Inis Mhór (Inishmore), Aran Islands, Ireland
It is so deceptive, this land, neatly packaged into green parcels contained by dry stone walls. From a distance it looks so well planned, so fertile and lush. From the air it must look like a complicated maze, a game designed to entertain a restless child on a long trip. One could chose a beginning, maybe the pier, and map out the route to the top of the cliff going through gates but not climbing any fence. Or one could trace the three thousand miles of intricate ridges to discover if the entire island is tangled together like a skein of yarn.
But life on the isles is no game, nor has it been or will it ever be. Today carefully tilled and mounded soil shaped into perfect beds awaits the gentle hand of a gardener who will come to plant tiny seedlings within. But a few generations ago there were only rocks, vast expanses of flat gray limestone reaching in all directions. Men, women and children labored, reaching deep into hidden crevices to scrape away any particles deposited by the wind or rain. They toiled on the beaches gathering seaweed carelessly tossed by the waves. Organic material and tiny crystals that wore from the earth when mixed together form soil and soil meant cultivation and crops, meager as they might be. Bit by bit they created a home. It was their place isolated from the world by the sea. That same sea held life, plentiful food for those who were skilled enough and daring enough to seek it out.
We walked to the top, up the gentle sloping face of the island to the ancient fortress, Dún Aonghasa. No invading force could penetrate all three curvilinear walls to reach the inhabitants secured within. Nor could they scale the three hundred-foot cliff that dropped precipitously from where walls met sky. Far below waves broke frothy white, showing the teeth of their power.
Salt spray collected on our lips and stung our eyes as the bow of the Zodiac dipped and plunged through the crests of the waves. We could let our minds wander back in time and pretend that our warm and cozy ship was not at anchor awaiting our return. We could feel in the wind, the forces that peoples of long ago and peoples of today must face as they brave the sea in search of sustenance and a living for their families. We could feel the power as we sailed close to the Cliffs of Moher where seabirds nest. Tiny vortices whorled snatching the surface of the sea forming miniscule waterspouts. Today the avian world sat tight mostly, either on their protected rocky ledge or bobbing on the sea. We sailed back again and looked at Dún Aonghasa from the sea. As we watched from the bridge or lounge we were comfortable and well fed. But we have empathy now for those families who face the fickleness of nature every day, for those whose life is harsh enough that they created family patterns and wove them into the fabric of their clothes so that those lost at sea could be identified.
It is so deceptive, this land, neatly packaged into green parcels contained by dry stone walls. From a distance it looks so well planned, so fertile and lush. From the air it must look like a complicated maze, a game designed to entertain a restless child on a long trip. One could chose a beginning, maybe the pier, and map out the route to the top of the cliff going through gates but not climbing any fence. Or one could trace the three thousand miles of intricate ridges to discover if the entire island is tangled together like a skein of yarn.
But life on the isles is no game, nor has it been or will it ever be. Today carefully tilled and mounded soil shaped into perfect beds awaits the gentle hand of a gardener who will come to plant tiny seedlings within. But a few generations ago there were only rocks, vast expanses of flat gray limestone reaching in all directions. Men, women and children labored, reaching deep into hidden crevices to scrape away any particles deposited by the wind or rain. They toiled on the beaches gathering seaweed carelessly tossed by the waves. Organic material and tiny crystals that wore from the earth when mixed together form soil and soil meant cultivation and crops, meager as they might be. Bit by bit they created a home. It was their place isolated from the world by the sea. That same sea held life, plentiful food for those who were skilled enough and daring enough to seek it out.
We walked to the top, up the gentle sloping face of the island to the ancient fortress, Dún Aonghasa. No invading force could penetrate all three curvilinear walls to reach the inhabitants secured within. Nor could they scale the three hundred-foot cliff that dropped precipitously from where walls met sky. Far below waves broke frothy white, showing the teeth of their power.
Salt spray collected on our lips and stung our eyes as the bow of the Zodiac dipped and plunged through the crests of the waves. We could let our minds wander back in time and pretend that our warm and cozy ship was not at anchor awaiting our return. We could feel in the wind, the forces that peoples of long ago and peoples of today must face as they brave the sea in search of sustenance and a living for their families. We could feel the power as we sailed close to the Cliffs of Moher where seabirds nest. Tiny vortices whorled snatching the surface of the sea forming miniscule waterspouts. Today the avian world sat tight mostly, either on their protected rocky ledge or bobbing on the sea. We sailed back again and looked at Dún Aonghasa from the sea. As we watched from the bridge or lounge we were comfortable and well fed. But we have empathy now for those families who face the fickleness of nature every day, for those whose life is harsh enough that they created family patterns and wove them into the fabric of their clothes so that those lost at sea could be identified.
