Inishbofin

We went to Inishbofin, having promised for years to do so.  The golden moon hanging over the lakes on the way to Clifden was a magical extra, for one who had rarely seen Connemara except in cloud and mist.

We got the morning ferry from Cleggan and unfolded ourselves out into the coastal Atlantic.  On board already we were befriended by an islander who was returning home with a pair of butterspades in his pocket, for Marie Coyne’s island museum.  Our new friend pointed out Cromwell’s Fort as we turned for the pier.  How was it that, long ago this unwelcome visitor had made the journey here?  We were to hear competing stories of his doings at the fort, all of them nefarious.

Pat Coyne met us in his Dolphin Hotel minibus; and we took to the small roads, ears flapping.  It soon began to register that Pat’s island information needed a large pinch of salt, especially the bit about the local language being Bofinese!. But we made ourselves at home very quickly in the midst of Coyne hospitality, assisted by the most beautiful autumn weather in years.  Marie’s photographic exhibition at the hotel, of the storm onslaught last Spring, brought home another aspect of island life.

When we couldn’t walk anymore we were taken on breath-taking visits to remote island parts, east and west.  There is something primal in us that is tranquillised by nature at its most rugged, and lulled into peace.  Inevitably we short-circuited this healing process by talk of old archeology and more recent tragedies at sea.  But the seals on the craggy north-western Stags seemed to understand.  When our voices fell silent, they took up the ‘conversation’ and seemed to be telling us that Bofin had seen it all before.

Photo:  Marie Coyne,  facebook.com/InishbofinHeritageMuseum