A new stock of porter was brought in this morning to the little public house underneath my room and I could hear in the intervals of our talk that a number of men had come in to treat some neighbours from the middle island, and singing many songs, some of them in English of the kind I have given, but most of them in Irish. A little later when the party broke downstairs, my old men got nervous about the fairies – they live some distance away – and set off across the sand hills – JM Synge, The Aran Islands (1906).
Rust-stained storm beach
ship irons blister
Words and Image: Aodhán Rilke.
I have been here in the winter
Suddenly they shut the pub
For three days
Words: overheard on An Trá. Image: JesseJames.
Two of them were left out all winter,
but the other two seem to be sound.
Words: Overheard on An Trá. Image: Detail from Inisheer Zibaldone.
aristocracies long gone
but for the stones
Detail from Zibaldone page with contemporary Haiku by Anton Kinsella, County Cork. Anton’s Haiku will be weaving their way into the pages of the Inisheer Zibaldone.
A man on An Trá Inis Oírr, who with his wife had been a regular visitor to the island stretching back over 50 years, said “my wife remembers that for 3 seconds in 1963, the whole island turned purple.”
Image: Detail from Zibaldone page.
I described how the dolphins had danced on an evening of silken calm, leaping clear of the water in graceful arcs that crossed in pairs; as I had sat in a little field above the bay to watch, their plunges had been the only sound in the world. He listened to me expressionlessly, then turned his eyes to the dingy window and the dingy sky beyond. “That’s right” he said, and on Sunday morning they were all kneeling on the beach!”
Words: Tim Robinson, Stones of Aran: Pilgrimage. Image: detail from Inisheer Zibaldone by JesseJames.