On the ferry, I started chatting with a guy named Stephen. He had backpacked through Australia and New Zealand, alternating between work and surf. He had come back to Ireland recently, in light of the economic downturn, as he found it to be an exciting time when people had to get inventive. He had spent five years in Galway, working with some environmental groups. Along the way, he pointed out a small circular tower built along the coast. These towers, called Martello Towers, were built by the British Empire during the Napoleonic wars when they feared an invasion by the French or Spanish, which never occurred. Standing about 6 metres high, they could garrison 20 men and house a piece of artillery.
Stephen had visited all of the islands except Inis Oírr, the island he was headed to today. He had some distant relations on Inis Mór, and planned on spending the next two days hopping between the islands (there is apparently some world class surf off the north shore of Inis Mór). He brought up some of the history, as the islands encapsulate some very old remnants of historical Ireland. Some of the first people to settle in the Galway Bay were Moors from Spain who travelled north in their fishing boats. Indeed, the famous Galway Hooker, a type of fishing boat, is heavily derived from Moorish design. The garb of the islanders resembles the fishermen's clothes of old. Musical styles, not only in Galway but across Ireland, share themes with ancient Moor music. At this point, Stephen brought up an interesting point. He had been fluent in Irish, but lost it, and was now trying to learn again. The Irish for a black man is "fear gorm", which translates literally to "blue man". This apparent misnomer makes sense if you consider the association between the Moors and the colour blue. The Moorish fishing ships were often painted blue, with blue colours, and blue garments. Even the Moorish towns were typically blue. The Moors were the first dark-skinned people that the Irish had encountered, explaining this linguistic anomaly.
By this time, the boat had docked, and I said goodbye to Stephen. Our group of five wandered from the port into the village, containing most of the island's 300 residents. We stopped at one of two pubs on the island (incidentally the one hostel on the island was closed as the owners were at a wedding on the mainland), called Pádrais Ó Conshaile. My Guinness came with a shamrock delicately carved into the head.
After a brief lunch, we headed west, into the middle of the island. Walking inland from a white sandy beach, we stumbled upon a playground outfitted with a zipline on which we spent the next fifteen minutes taking turns. After the fun and games, we walked up the road passing some stone walls. The walls were, quite literally, stone stacked upon stone, and most had large gaps, which I surmised was due to their old age and abuse throughout the years. I would later learn that the walls were crafted with holes between the stone purposefully, in order to allow the wind to blow through the wall rather than knock it over.
We passed a small, three-storey castle called Caislean Ui Bhriain, but weren't able to get close to it. The majority of the island is covered in rectangular plots of cattle-grazing land, separated by stone walls. We walked through this scenery, remarkably shire-like, until making sight of the lighthouse on the North shore. At this point, we realized we were somewhat lost, but on an island that takes no more than an hour to transverse by foot, this was not much of an issue. It surely didn't stop us from feeding some ponies or watching the cows and sheep. Near the middle of the island, we stopped at the Bed and Breakfast on the island, Radharc An Chaisleán, meaning Castle Cafe. The owner was quite friendly, and although a Dubliner herself, was very well informed on the history of the island. We had an illuminating conversation that touched on the Moorish influences and customs of naming the islanders. There are only six surnames on the island, and thus, people choose descriptive first names to avoid too much duplicity, usually involving personality traits or their trade. On a more serious note, she explained how most of the island survived from cattle and fishing, but fishing was a dangerous profession. Villagers would wear unique jumpers (sweaters) in case their boat was smashed against the volcanic rock surrounding the island. Oftentimes, only pieces of the jumper were found, letting the family know the fate of their fisherman. The way of life that the people of Inis Oírr have is not easy, but it does seem to make for a tight-knit community.
After tea at the Bed and Breakfast, we walked, past the graveyard, to the Loch Mor, a large lake admidst more cattle fields. A short distance past the Loch was a truly fascinating sight, the wreck of the Plassy. The Plassy was shipwrecked in 1960, during a particularly bad storm that literally threw the ship up onto the rocky beach. The villagers on the island heard the commotion and came to the aid of the crew. Using a rocket fired at the mast of the ship, the islanders used a breeches buoy to save all 11 members of the crew. Not a single person was injured from the wreck. Today, one sailor survives the group of 11 saved that day. He, like his comrades before, still makes an annual visit to the island to thank the villagers that saved his life.
We took the ferry back to the mainland, and a bus trip to return to the hostel. The hostel offered a free pint with dinner at Busker Browne's on Cross Street, which we availed of. Finally, we stopped at a little sweet shop called the Pie Maker, sampling Banoffe (Banana-Toffee) pie.
Even in this photo, with you no bigger than a cricket, I can still see that great grin on your face. So glad you're having such a grand time.
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