Bits and Bobs of Sherkin Island

I’m picking up a few English phrases from our hosts, Joe and Fiona Aston, British ex-pats who have been living in Ireland the past forty years or so.  So here we go: bits and bobs.  

Today marks Kathy and my nineth day on the island, but the beginning is a nice place to start, isn't it?  We arrived by ferry—or rather dinghy—after taking a bus from Cork to Baltimore. 

The ferry ride across the bay lasted all of fifteen minutes (maybe) and landed us at the base of the friary ruins.  You can imagine our excitement as we stepped off the ferry to see this: 

 

Those would be cows, grazing amongst the old friary.  Pastoral?  Yes.  It is a scene that would have inspired our friends William Wordsworth, Samuel Coleridge and John Keats.  The directions to the cottage from the ferry station were simple enough: up the hill, left at the crossroads and down the lane:  Horseshoe Cottage is on the right.  We found the cottage with no trouble at all; we also found our first welcoming committee.  

Those would be puppies, bumbling around their pen.  There are six of them and they are beyond dear.  They were there to greet us because our human hosts were not.  Be that as it may, we did the only logical thing, being in Ireland and all: we trudged down the lane (backpacks, bags and all), took a right at the crossroads and went to the pub to have a pint.  And wait. 

And that was a lovely idea because here’s the thing about being on an island: everyone knows everyone else.  Besides that, we were in good company with the bartender and a couple of locals.  One of which, ironically enough (or maybe not, given that this is quite a small island), was Joe and Fiona’s neighbor, Norman.  So: two pints of Murphy’s and forty-five minutes later (I know what you’re thinking—and to clarify: that’s one for each of us) and a relayed phone message from Norman to the bartender to us that Fiona was home, we gathered our things and took a left at the crossroads to return to the cottage.  We were welcomed with open arms, and paws, by Fiona and Tessa, the mother of those adorable puppies. 

After feeding the puppies their dinner, Fiona insisted we go on a walk with Tessa to enjoy the sunset.  Out the back gate we went, chasing after Tessa—and the setting sun—through the grassy lanes that run over the hillsides.  We clamored over a stone wall and through the brambles to the top of hill.  And saw this:

 

Welcome to Sherkin Island, right?  We are so grateful to be here. 

Monday evening turned into an unexpected girls’ night because Joe and Steve—a mid-50’s American WWOOFer out of Philadelphia—were staying with the boat overnight in Baltimore having missed the tide.  More on that boat in a bit.  We settled in to our room, a cozy space with white bed spreads, cream and light blue walls and antique wooden furniture, before sitting down to dinner together. 

Let’s quit this denying the truth business: I am a foodie.  So when I say that the meal was phenomenal, it really was.  Roasted lam shoulder with potatoes and braised kale with grated ginger.  The kale went from the garden to our stomachs in less than fifteen minutes.  And the taste of it alone is enough to convince me to start a vegetable garden one of these days.  One of these days very soon. 

It was while sitting around the fire drinking tea with Fiona, and after Tessa had crawled up in my lap, that Horseshoe Cottage suddenly felt like a wonderful place to call home for the next couple of weeks.

Since Monday, lots of exciting experiences have been had.  Exploring the island while taking the dog on long walks.  Feeding puppies.  Weeding.  Painting.  Baking.    Sanding and varnishing the Anna M.  Who’s that?  See for yourself:

 

She’s Joe’s two-masted sailboat and she’s becoming more beautiful by the day as she’s painted and prepped for the up-coming sailing season.  Boarding her is a real adventure.  It begins by climbing over—not so elegantly on my behalf—a gate and avoiding the bull that grazes nearby.  

Then it’s down the grassy lane, through the muck and mud, to where the grass stops and the jaggedy rocks by the bay begin. 

Or maybe I should say cliffs.  

 

That might be more accurate.  After carefully climbing down the barnacle-and-kelp-covered cliffs, it’s onto the dinghy boat rowed by Joe that finally takes you aboard the ship. 

I enjoyed sanding and varnishing; the rhythmic nature of the sandpaper’s swish-swish and the back-and-forth brush strokes are somewhat soothing.  The rocking and creaking of the boat is nice, too.  And the views of the land surrounding the cove and the waters within it from the perspective of the boat deck is all at once beautiful and surreal; I never would have guessed a year ago that I would find myself here.  But here I am; here we are, rather, and it’s a wonderful thing. 

And then there was the Odyssey.  That is, the Odyssey of getting to the pub on Thursday night.  You’ll see why it was an Odyssey soon enough.  The cast of characters must be introduced first. 

Steve met Nigel, an islander, through Joe.  Joe and Nigel have known eachother for years and years.  Their friendship began in England through their mutual involvement in sailing.  Nigel, who has lived on Sherkin now for twenty years, told Joe in 2005 that Horseshoe Cottage was for sale.  We obviously know how that story ends. 

So, Steve met Nigel through Joe.  Nigel is a part of a musical group that plays at a pub in Turk’s Head every Thursday night.  Where is Turk’s Head?  Not on Sherkin Island.  The ferry to the mainland stops running at 5:30.  We met Nigel outside the cottage at 9:00. 

And this is where the Odyssey begins. 

Nigel picked Steve, Kathy and me up in Car #1.  Just wait.  First you need this visual.  Kathy and I climbed into the back seat while Steve joined Nigel in the front.  Off we went, tearing down the one lane road.  Did I mention there are no lights on Sherkin Island? 

There are no lights on Sherkin Island. 

Nigel was driving with one hand on the wheel while furiously squeegee-ing the inside windshield with the other.  At this point I should mention that Nigel bears an uncanny resemblance to the main character from Back to the Future.  You know, the mad scientist?  So maybe we shouldn’t have been surprised when he casually said, as we were bumping and jostling our way down the lane, “This car has no brakes.”  Regardless, Kathy and I immediately turned towards one another and quietly shared a moment of panic. 

Fortunately, the emergency brake functions properly and we arrived at the boat dock with just a few years shaved off our lives. 

Commence stage two of the Odyssey.  We climbed into a motorized dinghy and took off across the black ocean waters.  Did I mention we were wearing life jackets?

Life jackets save lives: we were wearing life jackets. 

The boat ride was incredible.  I have never seen such brilliant stars.  Here they more than twinkle.  They dazzle.  And perhaps what is even more incredible is how they seem to completely close in around so as to not only blanket their observers but surround on all sides.  And if the salty wind whipping about and the stars weren’t spectacular in and of themselves, there was the phosphorescing plankton.  Bioluminescence!, if you will pardon the nerdy term.  I knew that Biology major would come in handy one day.  Those bright green sparks flying amidst the wake of the boat looked like something out of a science-fiction film, maybe Back to the Future?  It was incredible.  

After the boat was secured—and Nigel reminded us that it was imperative we leave the pub at midnight before the tide completely went out—it was into Car #2, which, conveniently enough, had working brakes. 

It is becoming more and more difficult to find pubs where traditional Irish music is played.  One of the more special elements of this trip is building relationships with the locals who know where to find pockets of such music.  Which was phenomenal, by the way.  A couple of accordions, a couple of fiddles, a flute, a recorder, a deer-skin drum.  Towards the end of the evening, the playing stopped and the singing began.  Kathy actually receives credit for the transition; one of the fiddle players encouraged her to sing—and she did.  Then the older gentlemen in the pub started singing songs about traveling away from home.  About leaving lovers.  About returning home.  It was moving in the way that sends chills up your spine.  The tradition seems to be that everyone joins in for the chorus—and I just love that.  An expression of the collective Irish identity, to be remembered and celebrated, through song.

I was reluctant to leave such a transcendent place.  A place made magical by the night, the people, but also by the fact that it could not last forever.  And so we begrudgingly loaded ourselves into Car #2 and drove to the boat dock to motor back across the bay.  I should mention that there was a brief window of time where we thought we might be stranded in Turk’s Head for the night—the water level had dropped that significantly.  Easily ten feet over the course of three and a half hours.  But we should have placed more faith in Nigel’s nautical experience; he got the boat to us without running it aground and we made it safely back to the Island.  The night concluded with a return trip home via the rusty-foggy-no-brakes-here! Peugot.  And as we were opening our car doors and saying good night, Nigel said to us, “You will never forget this night.”  No, we won’t.