Ireland Skellig Michael

“On board they gave us rain coats and pants to put on. They didn’t help. The boat pilot, who had done this journey hundreds if not thousands of times over several decades, warned us it would be “bumpy” on the way out. Bumpy. Ha. The sea spray splashing over the side got all of us wet. My trail pants were soaked through. My shoes were designed to be waterproof…from the outside. The sea water dripped down into my socks and insoles until my feet were in small puddles. My body was pumping adrenaline now as I clutched my seat and braced for oncoming waves. I told myself I didn’t care if I arrived on Skellig Michael soaked or retching. The point was to be there.”

“But “grand” won’t cut it. Not when it is probably the most perfect day of the year (or any year) to see Skellig Michael in all its mystical, monastic glory. So, we climb the steps, me on the inside, interspersing my silent prayers with gibbering “I can’t! No, I can’t” and variations thereof. At various points, I am most ashamed to admit, I have to be dragged along by my belt. These are not my finest moments. But then the climbing stops and we reach Christ’s Saddle [...] The end of the journey is something like childbirth: It’s all a bit of a blur, but when it’ finished, the result is pure euphoria. Right there, surrounded by the monks’ incredible creations, with painted puffins fluttering in and out, and the sun painting sea and rock in a glorious welter of heat and light, it is pure heaven.”

“I started up the stairs slowly, and soon the rest of the group had left me behind. We had about 2 hours on the island, and my plan was to go up as high as I could in an hour, then start back down again. I would go up maybe a dozen or twenty steps at a time, then just sit on a step for awhile. The sun was shining gently and the wind was working to dry my pants. I sang some 2NE1 out loud to the puffins, speculating that it was the first time they’d ever heard K-pop.”