Landings?’
‘No, come on.’ We watched the skylarks spiralling above, and two determined-looking cormorants flying back in from Inis Tuaisceart. They were easily 150 metres below us, even more.
‘What will you do if the island gets busier and busier?’
Sue said nothing for a moment and then stopped walking.
‘I’ll just move farther out ahead of them. Out to one of the other islands. I’ve landed on most of them with the lads over the years. I’d live on any of them… well, except An Téaracht – that might get a bit claustrophobic. You couldn’t walk anywhere. Inis Mhic Uibhleain or Inis na Bró would be beautiful. They were both lived on over the years.’
‘Whatever about Inis na Bró, I don’t think Charlie Haughey would be too keen on sharing Inis Mhic Uibhleain with you!’
‘And how do you know? We might be very happy.’ As she laughed, she trained her binoculars on a stonechat in the heather.
‘Have you ever landed on Inis Tuaisceart?’
An Fear Marbh
(Dead Man) or Sleeping Giant as visitors called it, rested three miles off to our left. The slumbering man pointed his mighty feet to America and his head to the Kerry mainland. Over his belly, his hands were clasped in repose. He had no intention of going in either direction.
‘I did once when they were moving sheep. At least the sheep were pulled up on ropes. I had to climb. It’s hard to land there and it’s impossible altogether in bad weather. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to spend a night on it. It was the one time I was relieved to get off an island.’
Inis Tuaisceart –
An Fear Marbh
– viewed from near the signal tower on the Great Blasket
.
‘How come?’ Sue had weathered some of the most appalling storms on the Great Blasket on her own.
‘Well, maybe it was because of what happened there, but I had a bad feeling and I didn’t even want to go into the
clochán
.’
‘I thought Páid had only made up that story just to scare me from going back up to the hut in the dark.’
‘No, it’s true. It was all recorded by a historian called Du Noyer. He interviewed the people just after it happened.’ I was shocked.
‘But didn’t the lads sleep in the
clochán
when they were shearing?’
‘They did,’ she laughed, ‘armed with a crate of beer, a lantern and a mobile phone. And they stayed awake all night. Brave men they are. I’d better run. Call in for a cup of tea later.’
We had reached the turn. She waved goodbye and sped off to her house just as the first dinghy was leaving the ferry. I made a hasty retreat back along the north path and scampered up to the fort, where I sat back against the stones and gazed across at Inis Tuaisceart. I could see the eighty sheep dotted like baby mushrooms through the bracken. The belly of the giant was covered in plum-wine patches of heather. Through the binoculars I could follow Sue’s directions along rocks, heather and broken walls to the mouth of St Brendan’s
clochán
, the place where it had happened.
It was 1848. Inis Tuaisceart was always used as a sheep station. Usually no more than one family lived on the desolate and windswept island. The only shelter to be found was the
clochán
, or beehive hut, built over a hollow in the earth. The underground chamber measured only 3.3 metres in diameter, and was reached by descending a number of steep steps. In the centre a fire burned constantly and the smoke escaped through a hole in the roof.
In the autumn of 1848, a couple, Tomás Ó Catháin and his wife, Peig, went to live on the island to tend the sheep. Shortly after their arrival, the weather turned bad. The boats from Dún Chaoin and the Great Blasket Island, which normally called to the isolated shepherds with supplies, news and companionship, were unable to cross to Inis Tuaisceart. All that the Great Blasket Islanders could do was to keep a watch on the constant ribbon of smoke from the
clochán
of their storm-bound neighbours. This continued, unchanged, for two
‘No, come on.’ We watched the skylarks spiralling above, and two determined-looking cormorants flying back in from Inis Tuaisceart. They were easily 150 metres below us, even more.
‘What will you do if the island gets busier and busier?’
Sue said nothing for a moment and then stopped walking.
‘I’ll just move farther out ahead of them. Out to one of the other islands. I’ve landed on most of them with the lads over the years. I’d live on any of them… well, except An Téaracht – that might get a bit claustrophobic. You couldn’t walk anywhere. Inis Mhic Uibhleain or Inis na Bró would be beautiful. They were both lived on over the years.’
‘Whatever about Inis na Bró, I don’t think Charlie Haughey would be too keen on sharing Inis Mhic Uibhleain with you!’
‘And how do you know? We might be very happy.’ As she laughed, she trained her binoculars on a stonechat in the heather.
‘Have you ever landed on Inis Tuaisceart?’
An Fear Marbh
(Dead Man) or Sleeping Giant as visitors called it, rested three miles off to our left. The slumbering man pointed his mighty feet to America and his head to the Kerry mainland. Over his belly, his hands were clasped in repose. He had no intention of going in either direction.
‘I did once when they were moving sheep. At least the sheep were pulled up on ropes. I had to climb. It’s hard to land there and it’s impossible altogether in bad weather. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to spend a night on it. It was the one time I was relieved to get off an island.’
Inis Tuaisceart –
An Fear Marbh
– viewed from near the signal tower on the Great Blasket
.
‘How come?’ Sue had weathered some of the most appalling storms on the Great Blasket on her own.
‘Well, maybe it was because of what happened there, but I had a bad feeling and I didn’t even want to go into the
clochán
.’
‘I thought Páid had only made up that story just to scare me from going back up to the hut in the dark.’
‘No, it’s true. It was all recorded by a historian called Du Noyer. He interviewed the people just after it happened.’ I was shocked.
‘But didn’t the lads sleep in the
clochán
when they were shearing?’
‘They did,’ she laughed, ‘armed with a crate of beer, a lantern and a mobile phone. And they stayed awake all night. Brave men they are. I’d better run. Call in for a cup of tea later.’
We had reached the turn. She waved goodbye and sped off to her house just as the first dinghy was leaving the ferry. I made a hasty retreat back along the north path and scampered up to the fort, where I sat back against the stones and gazed across at Inis Tuaisceart. I could see the eighty sheep dotted like baby mushrooms through the bracken. The belly of the giant was covered in plum-wine patches of heather. Through the binoculars I could follow Sue’s directions along rocks, heather and broken walls to the mouth of St Brendan’s
clochán
, the place where it had happened.
It was 1848. Inis Tuaisceart was always used as a sheep station. Usually no more than one family lived on the desolate and windswept island. The only shelter to be found was the
clochán
, or beehive hut, built over a hollow in the earth. The underground chamber measured only 3.3 metres in diameter, and was reached by descending a number of steep steps. In the centre a fire burned constantly and the smoke escaped through a hole in the roof.
In the autumn of 1848, a couple, Tomás Ó Catháin and his wife, Peig, went to live on the island to tend the sheep. Shortly after their arrival, the weather turned bad. The boats from Dún Chaoin and the Great Blasket Island, which normally called to the isolated shepherds with supplies, news and companionship, were unable to cross to Inis Tuaisceart. All that the Great Blasket Islanders could do was to keep a watch on the constant ribbon of smoke from the
clochán
of their storm-bound neighbours. This continued, unchanged, for two
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