Aran Islands

I woke up at 4:30 am Friday morning. I was catching the earliest bus to Galway with a group of friends. From Galway, we were going to Rosaveal where we would catch a Ferry to the Aran Islands. The farthest western point of Ireland, the Aran Islands is one of the last places where the people primarily speak Irish Gaelic, and was the setting for one of the books we have been reading for class.

It was a long journey (about 5 hours total) but it was worth every minute. As our ferry landed and we walked down the pier, we were instantly greeted by islanders wanting to offer us bike, buses, and horse carriage rides. We intended to bike upon our professor's recommendation, and we were soon accommodated. Little did we count on the five mile ride over hills and down winding roads! The buses and horses we declined seemed to be whizzing by as we rode.

Aside from moments of near-death (probably not really), the ride was gorgeous. Riding along the coast, we winded along the bays and rocky seashores, pummeled by the Atlantic Ocean. Small white houses, almost consolidated into a village peered from around hillsides while grazing cows and numerous goats placidly watched us go by. It was desolate in a way, but sublimely lovely.

We stayed the night at the B and B of a warm Irish lady who welcomed us with tea and scones; the name was Kilkenny House, I believe. The main attraction of our trip, though, was yet to come.

Dun Aengus is an ancient military fort dating back to the Stone Age. Jutting rocks pose a fearsome threat to potential invaders as does the increasingly death defying drop off a cliff to either side of the fort. 500 feet in the air, I crawled to edge to peer down at the foaming waves below. I was a speck on the rocky face of the cliff. 

Entering the fort itself, the space was perhaps the size of a football field, filled with rocks smoothed by time and covered with grass. There was something like a stage which was perhaps used in ancient rituals; that day, I climbed up and lay beside the edge of cliff. It was otherworldly.

The sun was just beginning to set, casting dancing light over the serene Atlantic. Clouds in the sky heaved and subsided, dissipating into endless blue. I just lay by the cliff's edge for a while, soaking in this ancient and devastating beauty. 

As the sun threatened to set on us, we set out for our abode that night. A couple of us stopped by one of the beaches to splash in the frigid and very clearly northern ocean. The sand was soft, and there were several jellyfish dotting the sand. I touched one and picked it up. It really felt like jelly!

The next morning we biked over the deserted roads to return the bikes and stop in the tourist shops before the ferry came back to take us away. There was another long travel ahead, and we would stop again in Galway in the midst of an arts festival, but the haunting images of Aran would not leave us so quickly.