There are several small, rocky islands off the west coast of Ireland that jut up out of the sea. Blasket Island (dangling off the Dingle Peninsula), that I wrote about recently, features an abandoned village. I'd tried visiting the island then, but the waters were too choppy for safe journey. Skellig Michael ("skellig" means "jagged island" in Gaelic) is off the coast of the peninsula south of Dingle (Ring of Kerry). Seeking seclusion and to build faith, monks built and inhabited a monastery on this island from the 6th to 12th century. The structures were built under nearly impossible circumstances and have amazingly survived ages of neglect. I had to see this.
Fortunately when I called a few days prior to my arrival in Portmagee, the captain of the ferry service said that the weather would likely permit travel. On the morning of, there was heavy mist and a light wind, but waters in the bay were (deceptively) still. The weather even permitted a bunch of boys out rowing.
I made friends with a few people on the fishing boat-come-ferry and we all enjoyed the company and scenery. We chatted about entertaining--but fairly inconsequential--topics (comparing accents, photography techniques, and taking children on travels) as we exited the bay. What we didn't know is that we'd signed up for a slightly tame version of The Deadliest Catch.
Outside the calmer bay, the winds picked up, and the small fishing boat cut through 5 ft swells. Due to the relatively small size of our vessel, we were buffeted about by waves alternatively from the front and side. We would remark among ourselves, "Oh, well isn't this an enriching, multi-sensory experience!" while inconspicuously bracing our feet against the boat walls. As we got further out, the waves would splash over the side of the boat, occasionally drenching our feet. "Wet feet is a small price to pay for the memory." (*pats self on back*) What followed was a series of roller coaster-like sea maneuvers, finalized with blows to the face and chest with freshly churned salt water. That snapped me out of self-congratulation. It also awoke the stomach in the lady next to me. "I think I'm about to re-meet my breakfast," said she, and though I looked away (and gently patted her back during her... projection), I couldn't help but see bits of sausage and egg out of the corner of my eye.
We didn't talk much after that.
Luckily the sea died down shortly thereafter, and eventually Skellig poetically came forth out of the mist to change the subject.
The landing dock was just some stone steps hanging off the side of the island. No wonder they can't land on choppy(ier) days.
The island was beautiful in a severe, impassable, and foreboding sort of way.
The way to get up the island to the monastery was a series of seemingly unending stone steps. While very picturesque, they are especially slick on wet days... like today.
But--BUT--the island full of puffins! They stood outside their burrows, welcoming us with a chorus of buzzing chirps and waddling dances.
Skellig Michael was named in honor of St. Michael, supposedly the patron saint of high places. The monastery consisted of several dry stone buildings in the shape of honeycombs and included housing, a chapel, latrines, etc. To be honest, though, it had to have been an extremely difficult (and damp!) existence. But then, I guess that's what the monks signed up for.
I don't know how much experience you have climbing slippery stairs, but it generally feels more secure on the way up than the way down (probably something to do with eccentric muscle contraction and center of gravity). Case in point: I slipped twice (though nearly to my demise only once). The first, more serious, time caused a Lithuanian couple to shout what I imagine were foreign expletives. The second was really just a slight imbalance, but I reactively grasped the elbow of a walking stick-wielding older man. Yes, I realize that it was poor form for an able-bodied young man to put the elderly at risk, but it was a reflex. I apologized.
In the end, the monks eventually decided (after 600 years) that maybe they didn't need that extreme of conditions to develop greater faith. They moved directly across the water to the mainland, where they built and maintained a monastery until the 15th century. They were probably much happier, but then again, sometimes the best experiences come out of the extreme, life-threatening ones.
Fortunately when I called a few days prior to my arrival in Portmagee, the captain of the ferry service said that the weather would likely permit travel. On the morning of, there was heavy mist and a light wind, but waters in the bay were (deceptively) still. The weather even permitted a bunch of boys out rowing.
I made friends with a few people on the fishing boat-come-ferry and we all enjoyed the company and scenery. We chatted about entertaining--but fairly inconsequential--topics (comparing accents, photography techniques, and taking children on travels) as we exited the bay. What we didn't know is that we'd signed up for a slightly tame version of The Deadliest Catch.
Outside the calmer bay, the winds picked up, and the small fishing boat cut through 5 ft swells. Due to the relatively small size of our vessel, we were buffeted about by waves alternatively from the front and side. We would remark among ourselves, "Oh, well isn't this an enriching, multi-sensory experience!" while inconspicuously bracing our feet against the boat walls. As we got further out, the waves would splash over the side of the boat, occasionally drenching our feet. "Wet feet is a small price to pay for the memory." (*pats self on back*) What followed was a series of roller coaster-like sea maneuvers, finalized with blows to the face and chest with freshly churned salt water. That snapped me out of self-congratulation. It also awoke the stomach in the lady next to me. "I think I'm about to re-meet my breakfast," said she, and though I looked away (and gently patted her back during her... projection), I couldn't help but see bits of sausage and egg out of the corner of my eye.
We didn't talk much after that.
 |
| A little bit of water coming to meet my shoe. I put my camera away after this warning splash. |
 |
The island was beautiful in a severe, impassable, and foreboding sort of way.
The way to get up the island to the monastery was a series of seemingly unending stone steps. While very picturesque, they are especially slick on wet days... like today.
But--BUT--the island full of puffins! They stood outside their burrows, welcoming us with a chorus of buzzing chirps and waddling dances.
 |
| Want. |
 |
| Want. Want. Want. |
Skellig Michael was named in honor of St. Michael, supposedly the patron saint of high places. The monastery consisted of several dry stone buildings in the shape of honeycombs and included housing, a chapel, latrines, etc. To be honest, though, it had to have been an extremely difficult (and damp!) existence. But then, I guess that's what the monks signed up for.
I don't know how much experience you have climbing slippery stairs, but it generally feels more secure on the way up than the way down (probably something to do with eccentric muscle contraction and center of gravity). Case in point: I slipped twice (though nearly to my demise only once). The first, more serious, time caused a Lithuanian couple to shout what I imagine were foreign expletives. The second was really just a slight imbalance, but I reactively grasped the elbow of a walking stick-wielding older man. Yes, I realize that it was poor form for an able-bodied young man to put the elderly at risk, but it was a reflex. I apologized.
In the end, the monks eventually decided (after 600 years) that maybe they didn't need that extreme of conditions to develop greater faith. They moved directly across the water to the mainland, where they built and maintained a monastery until the 15th century. They were probably much happier, but then again, sometimes the best experiences come out of the extreme, life-threatening ones.
 |
| Gannet birds perch on the cliff walls of Little Skellig. |
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