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IslandersA Great Blasket StoryBy A. J. Neudecker
It's summer on the Dingle Peninsula, and the little ferry is taking my boyfriend and me from Dingle Town, the mainland, to Great Blasket Island: the westernmost tip of Ireland and, as literature says, the most westerly point of Europe. Four miles long and only half a mile wide, Great Blasket is uninhabited and rises 958 feet above sea level. It is the biggest of Na Blascaodaí, as the Irish call the nine islets and sea stacks, and the only one that admits visitors. TRAVELING BACK IN TIMEJust hover your hand above a map of Ireland, search for the southwest coast, then County Kerry, and finally land your finger on the long Dingle Peninsula. Only eight miles west off Dingle Town and three miles off the town of Dunquin, the Blaskets lie in shrouds of mist. Inhabited for thousands of years, the islands weren't always friendly to the small peasant and fishing communities that lived a hard life amidst natural beauty. Sometimes, especially in the cold winter months when the Atlantic gales were rough, the islanders were cut off from the mainland for weeks at a time. On Christmas Eve 1946, the Blasketers were hit with the danger of isolation when they had to watch a young man die of a fever. Having no phones, no radio and, because of the weather conditions, no other means of contact with the mainland, there was no way to transport the young man or to get a doctor to the island.
Peig Sayers, the name patron of the little ferry, lived forty years on the island and was among the last ones to leave. Blessed with the gift of the gab but illiterate, she later dictated her vivid Blasket tales to her son. Both her autobiography "Peig" and the book "An Old Woman's Reflections" were translated from Irish into English and earned her the title "Queen of Gaelic Storytellers." In 1958, Peig Sayers died a blind woman in a hospital in Dingle—and I imagine pictures of Great Blasket dancing before her mind's eye before she closed her eyes for the last time. THROUGH MISTS AND SPARKLING WATERSOn the ferry, I climb from the protected cabin to the upper deck and point my camera at the sea stacks, inlets and rocks rising out of the water. There's fog around their bottoms, sunshine around their tops, and I settle into a feeling of anticipation and serenity as the boat cruises through a maze of inlets. The Blasket Sound between Dingle and Great Blasket is "Fungi land," and I watch out for Fungi, Dingle's own tourist-friendly bottlenose dolphin. There are paid boat trips that more or less promise he'll appear and delight children and adults alike, and although I didn't pay to see Fungi, I still hope he'll pop up his head somewhere. The waves lap harshly against the twelve-passenger ferry, and I worry about losing my camera, bending too far over the railing. My boyfriend worries about losing me. After half an hour the Peig Sayers drops anchor. Great Blasket lies in front of us, almost in grasping distance. But we can't get off the ferry yet; the seas are too heavy, so a small red motorboat takes us to the shore. Since we don't all fit into it, the dinghy goes back and forth a couple of times, and there is a bit of wiggling and wondering if the boat is going to tip over or if one of us is going to fall. Then my feet find solid ground on An Blascaod Mór. BOAT LANDING
We clamber up a narrow stone path. On top of the hill, Great Blasket greets us with a little white stone cottage and a warning. The caution sign says, in English and Gaelic, "Extreme care on this island is necessary due to the terrain and currents." The terrain does, indeed, look slippery, moss having grown over wet stones. And the white-washed thatched cottage, nestled amidst the ruins of others, seems to say, 'They've all gone, they've left me here: abandoned and alone.' Our fellow travelers have vanished into thin air, and I turn and look around. Below me the turquoise water is lapping against the shore, flowing into the dark-blue Atlantic swirl. From atop the hill, I glimpse a patch of a white sandy beach valley that snuggles nicely against the green slopes; brightly red, the dinghy bobs in the ocean. I catch shades of green, and later, much later, at home, I will remember yellow. The Great Blasket pictures in my photo album show the green of the fields, the grey of rocks and ruins, shades of blue (the sky clashing against the water), the muddy white of an army of sheep and the bright yellow of my rain slicker.
FOOD, SHEEP, AND BLUFFSWe walk through the ruins of the old village. Our destination is the café mentioned in our travel guide. In my mind, I call it "the place that has food and tea," as a I can't imagine there being a café on top of these hills. There is—and it's welcoming us with a simple "Café" sign. The house looks modern from the outside, and it's not the only touch of civilization either. A few people sitting on rocks and benches next to the small cottage are talking on their cell phones. I stare at them, wondering if they feel as weird as they look, eagerly punching in numbers. A mixture of relief (we get a reception here, thank God) and annoyance (why can't we just live without a phone for a few hours) rushes through me—or maybe it's just hunger. Inside, where the decor is less modern and they cook without electricity, we order soup, ham sandwiches and tea, and take our food to the tiny backroom. We're the only guests at the small wooden table, and for a moment I feel we live here, under low beamed ceilings. I imagine working, cooking, and sleeping here; counting sheep by day and stars by night. I fantasize about life without modern conveniences, and I'm a happy woman in my fantasy. Spinning my yarn and chewing on my sandwich, I check to see if my cell phone is still safely stored in my knapsack, then cringe at the thought of parting with it. So, maybe, I don't really want to lose touch with the world beyond the waves. NAME DROPPINGStrengthened and satisfied, we leave the house that was mine for half an hour. My boyfriend is eager to see some puffins, and in the back of my head I remember that I all but promised him he'd see puffins on the island. Our guidebook says the Blaskets are a haven for seals and seabirds, but we are out of luck. Maybe they're on the other islands? Maybe if we could see them all, explore them all?
From a bluff, across the deep blue sea, I look at the other islands: Inis Tuasceart, Inis na Bró, Inis Icileáin, Inis Tearaght, and Beginish. The names roll from my mind down to the tip of my tongue like the waves below me, but I never utter a word. I don't know how to speak Irish Gaelic, but I do know that "Inis" is pronounced "Inish" and means island. I do know that I love the names that conjure up images of faeries and folktales. I savor the names—mythical, magical, lyrical—that remind me of ancient round towers, falcons, storms and blue waters. They remind me of people on pony traps and little children with dirty hands. They make me think of tired faces and weary feet. And somewhere, in the back of my mind, they make me think of early death. We pass a few more sheep near a steep ravine and climb down a rocky hill: down to Trá Bán, the White Strand, where life stands still for a moment or two. THE FINEST LIFE I WOULD EVER SEEThinking back, there are three sounds I remember hearing on the island: the roaring of the ocean, the wailing of the wind, and the shrieking of the sea gulls above our heads. Maybe there's a fourth sound: my feet running across the beach. I know they couldn't have made a sound, sneakers hitting on sand, but the feeling of running on the White Strand lingers, and that feeling has turned into a Great Blasket sound.
Our way back to the ferry takes us to a small weaver's store, open only for summer tourists. We browse through postcards, touch pottery and hand-woven spreads. A young girl sits behind the counter, reading—her summer job, she explains. She's cold without a heating system and worries about not having brought a warm sweater. She looks a bit like a mainlander who has chosen the wrong kind of summer work. Life was hard on the Blaskets, the brochures drum into the head of the overly romantic tourist. But I know, somehow, somewhere deep down, the islanders still must have loved living here. Sean O'Crohan, another one of the famous Blasket storytellers, writes about Great Blasket, "I saw with my own eyes on the Western Island the finest life I would ever see." The Peig Sayers doesn't abandon us. We can see it coming in the distance, and ten minutes later, five hours after our arrival, we leave the "Western Island." Our heads full of swirling images and a trace of history on the soles of our shoes, we set off for the mainland. Travel Tips: How To Get There—How To Stay There!Great Blasket is uninhabited, but from the end of April to mid-September it is possible to stay at the island's hostel! If you think you'd enjoy a rustic lifestyle for a few days, contact friendly Mary at Dingle Marine & Leisure. She can help you get there on the Peig Sayers, and she's in charge of the accommodation on Great Blasket (there's a special overnight package that includes the boat trip, dinner, and bed & breakfast!). Find her phone number and e-mail address at www.dinglebaycharters.com. You can also take a ferry from Dunquin Pier; contact: +353 (0) 66 915 6422 Further info on the Blasket Islands at Great Blasket Island http://www.greatblasketisland.com Do Dingle http://www.dodingle.com/pages/blasket_island_trips.html Dingle Peninsula http://www.dingle-peninsula.ie/blaskets.html Get In the Mood—Blasket Writers at Blasket Islands http://www.blasketislands.com Photographs © A. J. Neudecker |
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The last of them
left the island half a century ago. As my old sneakers slide onto the
slippery floor of the Peig Sayers, a small but sturdy looking passenger
ferry, I imagine the women of times gone by lifting up their long skirts as
they climb into the boat. I see their men looking relieved and worried, and
their children anxiously turning away from their old life, their eyes set
curiously on the new world: the mainland. 
Only a few years later, in 1953, the last islanders
left Great Blasket for the mainland. Maybe because they knew their medieval
lifestyle could no longer sustain them in the twentieth century, they left
hardships, rugged beauty, no electricity, no phones, no running water, no
cars and no future behind and merged with the mainlanders. Their population,
at times as high as 167, had dwindled to 22 inhabitants, who were evacuated
and moved to government-provided houses in Dingle and Dunquin. Quite a few
of the remaining islanders set sails across the big pond, and descendants of
the "last Blasketers" now live in Springfield, Massachusetts. 
Only a few miles off the
mainland, we have entered a different world. Watching the ferry leave, I
wonder if it will come back. I've read stories about the rough Atlantic
waters keeping the most experienced ferrymen from collecting unsuspecting
tourists. As the wind picks up and the sun goes into hiding, I have visions
of staying over night—and I actually like the idea. 
The
soft-green hills are steep and littered with stones. My boyfriend wears
sturdier shoes than I do, and I envy the way he hikes up the hills that
start with trodden paths and then challenge us to trample our own way. From
time to time, we take a break, breathe in and out and watch the scenery
around and the ocean below us. The salty air fills my lungs. Someone, who
does quite a good job, seems to come here on a regular basis to launder the
air. 
Then, on our way to the
white beach valley, we're compensated for the lack of puffins by getting
close to quite a few good-looking sheep. Most of them have—let's put this
friendly—an off-white color. Their snouts, their ears and the area around
their horns is black. They look fat and contended, and a little bothered
when we come too close for comfort. They seem to be undaunted animals:
grazing near steep ravines, they're not afraid of falling and drowning. They
wander in flocks, they wander alone, looking as if they belong
here—descendants of the sheep that lived with the Blasketers of the olden
times. 
I take the last shots with my color film and exchange
it for a black-and-white. I feel bold doing so. To me, Ireland means
colors—blue, green and grey mostly—and I'm not sure if a black and white
series will do the magic of a Great Blasket experience justice; but the mist
above the water, hovering around the neighboring islands, little Beginish in
the fog, a sail boat, and the surf rolling onto the beach make me believe
the Blaskets will be just as beautiful in black and white. 