Sceilig Michael / Skellig Michael is not where I need to go

“If you’re searching for the earliest signs of Christianity in Ireland, you must visit Sceilig Michael,” Declan says, over the phone. “Be at Portmagee by 8 in the morning on April 11th and I’ll get you in with a group from Colorado.” 

I hang up, galvanized. If I accept, my projected departure from Canada moves up by three weeks, starts on the Iveragh Peninsula instead of the Burren, County Clare, will cost a lot more money, and I’ll have to wind up an unrelated writing assignment immediately. 

Skellig Michael is the larger of two pyramid-like islands of jagged rock rearing up 200 metres in the Atlantic Ocean, twelve kilometres off the coastline of County Kerry. “Skellig” is the standard English spelling of the Irish “Sceilig”, meaning “a splinter of stone” Somewhat resembling hands in prayer, the islands are known as “deserts in the ocean”, the smaller island uninhabited except by gannets. Said to have been founded in the sixth century by Saint Fionán, a saint from south Kerry, 618 rough, narrow, slippery steps teeter up the larger island along one of its three possible routes, where the remains of a small church, an oratory, a few beehive monastic cells and a scattering of graves remain. The island has been extensively excavated, controversially reconstructed, and whenever the seas permit, regularly visited by tourists.

The islands act as a looming background presence to my Young Adult novel, but are not the main setting. While it’s possible itinerant monks stopped at Skellig Michael on their journey along the West coast, the islands possess no natural harbour, nor much habitable ground. But both of these necessary features for settlement occur on the Burren in County Clare, a huge expanse of broken limestone karst approximately 140 kilometres away by sea, and where my novel begins.

But how can I refuse an offer from a man whose mountaineering background has put him in contact with archeologists eager to belay up Skellig Michael’s steep north face? Skellig Michael is one of Ireland’s two UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and Declan’s inside knowledge could be invaluable. Arriving in April before the season officially opens will allow him to show me things few people have seen.

I am in the throes of writing a Young Adult historical fantasy, set in fourth century pre-Patrick Ireland, merging myth, folklore and history. My goal, in addition to recreating the “feel” of the late fourth century, is to track down as many of these remote, early Christian sites as I can reasonably reach. Few of them are on tourist routes. 

Declan runs a company specializing in bespoke tours. In one of our first Skype conversations, I named Caherlehillan in County Kerry as a site I wanted to visit. Declan drew in his breath, and said, “Why do you want to go there? Very few people even know of its existence,” followed up with an extensive interrogation of my project, my background, my fitness level, and ending that he could give me four days, after which he had to lead a mountaineering expedition in France.

I plunge on, wind up my unrelated project, readjust my itinerary to start from Shannon Airport instead of Dublin, copy the bus timetable to Portmagee — getting there will take three bus transfers and the better part of a day and— and pack. Space is at a premium because I must bring gear not only for hiking but also for biking and kayaking. At the last moment I throw in my Canadian winter merino wool base layers. Typical Irish weather for April runs around 10 degrees Celsius but I have a cautious nature.   

Declan phones while I’m searching for the baggage carousel at Heathrow. I’ve been travelling for twelve hours and am groggy with fatigue.

“My schedule’s changed,” he says. “I can’t get to Portmagee. Can you arrive later?” 

“No.”  I can barely hear his words over the thumping and banging of suitcases.

“I’ll have to send someone else.”

“Fine. I’ll be in Portmagee on the evening of the 10th.” 

“No, wait. Stay in Killarney.”

“Declan, I can’t. I’ve made reservations for Portmagee.”

“The thing you need to understand about Ireland is the need to stay flexible.”

“The thing you need to understand is my connecting flight to Shannon leaves in an hour.”

“You’ve left Canada already?”

“I’m in Ireland already.” I sigh. Are our communications really going to be like this? Perhaps, after all, I should rent a car and hike into the hills on my own. But I have a lousy sense of direction, my vision isn’t great, and I don’t know the roads — which are often narrow, without shoulders, with traffic driving on the left, not the right. I don’t want to become a casualty. That was part of the reason for hiring Declan in the first place.

I arrive at Shannon airport, roll my suitcase across the tarmac to the hotel two minutes away, check in and seconds later find myself scrutinizing two large grey and white crow-like birds in the tree outside my ground floor window. Irish scald crows, also known as hooded crows or badhbh. They don’t sing, but then no bird of prey does. Their call is a harsh kraaa. 

Birds feature prominently in my novel, and Irish folklore considers scald crows as robbers and carrion eaters, harbingers of war and sentinels of the battlefield. I take this as an auspicious start to my trip. Then a bright yellow chaffinch sings from the bushes and a rabbit hops across the grass. Shannon is definitely not a typical North American inner city airport!

The next day I catch a bus to Killarney where Declan’s substitute, Ryan, is to meet me at the bus station. Declan describes Ryan as having incredible GPS and climbing skills, but very little archeological or historical knowledge. But because Declan is unavailable, Ryan comes at a discounted price.

The bus makes its way through one small town after another. Grey clouds scud across a grey sky; low, grey stone walls surround grey houses brightened by flowering red quince. Washing flaps in the wind. Fields of heather, gorse and brown rushes flash by in stumpy tussocks. It’s too early in the year for the trees to have leafed out yet, and everything seems to be economically depressed.

An older couple in front of me nod politely while talking non-stop in Gaelic. Their slightly guttural, soft-at-the-edges, lilting speech tells me I am in Gaeltacht country. It’s odd not being able to understand a word they say. 

Many of the businesses are boarded-up and few people are about, but barber shops and beauty shops are open, even an occasional Indian curry house and Chinese Pagoda Red Dragon restaurant. Scattered fields surround scattered farmhouses, some of them abandoned. In fact, many buildings seem unfinished. I take in grey cinderblock outbuildings, lime-washed sheds more mud than lime, reedy fields with the occasional sheep, and here and there a house sporting a thatched roof, waterlogged and sagging. Every time I see a cow, calmness seems to emanate from it. 

There’s a monotonous procession of brambles, bracken and broken tractors, and, in one plowed field, two thorn trees with furrows on each side, just as I have read farmers do, so as not to disturb the “little people”. Much row housing, with rooms to let. Painted front doors, metal mail slots. Grey stone walls covered in green moss, Gray woolly lichen. No gardens. The neatest, tidiest place is a funeral home. Where are the lush, green fields of the Emerald Isle? I know Ireland was hard-hit by the recession of 2008, but poverty like this seems entrenched. 

As we approach Killarney, the villages become more spruced-up — and then a range of purple-brown mountains comes into view. MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, home of Carrantuohill, Ireland’s highest mountain. They’re majestic. A painting of the Reeks sits at the top of my staircase at home. I have been pursuing this land for a long time.