The approach to the quayside on Clare Island was sheltered, so we had a clear view of the O'Malleys' castle keep and other buildings clustered around the harbour bay. It seems that every nook and cranny of this part of Ireland has some association with Grace O’Malley (“Gráinne Ni Mháille”), who was born in the mid-1500’s on Clare Island where her father was clan chief. When he died she inherited his ship, using it for legal trade before turning to piracy and eventually leading a crew of 200 in robberies of ships all around the west coast of Ireland. She was known as the Queen of the Pirates and was twice captured and imprisoned by the British. Then in 1593 she had a personal interview with Queen Elizabeth, securing the release of her son and her brother from prison, and receiving a pardon in exchange for a promise to help guard against Spanish armada ships off the coast of Ireland.
We were staying at the Sea Breeze B&B, and Mary Moran's husband arrived to take our bags. Martin and I walked along to the community centre where we were due to do the fashion show, and meet Mary's sister-in-law, Beth Moran, who runs
Ballytoughy Loom, spinning, dyeing and weaving. Beth and Martin had arranged the show.
The centre consists of a large hall divided by some fence panels, with a takeaway and eating-area in one part, and a table-tennis table in the main part. A mezzanine floor accommodated the island's development office. At the opposite end, next to the takeaway, was the licensed bar. By the time we arrived both the bar and the takeaway were busy. I thought we would be able to create a space for the show by moving some of the panels and bringing-in some seating. However, on Beth's recommendation, the show took place in the bar, eventually. There was little opportunity to "dress the set", and it meant pitching in competition with a few drinkers who were moving into the endgame of their session, but Martin and Gille were quite capable of holding their own, and most people enjoyed and appreciated it. I played some background guitar.
This is a photo of Ciara Cullen (who we were to visit the following day) modelling items made by Gille from wool from the island of Sarremarr off the coast of Estonia. Later, I played some songs on the borrowed guitar before giving it up to its owner and retiring for a night's sound sleep at the end of a stimulating day.
The next morning was bright and breezy. The others went to the school to talk about spinning and using wool for fabric, which left me free to set-off and find out more about the island's cultural landscape before meeting the others for a picnic lunch at Ballytoughy Loom. Not far along the road I saw a sign pointing the way to an artist's studio. I turned in that direction, walked past an old collie asleep in the middle of the road, before attracting the attention of a very friendly Shetland sheepdog. As I walked along in its company, I was musing to myself about what an idyllic life this must be for dogs, having the run of the island and being able to snooze in the middle of the road. However, I was soon to discover the dark side. Our presence interrupted an evil-looking dog, who seemed intent on copulating with a small Jack Russell on heat. Another collie was intent on the same thing. However, it was clear who was dominant male in this pack, whether the Jack Russell bitch liked it or not, and the evil one attacked the Sheltie, pinning it down by the neck, with handfuls of sable-coloured fur blowing around in the wind. I decided that on my own I would not intervene, and so made a strategic withdrawal. However, the Jack Russell seemed to regard me as some sort of protection, so there I was, walking along the road with four highly-excited dogs, passing the fifth, now awake and aware, each manoeuvering, posturing, growling, howling and occasionally snapping at each other. A mile or so further along, I left the road to investigate an abandoned potato field. I sat down and was again circled by the dogs. I moved on. Eventually, I sheltered out of their view. The Jack Russell then saw an unfortunate person who was walking back towards the harbour, so latched on to her for protection, and eventually the landscape fell quiet once more. Rather than draw, I wrote down a few lines which I later fashioned into a short poem about this abandoned potato field.
POTATO FIELD
This patch turned and tilled
between stones piled into walls,
keeping at bay
the licks of the fresh Atlantic
and the breath of its salt-laden gales.
Now only stone-chats, skylarks and surf
animate the landscape,
belying the blight;
the hidden infection in the seed potato,
and the swelling, the ripening and then its rotting.
One family left helpless, would never expect
to be hammered by the hand of famine,
heading for extinction;
the two centuries of revision,
and the visitor, well-fed, well-clothed and imagining its fate.
A seam of gold was discovered in the mountain in the 1980s, which could produce 700,000 tonnes of ore. Mayo County Council elected not to allow mining, deciding that the gold was "fine where it was".
Beth was busy finishing a weaving for an exhibition, but she found time to bottle-feed a lamb that left her mother and came running up in eager anticipation. We did a further photoshoot, of which the following is a result.
We then walked back to the harbour and its beach. By now the sun was lower in the sky but still still shining, creating strong highlights and shadows. It was a good time to take more photo's.
As you can see, we spent some time there...
Martin and I went to the hotel bar that evening. Being Monday, it was quiet. Looking from the window out to the car park, it was noticeable how battered and old all the cars were. I thought my fleet of vehicles would be at home here. They don't pay road tax, don't have insurance or MOTs, and use red diesel (although in Ireland I think it's coloured green like the postboxes).
Feeling refreshed after a quiet night and a sound sleep, the next morning early I went sketching in the harbour. After breakfast I resolved to walk to the far end of the island and back again, whilst Martin wove some horse-tails and the others went to see some sheep being rounded-up by a shepherd and sheepdog. Along the route I found some really tasty (but hot!) watercress to eat. As the sun heated up I wished I'd brought a bottle of water and something to shade my face. Once the road finished, I took off my boots and socks and went barefoot for another mile or so to the Napoleonic tower. This was a watch tower looking due west into the Atlantic. From here you could look south to the other islands of Inish Turk and Inish Bofin. I thought it would make a good location for a site-specific artwork, and link somehow to the other islands. It seemed to be in a realm of its own. However, there was little time to spare so I started heading back. A tractor and trailer was just leaving the first (or last) farm doing the dustbin rounds. It's driver offered me a lift, which I refused. It was the shepherd who had been demonstrating to the others earlier. After another half-hour in the hot sun on a straight road, I regretted not accepting the lift. It would have been an unusual experience, riding shotgun on the island's dustcart. Slightly sunburnt, I made it back to the B&B just in time to leave for the ferry. The journey back to the mainland was very different to our inbound one. We sat astride the forepeak, legs occasionally catching the bow-wave, surrounded by deep blue sea sparking in the sun. I just had to sing.
