Standing at the Edge of the World
Shaky and disoriented, I stepped off a ferry early one afternoon to find myself on Inishmore, the largest of Ireland’s Aran Islands. The boat which brought me here from Galway had just rocked and rolled through a particularly rough section of the North Atlantic. Land, other than being steady, offered no other relief from the elements. Rain continued to pour, the wind continued to howl, and the numbing cold was slowly creeping its way into my down jacket. I asked for this. This is what I got for visiting Ireland in the middle of December.
A few minutes later, I was driven around the perimeter of the island in the protective comfort of a small tour bus. Passing by quaint cafés and boutiques that weren’t and wouldn’t open until the average temperature rose in a few months, the benefits of being one of the rare tourists visiting the island this time of year suddenly made themselves apparent. My small tour group and I were alone. We were free to roam this idyllic place unobstructed by crowds, unhampered by long lines, and able to take our own sweet time, happy as the particularly woolly sheep lounging in the pastures rolling by.
First on the agenda was Dún Aonghasa, the archaeological site of a prehistoric, stone fortress. The journey began in a small office at the base of the site. Informative posters ran across the walls interrupted by scale models of the fortress in its full, former glory. A sleepy golden retriever and his owner made the best of their obligations to cater to the ill-advised or unreasonably optimistic species of sightseer who insisted on being here. Opposite the entrance, a trail marked in stone would lead us to our next destination at the top of a grassy hill.
As we made our way up the glistening, rocky trail, the weather Gods finally smiled down upon us in the form of a light breeze and the absence of rain. Twenty minutes later, stone walls emerged from the top. We passed through the remains of arched doorways, and roamed spaces once inhabited by our 2nd century predecessors. I imagined my footsteps falling into the ones taken by bronze age soldiers once stationed here. I peered above the recreated walls to catch a glimpse of the ocean view that must have graced an ancient window or two.
The icy Atlantic meets Dún Aonghasa at the face of a magnificent 700-foot cliff. According to our guide, the island’s first inhabitants believed this was the edge of the world. Standing atop the cliff, I could see why. The horizon from here, though expansive, betrayed no signs of life. The water flowed beyond it infinitely. Regardless of the chaos running rampant in the rest of the world, this corner of it was quiet. Everyone in the group fell under its spell and settled into a space somewhere along the edge. I was grateful to hear, for just a few minutes, only gulls and the crashing waves. My feet dangled in the air, a skyscraper above the raw force of the ocean, to the bottom of which my problems and sense of self-importance had fallen. How remarkably small I felt in this moment.
At the beckoning of my guide, I reluctantly peeled my eyes away from the majesty and shook the spell. It was time to head back to the village and warm up with an Irish coffee. We settled into a small bar which had just received its supplies from one of two daily shipments to the island. Drinks in hand, we joined a group of locals who had gathered for a rugby game, and watched the beat of this particular brand of island life carry on.
