart’s swell and yes, tears’ prickle.
Of course there were times of boredom, of frustration, days of weather-induced ennui, but never regret or remorse. Wondering yes, if this was the right place or if I’d stayed too long, but such were borne of disbelief at my luck. Wonderings too if I was missing out on what was elsewhere, but these flitted with the salt into the wind. Only at Christmas would I be gone for more than a week, and last year it felt more like leaving home than going home.
Island life and mainland life were completely separate, with little connecting either side beyond asking after bad storms, good swims and the friends most mentioned. It was no deliberate act, just the way things were. Connemara is like the north to many on this side of Connacht; not that far away, about two hours from most places, but seen as somewhat ‘other’. That’s partly to do with geography, but I think it’s to do with the language also. Either way, ditto that, and more again for the Aran Islands. Back in 2020 when there was talk of me going, one reaction was – and I quote – ‘the Aran Islands? What in God’s name are you going to do out on the… Aran Islands??’ When I’d be back on the mainland I’d regularly get, ‘are you the one that’s on the island?’
Which meant that when I returned to the mainland, to stay, there was almost nobody who could relate to or identify with where I’d come from, with where I’d been the last few years. I wasn’t isolated – I’d plenty around me and I’d a new job to keep me busy – but I felt I wasn’t rooted anywhere; I was just driving between places. And though I was teaching in a gaelscoil and studying Irish at night, I missed the language as I’d known it on Inis Meáin; the organic conversations and the million places such might go. Nead na Fuiseoige on Raidió na Gaeltachta between seven and eight in the morning used ease that restlessness in me, that hour listening to sean-nós, songs sung of scenes I related to or vaguely recognised[1].
Weeks passed and I tried writing versions of this several times, but managed to articulate nothing. I was secure in the decision I’d made, I visited the island a few times and had a lovely time but here, there was no settling in me and I couldn’t reason why that was. The answer came one night on the phone, from a seasoned observer noting most casually,
‘Hmmm, I suppose the truth is you haven’t been on your own for four years now’.
Eh, sorry? Hadn’t I gone to Inis Meáin on my own, hadn’t I lived alone in the second-last house on the quietest of the Aran Islands?
She was right though. I’d never been alone on Inis Meáin, not from the minute I slipped into the swimming group, from which grew a ready-made support system. From there, it had been like living in college; friends all within shouting distance. Neighbours either side of me, keeping an eye on me and me on them. Walking in the door as I knocked, rent-a-crowd for whatever might get organised, singers in the pub, candles home from France, the newspaper brought on the boat ‘just because I know you do like it.’ A ramble down the road that might end in lunch, tea and chats, or coming home at sunrise. It was straight into deep conversation, pressing questions, probing arguments. It was friends, very good friends, few of them born in the same decade as I. It was lifts, parties, dressing-up, special tea and trying to light birthday candles in south-westerly winds. It was crowded tables, packed cars, chats after the swim.
It was community. That’s what it was like.
And community is a massive part of what I’m gone looking for. I balanced all, brought all to mind, and do not regret spreading my wings. I just didn’t know how much of an upheaval it would involve and I see now that it’ll be months before I’m settled again. But that’s okay, for there’s adventure in all of that.
And this time, I’m well-equipped with all I bring with me from the island; friendships, skills, resilience, loves, habits, uaine, pabhsaeir, breathnaigh, foighneach said with a d, a love of the sea, and legs on me like steel from all them hills.
It won’t be Inis Meáin, but it will be grand. Especially if that beach in the picture is anything to go by.
[1] Actually listening to sean-nós is new, and quite a change from referring to it as ‘the fish are dead and potatoes deader music’.
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