Soon after I received this letter I wrote to Michael to say that I
was going back to them. This time I chose a day when the steamer
went direct to the middle island, and as we came up between the two
lines of curaghs that were waiting outside the slip, I saw Michael,
dressed once more in his island clothes, rowing in one of them.
He made no sign of recognition, but as soon as they could get
alongside he clambered on board and came straight up on the bridge
to where I was.
'Bhfuil tu go maith?' ('Are you well?') he said. 'Where is your
bag?'
His curagh had got a bad place near the bow of the steamer, so I was
slung down from a considerable height on top of some sacks of flour
and my own bag, while the curagh swayed and battered itself against
the side.
When we were clear I asked Michael if he had got my letter.
'Ah no,' he said, 'not a sight of it, but maybe it will come next
week.'
Part of the slip had been washed away during the winter, so we had
to land to the left of it, among the rocks, taking our turn with the
other curaghs that were coming in.
As soon as I was on shore the men crowded round me to bid me
welcome, asking me as they shook hands if I had travelled far in the
winter, and seen many wonders, ending, as usual, with the inquiry if
there was much war at present in the world.
It gave me a thrill of delight to hear their Gaelic blessings, and
to see the steamer moving away, leaving me quite alone among them.
The day was fine with a clear sky, and the sea was glittering beyond
the limestone. Further off a light haze on the cliffs of the larger
island, and on the Connaught hills, gave me the illusion that it was
still summer.
A little boy was sent off to tell the old woman that I was coming,
and we followed slowly, talking and carrying the baggage.
When I had exhausted my news they told me theirs. A power of
strangers - four or five - a French priest among them, had been on the
island in the summer; the potatoes were bad, but the rye had begun
well, till a dry week came and then it had turned into oats.
'If you didn't know us so well,' said the man who was talking,
'you'd think it was a lie we were telling, but the sorrow a lie is
in it. It grew straight and well till it was high as your knee, then
it turned into oats. Did ever you see the like of that in County
Wicklow?'
In the cottage everything was as usual, but Michael's presence has
brought back the old woman's humour and contentment. As I sat down
on my stool and lit my pipe with the corner of a sod, I could have
cried out with the feeling of festivity that this return procured
me.
This year Michael is busy in the daytime, but at present there is a
harvest moon, and we spend most of the evening wandering about the
island, looking out over the bay where the shadows of the clouds
throw strange patterns of gold and black. As we were returning
through the village this evening a tumult of revelry broke out from
one of the smaller cottages, and Michael said it was the young boys
and girls who have sport at this time of the year. I would have
liked to join them, but feared to embarrass their amusement. When we
passed on again the groups of scattered cottages on each side of the
way reminded me of places I have sometimes passed when travelling at
night in France or Bavaria, places that seemed so enshrined in the
blue silence of night one could not believe they would reawaken.
Afterwards we went up on the Dun, where Michael said he had never
been before after nightfall, though he lives within a stone's-throw.
The place gains unexpected grandeur in this light, standing out like
a corona of prehistoric stone upon the summit of the island. We
walked round the top of the wall for some time looking down on the
faint yellow roofs, with the rocks glittering beyond them, and the
silence of the bay. Though Michael is sensible of the beauty of the
nature round him, he never speaks of it directly, and many of our
evening walks are occupied with long Gaelic discourses about the
movements of the stars and moon.
These people make no distinction between the natural and the
supernatural.
This afternoon - it was Sunday, when there is usually some
interesting talk among the islanders - it rained, so I went into the
schoolmaster's kitchen, which is a good deal frequented by the more
advanced among the people. I know so little of their ways of fishing
and farming that I do not find it easy to keep up our talk without
reaching matters where they cannot follow me, and since the novelty
of my photographs has passed off I have some difficulty in giving
them the entertainment they seem to expect from my company. To-day I
showed them some simple gymnastic feats and conjurer's tricks, which
gave them great amusement.
'Tell us now,' said an old woman when I had finished, 'didn't you
learn those things from the witches that do be out in the country?'
In one of the tricks I seemed to join a piece of string which was
cut by the people, and the illusion was so complete that I saw one
man going off with it into a corner and pulling at the apparent
joining till he sank red furrows round his hands.
