The three Aran Islands lie in Galway Bay, in a string extending from Galway to Clare. My first visit there was in August 1961. My father and I took the boat from Galway, which was the only way to get there, unless you wanted to go by currach, which was not an option with my stomach. As it was I was sick the whole way and swore I would never get on a boat again. The Naomh Éanna was the boat in those days, and it stopped first at the big island of Inis Mór to let off passengers and cargo and pick up more. That's me on the right up there with the ankle socks with Máire and Éilish McCarthy, on the pier in Galway. There was a pier on Inis Mór also, so you could get off for a while, but at the other two islands, Inis Meain and Inis Thiar ( also known as Inisheer), the only way off was by currach and the islanders would row out to the boat to bring you in. Everything arrived this way, including cattle and refrigerators, so you can see why it took all day. There was a Summer School on Inis Thiar, where kids went for a month to learn Irish and have fun. And even though my brother and sister went there and it was run by teacher friends of my father's he thought I was too naive to be let go for a month without getting into trouble, and he was probably right. We stayed for couple of weeks and ate mutton every day. I got to attend classes, including tin whistle classes by the now famous Willie Clancy, whom we didn't appreciate or value. But I loved Inis Thiar, and have been back many times since then. I even got to work there briefly in 1984, when I relieved my friend Éilish as District Nurse for ten days. From an Emergency Room in San Francisco to an island where the doctor visited once a week depending on the weather, was quite an experience. One of the islanders died while I was there, and I couldn't quite believe that they would actually bury someone without some sort of doctor signing a cert. "I think they know when someone is dead" was how Eilish put it. They make their own coffins on the island and everything is done very much according to tradition. People were generally very nice to me, though I was only filling in. "Wouldn't you think she would know her own language?"was one remark I had translated for me, but I said to ask him if he wanted me to practice my Irish on him or give him the correct dose of insulin and he left me alone after that. Luckily everybody can speak English as well as Irish, so I managed. The islands are much less remote now, and you can take the ferry from Doolin to Inis Thiar in about an hour and fly to all three islands from just north of Galway. Book your flight online and read more about the islands at the Aer Arann Home Page. You can read more about the islands at this site called The Edge of Europe.

These poems are by Lucien Lund,husband of Éilish and survivor of many winters on Inis Thiar.

Naomh Éanna Early dawn in Galway harbour. Smell of fish, and seagull-shriek In mist filled air. Diesel-rainbows on oily sea. Mackerel bones and mackerel-sky. A sun-tickled horizon stretches it's limbs In an effort to get up. No sleeping in today. Four silhouttes, sitting on pallets, Brush dandruff-like sleep from their shoulders, And patiently wait for the gangway. There she lies: A lady carrying a man's name. In her carefully patched emerald dress She holds on to mist suspended bollards, Lullingly leaning against the pier And gently scratching some submerged itchy spot; Slowly waking up. When we met, She had already graciously aged: A tired silver-haired woman, wanting to retire. Heifers slinged into cages, Clustered bags of mail, Timber strapped in deals, Yellow gas cocoons cuddled in crates, And bales of stringed cardboard boxes: A lifeline cast in iron. In her aquatic uterus we felt safe; The throb of her heartbeat pulsating Along riveted veins Made us fetus-like snooze in a motherly womb, As shuddering she plowed furrows In to gauged ripples and waves. Listening to her story made us discover. Step-dances stepped on well walked floors, Happy whiskey-laughter bound in polished brass, Varnished mahogany embedded with sad Gaelic songs, And bitter enigrants' tears, still lingering With mothers' prayers, on scrubbed decks, Made us understand. Then her last anchor plunged in to this bay's water. Tightly seated, in rows of twos and threes, On the short benches of a sleek black-skinned seal, Our oarsman swiftly pulled us Towards the beach. "Say, beautiful old lady, carrying a man's name, How many newborn feet Did you bring to this rocky shore; Does waving good bye finally cut the umbilical cord?" Never again Did we see her brass decorated emerald green dress Fly from the back of wildly roaming white horses.
		Inis Oirr Covered by quilted cirrus and raging gales You stretch your deeply furrowed backbone, While, upon rocky beaches, are stranded whales Silently resting on their bed of limestone. Grasping your patchwork skin, a solitary tree, Bent by age and wind, rests in stony shadow, Whilst on your veins vagabond donkeys are free, And larks capriciously vault above a meadow. Secluded fragment, crucified to furious sea, You carry the life of men in faded sweaters, Lobster-pot seated at the edge of the quay Querying all seasons and incoming letters. On the pier a late cormorant, drying a wing, Prepares for his lone journey into the spring.

Burren Page