Dingle, Ireland
The Skelligs lie at the world's end. These paired fangs nick the North Atlantic where the ageless feud between swell and bedrock rage. Ancient monks sought peace on this battleground, hoping, by fleeing the earth, to find their way nearer to God. Imagine, as the Dark Ages swaddled the rest of Europe, climbing five hundred steps from the sea to cut from living rock, with axe or chisel, the five hundred and first. Imagine the hiss of spray and drizzle between one's legs, and the dizzying depths below. With time, faith, and perseverance, monks built in stone an extraordinary assemblage of walled terraces and domed huts, from which dim light likely shone out on a bleak and bitter world.
Our visit to the Skelligs must have been the fruit of many a fervent prayer, for the sky was so bright, and the sea was so beneficent that the day could only be described as merry. Dropping Zodiacs, we left the ship for an intimate look at Skellig Michael. From afar we gazed up at the monastery, which crowned the island's apex in pallid geometric forms. We followed, with our eyes at least, the sinuous steps that laced sea and summit together. Monks of a different kind now inhabit Skellig Michael. The generic name of the Atlantic Puffin is "Fraturcula", or "little brother", perhaps in reference to the birds' monk-like cowled communion. We saw many little brothers bobbing about the waves or rocketing by on bumblebee wings. We also found the brothers' cousins, murres and razorbills, which clung to improbable chinks in the cliff faces. Clinging too were kittiwakes, dainty gulls, which filled the air with their nasal onomatopoetic cries.
Back on the ship, we soon neared Little Skellig. This island seems recently hit by an avian snowstorm. White gannets covered the islands' slopes, and weighty flakes swirled through the skies.
By afternoon we reached the Dingle Peninsula. Coming to or going from Dingle town, many of us met Fungi, the harbour's famous dolphin. For twenty-five years, this friendly cetacean has greeted boaters. Once ashore, we bused through Ireland's famous lush verdant landscape to visit a museum about life on the Blasket Islands and a ruined church. Finally, in search of the authentic Irish experience, we visited pubs. Some went to the South Pole, the pub belonging to Antarctic Shackleton's mate Tom Creen. Others returned to Murphy's in Dingle to hoist a pint of Ireland's famous peat-coloured brew.
The Skelligs lie at the world's end. These paired fangs nick the North Atlantic where the ageless feud between swell and bedrock rage. Ancient monks sought peace on this battleground, hoping, by fleeing the earth, to find their way nearer to God. Imagine, as the Dark Ages swaddled the rest of Europe, climbing five hundred steps from the sea to cut from living rock, with axe or chisel, the five hundred and first. Imagine the hiss of spray and drizzle between one's legs, and the dizzying depths below. With time, faith, and perseverance, monks built in stone an extraordinary assemblage of walled terraces and domed huts, from which dim light likely shone out on a bleak and bitter world.
Our visit to the Skelligs must have been the fruit of many a fervent prayer, for the sky was so bright, and the sea was so beneficent that the day could only be described as merry. Dropping Zodiacs, we left the ship for an intimate look at Skellig Michael. From afar we gazed up at the monastery, which crowned the island's apex in pallid geometric forms. We followed, with our eyes at least, the sinuous steps that laced sea and summit together. Monks of a different kind now inhabit Skellig Michael. The generic name of the Atlantic Puffin is "Fraturcula", or "little brother", perhaps in reference to the birds' monk-like cowled communion. We saw many little brothers bobbing about the waves or rocketing by on bumblebee wings. We also found the brothers' cousins, murres and razorbills, which clung to improbable chinks in the cliff faces. Clinging too were kittiwakes, dainty gulls, which filled the air with their nasal onomatopoetic cries.
Back on the ship, we soon neared Little Skellig. This island seems recently hit by an avian snowstorm. White gannets covered the islands' slopes, and weighty flakes swirled through the skies.
By afternoon we reached the Dingle Peninsula. Coming to or going from Dingle town, many of us met Fungi, the harbour's famous dolphin. For twenty-five years, this friendly cetacean has greeted boaters. Once ashore, we bused through Ireland's famous lush verdant landscape to visit a museum about life on the Blasket Islands and a ruined church. Finally, in search of the authentic Irish experience, we visited pubs. Some went to the South Pole, the pub belonging to Antarctic Shackleton's mate Tom Creen. Others returned to Murphy's in Dingle to hoist a pint of Ireland's famous peat-coloured brew.
