That
evening, I drove to Ros a’ Mhil, the port from which ferries leave for the Aran
Islands. I was feeling surprisingly nervous at the prospect of being marooned on an island without my little house-on-wheels which the car had by now become – but of course there was nothing to be nervous about. The rolling waves didn’t elicit a
flicker of seasickness (impressive for someone who generally gets seasick just
by looking at a boat), and when I called my host from the port to let her know
she was running late, she was warm and kind. She told me to go
off and get myself some dinner and when I was ready to let her know and she’d come
and pick me up (thank heavens, it was a 6 kilometre walk to her place from the port
and I was tired).
I
wandered around the quiet port town of Kilronan, but as “the [tourist] season”
hadn’t quite begun, not much was open, and there was almost no one around. However luck
was with me and I happened on a delightful pub, filled with locals sitting at the bar
loudly debating the issues of the day with one another, but nodding greetings to let you know
you were seen and welcome. I found a little table in a corner by a window, and
enjoyed the warmth of the coal fire while I ate a delicious vegetarian lasagne.
After
dinner my host, Treasa (Gaelic for Theresa), picked me up and cheerfully transplanted me to her bed and breakfast, ensconcing me in a room
which would have comfortably taken four. A tiny walk through the hamlet was all
I could manage before I fell into a comfortable bed, and knew nothing more
until morning.