It seems, gentle reader, that this post should have appeared last month – but somehow missed the boat (geddit?) So here’s a swashbuckling finale to our retrospective trips aound Ireland.
Having overnighted outside the architectural peculiarity of Clifden’s very own out-of-town Boat Club, we set off for Cleggan, some 7 miles distant, where we planned to rendezvous with the 11:30 ferry to Inishbofin, one of an archipelago of small islands lying tantalisingly close to the mainland of Connemara in County Galway.
In a low-key Celtic sort of way, Inishbofin attracts a fair number of tourists, either visiting this tiny emerald isle for the day or maybe staying longer at one of the island’s guest houses, hotels or hostel. It’s about as unspoilt as a working island of about 180 permanent inhabitants could be – with us tourists contributing to the local economy while enjoying walks along high-hedged virtually traffic-free lanes, bird- and scenic beauty-spotting as we merrily roll along.
Part of the island’s attraction is also a smattering of Caribbeanesque white sand beaches, backed by ubiquitous low-lying whitewashed cottages, many sporting brightly-coloured front doors and window frames. And for us, a sort of pilgrimage to visit old haunts of one of the CNO’s many cousins, Mary Lavelle (née Walsh) who was the Midwife to Inishbofin for almost a full career, and who is fondly remembered by almost any inhabitant to whom you care to drop the name.
We wander the island enjoying the rustic quirkiness; the ragged-arsed sheep in fields; the occasional pony or donkey (similarly coiffured); the extensive graveyard and take the time to observe all of this because the sun is shining – an uncharacteristic feature in these parts, as we’re constantly reminded. And shine it continued to do, on a cloudless azure-skied day – making a mockery of the wholly misleading title photograph, which is indeed the Inishbofin ferry forging its way through a winter storm and featured – unashamedly – in order to grab your attention because our own thankfully flat-calm 40-minute crossing was hardly worth the pixels, for which I hope you’ll forgive my indulgence?
A late crab-claw lunch was enjoyed en plein aire (served by a chatty waitress from Bristol – “I just love working islands” she explained – “do one every summer”) before we blag a ride back to the returning five pm ferry in the Doonmore Hotel’s shuttle bus – crammed amidst a tonne of power tools and associated well-plastered building contractors.
Reflecting on our arrival as we queued on the dock at Cleggan to board for our outward passage, it became apparent that this island’s life represented a telling microcosm of our own sceptred isles. Everything required to fulfil human existence and maintain a passable lifestyle had to be loaded aboard either the passenger ferry itself or a similar cargo boat, moored alongside to receive craned roll-cages rammed with every consumable imaginable – including many well-travelled kegs of beer (surprisingly labelled ‘Heineken’ as opposed to ‘Guinness’) all of which was disgorged from various diesel-belching trucks lining the quay and more often than not was slung onboard or carried manfully down slippery dockside steps to waiting rolling decks. Pizzas, bleach, flour, baler twine, potato wedges, toilet rolls, Jaffa cakes, huge vac-pacs of bloodied raw meat, dishwasher tabs, pallets of Coca-cola – human needs all represented- and this was just part of a daily routine of island life, come winter storms or springtime calm.
