Achill

On Saturday we woke up to sun and warmth, so we headed northwest. It takes a few hours to get to Achill, the largest “Island of this Island.” While a few tourists make it to Achill, it’s way off the beaten path and mostly a hidden gem. We crossed the narrow bridge over Achill Sound and made our way down the shore. The south west coastline boasts a blue ribbon beach and some of the heaviest surf in Ireland. The result of this combination is surfers. Lots of Irish Surfers . Yes, there is such an animal. Although the water is Lake Superior cold, it is essentially shark-free and rollers of ten to twenty feet are typical since the wind is unobstructed between Nova Scotia and the beach. We thought of Steve Saupe and whether or not he’d have the fortitude to tackle these icy azure tubes.

Further along the coast are magnificent cliffs and their inhabitants. Gulls, Gannets, Puffins, Razorbills and the like reside in crags and crevices, and soar lazily above the breakers below .

The isle is only about seven miles long and four across, but has several small villages. Sheep abound and can be seen wandering the streets with their lambs - no doubt stopping in to visit the various shops.

During our walk in the hills we met Tom Fadden and his two border collies, who were bringing in the sheep for market sorting. Tom’s eyes are sapphire blue and full of fire. The man’s face shows all the character and wear of his seven decades facing the salty Atlantic wind. Tom is a Seanachaí; a story teller in the old tradition. Everything – even his directions to the local pub – turns into an intricate yarn. His sentences were punctuated by sudden whistle commands to his associates – unintelligible to humans, but crystal clear to the dogs. Two collies and a whistling old islander moving two hundred sheep as if they’d been choreographed. Bah Ram Ewe. Amazing. As he talked about his technique for training dogs, he told us that he employed the same on his five children. “You see, with both dogs and children ye must never, ever, strike them. But they shouldn’t know that you won’t!”

One of the most moving parts of the day was the hike along the southern shoulder of Slievemore – the big mountain. Tucked away in the saddle between two peaks lie the ruins of a town. The dry-stone walls and gables of about two dozen old cottages, as well as their outbuildings, line the lone road along the hill’s contour. We spent hours there, compelled to visit each house, look at their hearths, and imagine the generations of life stories that each home held. By the late 1840’s, famine and evictions had shattered the community, and the remaining families dispersed, leaving nothing but empty shells as reminders of a once thriving village.