Irish is one of those elusive languages that even the most
astute linguist has trouble deciphering. There are no Latinate ebbs
and flows and the more Guinness consumed, the less likely it is
you'll impress the native speakers on fair Eire's west coast.
While English is the official language of Ireland, locals from
the Aran Islands prefer to speak Gaelic. Rich in Celtic history,
the three Aran Islands are rugged outcrops off the coast of Galway,
home to fishermen, tinkers and artists seeking inspiration from the
buffeting Atlantic Ocean.
Intrigued by the Gaelic tones filling the air, I'm cradling a
pint of the black stuff in a pub overlooking the harbour of Inis
Mor, the largest of the Aran Islands. I've come here to explore the
home of the Aran knit. And to see whether my Irish flatmate, Niamh,
was telling the truth when she said the islanders spoke nothing but
Irish, surveying visitors suspiciously while deciding whether to
engage in an English chat.
I've piqued the interest of a ruddy-faced gent and his
bespectacled pal Colm and they soon join me at my table, switching
from Irish to English. Before long I've packed my bags at the
neighbouring hostel and am trudging up the hill to immerse myself
in the real Aran, chez Colm.
Colm's cottage is beautiful, though cluttered. He runs a
makeshift hostel with two bunk rooms, a bathroom with a
freestanding cast-iron bath tub and a library with piles of
dog-eared books, paints and postcards littered about. He thrusts a
mug of tea into my hand and plonks into a ripped armchair, wheezing
as the dust billows.
I'm poring over a map of the island in the library, planning
walking trips to the ancient fort of Dun Aengus and out to the edge
of the sheer cliffs, when in walks my Irish leprechaun. Pint-sized
Mat Mullin, a weather-beaten fisherman with wandering hands and a
devilish grin, strolls through the door and invites me to go
periwinkle picking along the seashore.
He decks me out in a yellow weatherproof suit and wellies, and
we're off. Mat sells buckets of perries in Galway and he's serious
about sourcing the best from behind the tendrils of seaweed and
between the slippery rocks as he skips over rock pools nimbly,
filling each bucket.
I sneak a quick photo of my salty mate and he warns me not to
cheapen the moment into a tourist snap. "Ah, my long-legged
Aussie," he sighs. "Just live the experience."
We retire for pan-fried fish and tatties with plenty of salt,
all washed down with a hot toddy of whiskey. The next day it's more
clambering along cliffs and through fields with pebbled walls
dividing the paddocks and ruins of the dramatic landscape.
When my ferry set sail for Galway, Mat was on the dock, waving
goodbye. I have a watercolour at sunset of a lone boat, bobbing
along Galway Bay, a tribute to my little fisherman. And we still
write letters to each other, every now and then:
"Dear Clara, received your letter today just after coming from
the seashore. It was a surprise, I thought maybe you were gone to
the USA or some place or gone out to fight with the Taliban. Anyhow
it's great to hear you're alive kicking those long legs . . . Love,
Mat."
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