| Rolling in the Isles  MALCOLM
ROGERS visits one of the most far flung fringes of Europe - the beautiful
Aran Islands off the coast of Galway.
For anyone who has ever read JM Synge’s Riders to the Sea, the Aran Islands have an irresistible pull.
Perched at the very edge of the Atlantic they are almost impossibly romantic, criss-crossed with fuchsia-filled hedges, ringed by great cliffs and dotted with ancient prehistoric forts.
Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer — Big Island, Middle Island and Island to the East — are a continuation of the great limestone crags of the Burren, and it shows. Lying at the mouth of Galway Bay, the limestone pavement lies in great, smooth plates punctuated by impossibly shaped shards, with grass and flowers growing only in the fissures and hollows — or grykes are they’re called in these parts.
 The islands are divided
up into countless tiny fields, many no bigger than a back garden, and
all bounded by immaculately built dry-stone walls. The strange thing about
these walls is that you can see daylight through them — no cement or mortar
has been used in their construction, and, intricate and fragile-looking
as lace, the wind can howl through them without bringing them down.
Robert Flaherty’s seminal film Man of Aran (1934), with its three characters Tiger King, Michael Dillane and Maggie Dirrane, made the Aran Islands familiar to the public in the first half of the 20th century, and the islands have remained a popular tourist destination ever since. But although the islanders harvest this asset in the same way as they harvest their other commodities, fish, sheep etc, this area is still relatively unspoilt, with the paddywhackeray factor fairly low.
Local legends still abound, however, and the natives won’t be slow to tell you all about them should you express an interest. In a café in Kilronan I was regaled with the tale of the aftermath of the battle of Moytura. A young man in his 30s, name of Martin, told me that after the battle (which was for the sovereignty of Ireland) the fleeing Firbolgs fetched up on the Arans. Far out of the reach of the De Dannan they settled well into island life, and by the time St Enda reached here in the 5th century they were ready to be converted to Christianity.
It’s truly amazing what you can learn in a café on Aran.
Inishmore
 Inishmore is the largest and
most diverse of the islands, with a population of about 1,000 souls. It
boasts the most magnificent limestone cliffs on the Atlantic fringe of
Europe as well as some of its most extraordinary archaeological monuments.
In the spring and summer the meadows are alive with flowers — campions, speedwell and scarlet pimpernel. In winter the wind howls like some bereft widow, shaking the bog cotton. Then, the rain can sit like a canopy over the islands, so it wouldn’t matter if you were on Inishmore or Morecambe Bay.
But it’s summer today and, eschewing the offer of a pony trip round the Ireland (available at Kilronan, along with minibus tours and bicycle hire), I struck out from the harbour, and headed north-west. Now although it was July, I might add that summer had set in with its usual severity. A fair old breeze blew in from America, and the drizzle filled the air. Nonetheless I passed locals on the way who bade me,
“Tá sé go brea.” It took me a while to realise that this roughly translates as “nice weather”.
Still, as they say, there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes, so I pulled my coat tighter round me, and headed ever northwards. My initial destination was Teampal Chiaráin, an early Celtic church dedicated to St Ciaran. Here, in this magnificent but achingly lonely place, some of the first Christians in Ireland performed their devotions.
Such is the isolation of the setting that you might think this was the ideal venue for very penitent monks. But of course the people who built and worshipped in these places were at the very centre of the Christian world, going on to found Clonmacnois, then Iona, before ultimately re-introducing the Gospel into a Europe only just recovering from the sack of the Vandals and the Dark Ages.
Having grappled with the whole spiritual thing for the best part of 15 minutes (no conclusions, I’m afraid) I continued my way westwards towards Kilmurvy. A quick visit to the exceptionally fine interpretative centre morphed into lunch (great coffee and cake, by the way) and, suitably fortified, I proceeded in a southerly direction to Dún-DúCathair. This was also suitably fortified, as the name translates as the Fort of the Black Fort, oddly enough. This Iron Age promontory fort, situated on one of the vertigo-inducing headlands, is believed to be one of the oldest of these constructions in Europe.
Further up the coast the brooding shape of Dun Aonghasa (aka Aenghus or Aengus) can be seen across An Sunda Caoch, the Blind Sound. The fortress is perched on a crag above the waves, and it’s not difficult to see why in days gone by this edifice was described as “the most magnificent monument extant in Europe”.
Dun Aenghus sits in a position of unparalleled natural beauty; seabirds
wheel overhead and below that great weather machine known as the Atlantic
crashes against the cliffs. Here is one of the last great, unchanging
landscapes left in Europe.
Inisheer
Inisheer, just two miles across, is the smallest of the Aran Islands. Nonetheless it’s still well worth a visit — take your stout walking shoes and sample its windswept sand dunes, discover O’Brien’s Castle, or visit the small community of house and pubs.
There are a limited number of B&Bs, and you’re unlikely to have difficulty finding a free room. A handful of restaurants offer the very best of seafood, as you might imagine. I can personally recommend Radharc na Mara, not far from the pier.
Hotel Inisheer also provides meals as well as traditional music during
the summer months.
Inishmaan
Inishmaan or Inis Meáin) is Inishmore’s greener, smaller little sister. Everything here, even the stone walls, are more colourful as the island is more sheltered.
Moss, lichens and ferns grow atop the walls, and the hedges and verges are alive with wild flowers. In the spring and summer the legions of seabirds are joined by small perching birds such as wheatears, buntings and linnets.
Inishmaan was the afore-mentioned JM Synge’s old stomping ground — he spent four summers here from 1898, immersing himself in the culture of the island before beginning work on his literary works set hereabouts.
Inishmore is noticeably less touristised than Inishmore, and the craic probably struggles to reach 50 or 60, as opposed to the 90 you might find in the pubs of Inishmore. The main industries here are still farming and fishing — and you might still see local men putting to sea in the traditional craft, the currach. These fragile-looking craft made from canvas stretched on a wooden frame and then covered with tar, are in fact far more stable than they appear.
Accidents, of course, have happened, and that has given rise to the ancient tradition of Aran sweaters. The islands are famous for their knitwear tradition, those white ribbed jerseys the size of duvets, and given their first world-wide exposure by the Clancys.
The reason for their intricate design has a melancholy purpose, however. It’s said that the tradition arose from fishermen’s pullovers. If a fisherman drowned at sea he would almost certainly be washed up on the shore, but usually many miles from his home village. The distinctive design on his pullover would give those who found his body a clear indication of where he came from.
If you’re seriously into knitwear Cniotáil Inis Meáin, the knitwear factory, produces everything woolly you could possibly want, as well as providing a potted history of the everyday lives of the islanders.
Inishmaan has its own fair share of ancient Christian and pre-Christian remains. Dún Chonchuir is an oval, pre-Christian fort on the western coast, not far from the village of Moher, while an ancient Christian oratory Teampall Ceannannach can be seen to the south.
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