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hawkwing_lbBreakfast on Saturday was eight o'clock. We had cleaning stations at half nine - a damp day - and more Scrabble and cards before lunch. At that point we knew the story: we were staying at Clare Island all day because the winds didn't do the expected, the permanent crew were waiting for low tide at two to try again with the anchor, and also, they really needed some sleep.
So after lunch Donal ran us across (the RIB takes loads of six) to the pier in batches, and we had an afternoon to sightsee.
A tiny island, isolate, green and grey and hilly and windswept, but very interesting. There are about twenty-five, I think, recognised national heritage sites on the island: a bike rental place, a campsite, a B&B, a quay, a community centre, a hotel, and a Blue Flag beach.
Clare Island was one of the holdings of Grace O'Malley (Gráinne Mhaol Uí Mhallaigh) in the sixteenth century, and an O'Malley stronghold for a while before that. Still today, apparently, O'Malleys, O'Gradys, and another O (O'Day, maybe? can't recall) are the main families on the island.
You come off the quay - the hill in the background, amusingly enough, is called Glen - and on your left, you come upon a tower fort, allegedly Grace O'Malley's summer residence. It's a square blocky building of about three storeys, solidly defensible. Passages for access to the upper storeys and upper storey rooms run between the outer wall and the inner wall - it's, basically, a large square with a slightly smaller square inside it. You could get inside it: this a view of the interior looking sort of up, and this is a view of the main (only) groundfloor rooom with hearth, looking in from the entryway.
Walked with Graeme (who also wanted to find a shop) up to the community centre to inquire for directions. The others mostly rented bikes and headed to the far end of the island (6km uphill) to see the abandoned lighthouse. Graeme and Jonathon also rented bikes, and headed in the direction of the shop, 3km west towards the Atlantic side of the island. I, on foot, had a good headstart on them, and arrived on slightly behind them.
Clare Island has: sheep, cows, lambs, calves, donkeys, gorgeous fluffy friendly collies, friendly if laid-back and not too outgoing people, hills, and a green smell of ferns. That day it also had fairly frequent rain showers.
At the shop, Jonathon, who'd been to the island before and knew about a medieval church with original fifteenth-century wallpaintings, asked the (Dutch!) woman behind the counter if it was open. She said no, but ask the neighbour, he has the key. So Jonathon goes and gets the key - by this point Mike and Andrew, also on foot, have come up by us. The medieval church, beside the modern church and graveyard, is right across from the shop and post office.
this is it. It supposedly contains the tomb of Grace O'Malley. Part of it was re-roofed during conservation work by the OPW, but the bit with the wall-paintings has an original roof. The wall-paintings are red and yellow and black, hounds and wolves and deer, a harper and hunters and archers and men making war, on plaster that by some miracle has mostly survived the last five hundred years. They're somewhat fragmentary, of course, but it's astonishing they survived at all, over the walls and ceiling. There's a variant of the O'Malley coat of arms, with ships, a boar, and some other things (I would've taken pictures, but the OPW had a sign asking visitors not to), and the legend Terra Maria Potens, and beside it in the wall of the nave a canopied tomb.
Another view of the exterior. A Clare Island donkey.
Mike and Andrew and I headed back down to the quay, where we met Clare and Dee, who'd found the community centre had pay-as-you-go showers and stopped right there. So we all repaired to the community centre's tiny bar, where the cyclists joined us, and Cormac got out his accordion and Pat his concertina, the sixteen-year-olds found a dart board, and we basically took over the place until it was time to go back to the ship for dinner.
After dinner, back to the island, where the boys headed for the showers and I headed for the beach, because by god I wanted to be clean without having to pay for it. In this shot you can see most of the beach: I swam just out of the picture - well, got in, got wet, scrubbed off, and got out again, anyway. The water was wonderfully clear but goddamn fucking freezing; the wind, which had felt chill to me all day, felt warm when I got out.
After swimming, went by the showers to see if any of the boys were clean, and headed up to the hotel bar with them, where we found the permanent crew save for the captain, and all sat at the bar swaying slightly. There were twenty of us and five locals, and later on Cormac and Pat got out their instruments again and Kevin the amazing cook got out three juggling balls and did some fancy juggling tricks in time with the music.
Got back on the ship around midnight. I'd volunteered for the four am watch again, since we'd be sailing at five and I wanted to be awake before then, and I was tired enough that Ronan had to call me twice to get me up.
That was the fourth day.
So after lunch Donal ran us across (the RIB takes loads of six) to the pier in batches, and we had an afternoon to sightsee.
A tiny island, isolate, green and grey and hilly and windswept, but very interesting. There are about twenty-five, I think, recognised national heritage sites on the island: a bike rental place, a campsite, a B&B, a quay, a community centre, a hotel, and a Blue Flag beach.
Clare Island was one of the holdings of Grace O'Malley (Gráinne Mhaol Uí Mhallaigh) in the sixteenth century, and an O'Malley stronghold for a while before that. Still today, apparently, O'Malleys, O'Gradys, and another O (O'Day, maybe? can't recall) are the main families on the island.
You come off the quay - the hill in the background, amusingly enough, is called Glen - and on your left, you come upon a tower fort, allegedly Grace O'Malley's summer residence. It's a square blocky building of about three storeys, solidly defensible. Passages for access to the upper storeys and upper storey rooms run between the outer wall and the inner wall - it's, basically, a large square with a slightly smaller square inside it. You could get inside it: this a view of the interior looking sort of up, and this is a view of the main (only) groundfloor rooom with hearth, looking in from the entryway.
Walked with Graeme (who also wanted to find a shop) up to the community centre to inquire for directions. The others mostly rented bikes and headed to the far end of the island (6km uphill) to see the abandoned lighthouse. Graeme and Jonathon also rented bikes, and headed in the direction of the shop, 3km west towards the Atlantic side of the island. I, on foot, had a good headstart on them, and arrived on slightly behind them.
Clare Island has: sheep, cows, lambs, calves, donkeys, gorgeous fluffy friendly collies, friendly if laid-back and not too outgoing people, hills, and a green smell of ferns. That day it also had fairly frequent rain showers.
At the shop, Jonathon, who'd been to the island before and knew about a medieval church with original fifteenth-century wallpaintings, asked the (Dutch!) woman behind the counter if it was open. She said no, but ask the neighbour, he has the key. So Jonathon goes and gets the key - by this point Mike and Andrew, also on foot, have come up by us. The medieval church, beside the modern church and graveyard, is right across from the shop and post office.
this is it. It supposedly contains the tomb of Grace O'Malley. Part of it was re-roofed during conservation work by the OPW, but the bit with the wall-paintings has an original roof. The wall-paintings are red and yellow and black, hounds and wolves and deer, a harper and hunters and archers and men making war, on plaster that by some miracle has mostly survived the last five hundred years. They're somewhat fragmentary, of course, but it's astonishing they survived at all, over the walls and ceiling. There's a variant of the O'Malley coat of arms, with ships, a boar, and some other things (I would've taken pictures, but the OPW had a sign asking visitors not to), and the legend Terra Maria Potens, and beside it in the wall of the nave a canopied tomb.
Another view of the exterior. A Clare Island donkey.
Mike and Andrew and I headed back down to the quay, where we met Clare and Dee, who'd found the community centre had pay-as-you-go showers and stopped right there. So we all repaired to the community centre's tiny bar, where the cyclists joined us, and Cormac got out his accordion and Pat his concertina, the sixteen-year-olds found a dart board, and we basically took over the place until it was time to go back to the ship for dinner.
After dinner, back to the island, where the boys headed for the showers and I headed for the beach, because by god I wanted to be clean without having to pay for it. In this shot you can see most of the beach: I swam just out of the picture - well, got in, got wet, scrubbed off, and got out again, anyway. The water was wonderfully clear but goddamn fucking freezing; the wind, which had felt chill to me all day, felt warm when I got out.
After swimming, went by the showers to see if any of the boys were clean, and headed up to the hotel bar with them, where we found the permanent crew save for the captain, and all sat at the bar swaying slightly. There were twenty of us and five locals, and later on Cormac and Pat got out their instruments again and Kevin the amazing cook got out three juggling balls and did some fancy juggling tricks in time with the music.
Got back on the ship around midnight. I'd volunteered for the four am watch again, since we'd be sailing at five and I wanted to be awake before then, and I was tired enough that Ronan had to call me twice to get me up.
That was the fourth day.
