The twisting, turning, winding roads of Inishmore

What better way to spend a weekend away, two weeks before Christmas, than on a remote island off the west coast of Ireland. Sailing away from shops, traffic, hustle and bustle, and landing at the port for the complete opposite – quietness, remoteness, calmness, a relaxed and carefree way of living where life stops still, there’s no panic, no rushing, and a mindfulness of living in the present and being happy with what one has because mother nature is always in charge. If the weather changes there is no way out and one must be content with what one has.

With the weather taking a turn for the worst and wind warnings looming, hubby’s phone had started to hop; another venture to Inishmore to do what one could to prevent damage to properties because on a rugged exposed island, wind can do a lot of harm.

The whole family jumped at the opportunity to weekend out on the island. On a wild, wet and windy Friday in December, all had the bags packed and ready for their adventure, however, the wind picked up early and the flight was cancelled. But at least the evening boat is going.

On arrival to Rossaveal, there are not many tourists about, more of the locals heading home for the weekend. And on approaching the boat, a guard of honour has formed, an islander being brought home to be buried.

I normally sit out on top on the boat but not this evening as one would be drowned wet and blown over, advised to sit inside and at the back to avoid any sickness. It will be a bumpy ride to the biggest of the Aran Islands this evening.

It’s busy but a quietness exists, dark but not cold. A feeling of warmth exists on the boat, a camaraderie, a comforting for the mourning family. The waves are powering against the rocks, the wind howling outside, the ocean lifting us up and down for a rocky ride. The journey takes 45 minutes but in conditions like this it can take longer; if the tummies start to turn it’s normally midway through so I try to keep the mind active. An islander once told me that in their younger days they were always sick on a rocky boat ride but as the years passed, fear took over and the sickness left; the power of the fear was stronger. This evening I am not afraid as I know we would not have sailed if it was not safe. For an islander the arrival of the plane service was a lifesaver. An eight minute journey, no sickness or fear.

A glimmering of light guides our way and a large crowd of locals line the pier to welcome back home their passed islander. A car is left for us at the pier, a welcome surprise on a raw night. No locked vehicle, no hidden key, because out here there is no need. All excited to reach our destination, the home baking in the bag, nothing to be got only what we have brought, a night of television, popcorn and card games is in store. It’s easy relax and sleep out here, the sound of the ocean, the wind howling outside, Galway Bay lightened up by the pier lights, such a beautiful sight.

The weather is promised very windy but dry tomorrow morning so I plan my running adventure. Eighteen miles around the island, nine all the way to the other end, going out on the high road and home on the low road. The wind and the hills against me on the way out, hoping to have the wind on my back to push me home. A very early start to be back for breakfast and make the most of the day. The morning creeps in, a whistling, howling wind outside, I embrace the elements, a jog down the uneven trek, potholes, stones and floods for half a mile to reach the ‘main road’. I hang a left and get blown back; it’s going to be a tough, hair-raising but worthwhile trek for the first few miles. I remember fondly our journey from the summer and am looking forward to seeing the sunrise over the beach this morning. The weather and terrain when running around Inishmore challenges the body both physically and mentally in unexpected ways. One doesn’t expect the effects of the wild, unsheltered, openness; when the gales howl they blow you across the road, you have no trees or shelter to hide behind, you must keep pushing through, head down, legs and arms working against the breeze. And one must pace themselves as well or else you’ll burn out quickly, especially on an eighteen-mile trek. Mentally I decided this morning that it was going to be all positive, no negative thoughts or feelings allowed, it worked because with every corner brings a new sighting, a more amazing view, sometimes a step back in time, sometimes a wonder in awe, sometimes a historical interest is ignited in a sighting, a ruin or a monument, a gravestone – the mind gets distracted in each and every mile.

Inishmore being the largest island means I will never run out of road. The twisting, turning and winding lanes go on for miles so my journey continues, and heading from darkness into light the magic really begins to appear. When running with the head torch for the first six miles, some of which are aided by the street lights of the pier and their reflection off the stone walls, one must concentrate on every step. The lights of houses brighten the way, a sense of safeness, togetherness, a simple way of life guiding my route, to see more, to see the sunrise. The islanders still asleep, the horses awake, the birds taking shelter. The hills are steep but in the dark one doesn’t notice, and gradually a hint of daylight appears. I turn off the torch, it’s dark but there is a little whiteness in the sky and I spot a movement up ahead. It’s coming nearer I think, it looks like a wheel, it is, an islander on his high nelly, no light, in darkness. I imagine he knows the road so well. I switch back on the head torch, afraid we will have a head on collision as there is no right of way here, no rules of the road, no cycling to the left hand side. I pick up speed, run fast and past.

I reach the beach and the waves are blowing high over onto the road. I run as far left to the stoney walls as possible to avoid getting wet but cannot, soaked by the powerful wave, a nice refreshing wake up on a windy December morning, that taste of the saltwater rehydrating my hardworking body. Continuing around by the beach and up the windy road to the prehistoric fort of Dún Aonghasa, I see the ice cream shop up ahead, it’s closed, just as well or I’d be tempted to stop. Considering that Dún Aonghasa is perched on the edge of a 300-foot cliff, running up there today is not a good idea. Instead I head for the leprechaun house and am looking forward to seeing its progress; another job on hubby’s list although not a priority for now. A mile on, I can see it up ahead, a tiny white and red stone-walled structure, smaller than a cottage, but more beautiful. Planked on its own in a wide open field, it stands out, a makeshift galvanised roof that will eventually be thatched. The light outside is on, the worker’s staying there, not much heat needed as it only has two rooms; a traditional island house, with a stairs up to the loft, the heat from the open fire rises to heat the upstairs room.

I climb another steep hill, this one is tougher, it’s steep, curvy and bleak. My heart rate increases, the legs are burning, but I know on reaching the top of the hill I will be rewarded with a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean and the halfway mark reached. Right now, I know the way home will be easier and the sightings amazing with daylight approaching. I feel grateful for the opportunity to experience such a unique and challenging run.

I turn for the low road, yes it’s lower but there are still hills, the wind at my back, every now and again lifting and pushing me home. With six miles to go I am in unfamiliar territory, I know I have taken a wrong road but I keep running. Miles of road but no humans, signposts or traffic. Finally I meet a farmer doing his herding, asking how far it is to the pier he says about four miles – I’m on track. There are so many twists and turns around the island that one could be miles off track and with limited time and a tough first half over, I don’t have the legs to make up ground. Back to familiar territory, the shop is beginning to open, the boat is getting ready for off, the plane is abandoned as there’s no take off today, the grave diggers are busy preparing for the funeral, the simplicity of life has begun, the lights are on, the people are up, the animals are being fed, the island has life.

I pass a local friend’s house, she is alone this weekend, her daughter not being able to get in from Galway last night. She occupies her time, knitting, reading and sharing the company of her neighbours and family. With a mile to go I look forward to seeing my own family at the top of the hill. I am tired now but the positivity continues because we have a simple but wonderful day ahead. Turn right, climb the last hill, avoid the potholes, stones and rough terrain. The lights are on, I smell the breakfast, I reach the summit and I am so happy as eighteen miles beep. I look out across Galway Bay, the sun shining across the ocean, the beauty of the rugged landscape, this sighting will stay with me throughout the busy times that are to come back home.

The back door swings open and I’m grateful for all the simplicity, beauty and the home cooked breakfast for a weather-beaten body that now has mental clarity and cultural immersion on the beautiful island of Inishmore.