IRELAND
“You have to understand that early Celtic
Christianity was very different — you didn’t need a church to be close to God, or a priest,” Ciarán explains. “These men were influenced by the Desert Fathers, like Saint Anthony, who lived in solitude outside civilisation. For them, the divine was in nature. This was a place they could meditate upon creation.” Ireland became an important centre
of learning and mysticism following the introduction of Christianity to Ireland in the fiſth century by Saint Patrick; the ruins of nine such island monasteries have been identified off this stretch of coast, but none as well-preserved as Skellig Michael. At the top of 618 uneven steps — a testing
600ſt climb that, according to our health and safety briefing, has occasioned a handful of recent fatalities — we emerge onto a terraced shelf. Behind us is a low, grassy ‘saddle’ and a closed-off path that rises to a hermitage built, daringly, on an exposed ledge on the most southerly peak. Up ahead is the monastery compound: a clutch of beehive- shaped drystone huts, known as clocháin, a cemetery of rustic crosses and the eastern wall of a medieval abbey. Its remaining window looks out to sea; through it, I can see the outline of Small Skellig, home to the world’s largest gannet colony. Guillemots and razorbills trail their shadows across slopes dusted with wildflowers and puffin nests. I didn’t know a place this beautiful or thought- provoking existed so close to home, just across the Irish Sea. Catherine, a resident guide — bronzed from
the summer, wearing practical, cut-off shorts — answers visitors’ questions and shares some of the island’s secrets. She tells us that due to the fragility of the ecosystem (not to mention the perilous topography), guests aren’t permitted to explore beyond the steps and monastery walls, but assures us that every jutting rock and hidden plateau of the island would’ve been familiar to the monks. “Each crag became a Station of the Cross,” Catherine says. “Imagine throwing open your arms towards the ocean in worship. This was the edge of the known world back then, remember — there was no America yet.”
Throughout the tourist season, Catherine
lives in a cabin on the island while working her fortnight-long stints. “I always try to take in the sunrise or sunset. Last night, I woke up and saw the moon had cut a path of silver through the sea and the whole site was lit up in monochrome. I know it’s said too oſten, but there really is magic here.” Back on the boat, John is frying up
mackerel for us — he’d been busy with his lines while we were exploring. It’s the best fish I’ve ever tasted — mouthwatering and buttery soſt. It’s with much reluctance that I share some with Luna, before rinsing my hands in the cold surf. I feel immeasurably grateful for the trip; enriched, smiling and a little sunburnt. I notice our captain appears to have come alive aſter a day at sea, too. His tan has deepened and his eyes twinkle like sun-brightened shallows. Skellig Michael may have lost its monks, I think, but it still has its pilgrims.
Dingle all the way It’s raining hard when we set out from Ventry Bay the next morning. Cormorants move like shadows in the shiſting mists and, on the wet sand, the retreating tide has laid out large fans of knobbly kelp. Elated by the climate, Ciarán strides off apace. I trundle in his wake, beginning to doubt the ‘waterproof’ claims of my outdoor wear. We’re heading out on a half-day hike of
a section of the Dingle Way, the 101-mile trail that follows the coast of the Dingle Peninsula — the western part of which is one of two designated Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking) regions in County Kerry. We’d spent the previous night in the main town, Dingle (Daingean Uí Chúis, in Irish), an atmospheric cat’s cradle of harbour lanes, where live music spills out of family-run pubs, candles flicker in the windows of seafood restaurants, and shops selling knitted goods stay open late. The county relies heavily on tourism (its stunning 120-mile Ring of Kerry driving route is flooded with coaches in the hotter months) but I’m finding that the region absorbs the crowds well. “It hasn’t lost its charm,” Ciarán agrees, “and it’s easy to get
Colourful street in Daingean Uí Chúis, more commonly known as Dingle
Dingle (Daingean Uí Chúis, in Irish), an atmospheric cat ’s cradle of harbour lanes, where live music spills out of family-run pubs, candles f licker in the windows of seafood restaurants, and shops selling knitted goods stay open late
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