Evening Escape to the Maharees
25th April 2019
Just after seven Naoise and I pushed our kayaks out into Scraggane Bay and started paddling towards a dazzling horizon. The sheltered water in the harbour was glassy and the glare of the hazy sun promised a fine evening. A small bit of wind against tide in the shallow channel outside kept things interesting, in an easy kind of way thankfully. I don't go sea kayaking to get my adrenaline going, unless it’s landscapes and wildlife that do it. The bow of my boat dipped and bobbed through the small chop, and dried out again where deeper water calmed the current. Brandon was all but lost in the haze as we made for the west corner of Illaunimmil (Oileán Imill, Edge Island). A few years ago I paddled out to Illauntannig, the closest and most accessible of the Maharees, but I didn't make it to any of the other islands that trip. I'd heard enough about the cliffs of Illaunimmil to want to see them from sea level, so here we were making the most of a fine weather window after work.
Sunrise on Illauntannig, 24/05/16
Off the westernmost point of the island stands a blunt sea stack, Listooskert on the OS map (Lios Tuaisceart, the Northern Fort). We watched what the swell was doing awhile, before running the gap close to the fort side to avoid two nasty looking spikes in the wider channel. Clear of the rocks we saw a small cave in the island's coast, and had the tide been any higher we wouldn't have made it under the curving lintel of overhanging limestone. Inside the cavern opens up and the ceiling is clear to the sky. The suck and surge of swell kept us busy trying to hold position while we both scanned the rock with climbers' eyes. Once you've been climbing awhile you don't look at cliffs like normal people do. Every vertical surface is searched for lines of potential ascent and an assessment of solidity, regardless of how feasible or not the access is.
Further east along the north coast we turned into a narrow cuas that ends in a boulder pile. This is probably the easiest landing for a kayak, though I think landing here would be done purely for the sake of being able to say you were up there. A seal was high and dry on the rocks beside us. It didn't seem too put out, though it may have just been playing it cool, knowing there wasn't much it could do to get back in the water save a dangerous fall onto stone below. Carrying on along the coast we rounded the corner to the east side, where a fine sea arch called out to us. The water was deep but clear to the bottom, and I cruised under the broken arc of tilted rock, revelling in everything around me. Jumping from the top might actually be a good reason to land on the island...
Illaunimmil
Just as we were about to strike east Naoise spotted a small cave in the cliffs. We paddled through a narrow tunnel to another hole open to the heavens. Shags threw themselves from the cliffs, splashing gracelessly into the water and swimming out beneath us. The stink of a summer seabird colony was thick in this small space. It's probably my favourite smell. You only get it in amazing places, usually dark and dank and damp, greasy from the sea and noisy with swell and seabirds. A few bold males sat stubbornly on their nests, necks darting slowly back and forth, crests proud. That's where shags get their name, their shaggy crest of feathers in the breeding season. I have a half baked idea to create a West of Ireland cocktail called a Shag on the Rocks, something like locally sourced seaweed extract and small-batch distillery gin on sea salt ice, but I've no taste for drink so I wouldn’t ever know if it was good or not. As the swell pulsed in and out the cave it drew air between the tunnel and the skylight above so the whole hole sounded like it was breathing, a slow, deep sleep rhythm of breath.
As we worked our way east towards Illauntannig I couldn't help a smile and a laugh to myself. Every now and then on adventures like this the happiness just bubbles up out of me in a private giggle. If anybody was watching I'd have looked like an escapee from a home. The sun had dissolved into a grey haze and the sea was calm. Fulmars buzzed past, keen to see what I was. A distant shape on the water caught my eye. My mind raced with possibilities; dolphin, basking shark, killer whale? As I got closer I realised it was another shag, its long neck fooling me as the rise and fall of waves mimicked the pattern of a bigger, underwater animal. We passed close to Illaunboe (Island of the Cow) and just about made it through the sound to Reennafardarrig (Point of the Red Man - who was he when he was about?) before the ebb tide dried it out, surfing over shallows as a set rolled through. While we paddled along the beach Naoise pointed out a whale spine buried in the sand, clear against the sky and looking for all the world like the remains of a fence. We landed and pulled the boats above the tide line.
Illauntannig (Oileán tSeanaigh, Shannig's Island) is named for the saint who's associated with the monastery out there, as well as the townland of Kilshannig, across the water on the mainland. It's probably from the sixth century, as most of the island monasteries are from around here. It's wonderfully intact, with three beehive cells, a 40m souterrain and a big sandstone cross being the highlights. The rest of the island is limestone. If the lads carried that slab of rock out from the mainland some time in the 500s then fair fucks to them. After a quick exploration of the holy site, we searched for firewood as blue hour darkened to night. Eventually a rotting pallet was found west of the house, and quickly fell victim to stamping feet and Naoise's knife. I got the stove going and started tucking in to a dinner Vincent had dropped down before we left. A gift from the townland. As the timber shavings took the flame the full moon emerged through the mist and shimmered on the still sea below us. This is living. It was Good Friday. A good Friday indeed.
The pallet was more mould than timber, but campfires are more about atmosphere than warmth anyway. We chatted awhile, about deaths in the mountains, as well as sheep, and the ecological disaster they make of the Irish uplands. But with us both due at jobs the next morning we crawled into bivvy bags before finding any solutions to unexpected avalanches or overgrazing. Sea and shorebirds called throughout the night. I had ridiculous dreams and woke not knowing where I was. The world was hazy blue at six in the morning, with the mainland only just visible. We packed up and tied a vertebra from the fake fence to each of our boats. The water was oily smooth. Fifteen minutes paddling had us back to the real world.
Trophy
Sunrise on Illauntannig, 24/05/16
Off the westernmost point of the island stands a blunt sea stack, Listooskert on the OS map (Lios Tuaisceart, the Northern Fort). We watched what the swell was doing awhile, before running the gap close to the fort side to avoid two nasty looking spikes in the wider channel. Clear of the rocks we saw a small cave in the island's coast, and had the tide been any higher we wouldn't have made it under the curving lintel of overhanging limestone. Inside the cavern opens up and the ceiling is clear to the sky. The suck and surge of swell kept us busy trying to hold position while we both scanned the rock with climbers' eyes. Once you've been climbing awhile you don't look at cliffs like normal people do. Every vertical surface is searched for lines of potential ascent and an assessment of solidity, regardless of how feasible or not the access is.
Further east along the north coast we turned into a narrow cuas that ends in a boulder pile. This is probably the easiest landing for a kayak, though I think landing here would be done purely for the sake of being able to say you were up there. A seal was high and dry on the rocks beside us. It didn't seem too put out, though it may have just been playing it cool, knowing there wasn't much it could do to get back in the water save a dangerous fall onto stone below. Carrying on along the coast we rounded the corner to the east side, where a fine sea arch called out to us. The water was deep but clear to the bottom, and I cruised under the broken arc of tilted rock, revelling in everything around me. Jumping from the top might actually be a good reason to land on the island...
Illaunimmil
Just as we were about to strike east Naoise spotted a small cave in the cliffs. We paddled through a narrow tunnel to another hole open to the heavens. Shags threw themselves from the cliffs, splashing gracelessly into the water and swimming out beneath us. The stink of a summer seabird colony was thick in this small space. It's probably my favourite smell. You only get it in amazing places, usually dark and dank and damp, greasy from the sea and noisy with swell and seabirds. A few bold males sat stubbornly on their nests, necks darting slowly back and forth, crests proud. That's where shags get their name, their shaggy crest of feathers in the breeding season. I have a half baked idea to create a West of Ireland cocktail called a Shag on the Rocks, something like locally sourced seaweed extract and small-batch distillery gin on sea salt ice, but I've no taste for drink so I wouldn’t ever know if it was good or not. As the swell pulsed in and out the cave it drew air between the tunnel and the skylight above so the whole hole sounded like it was breathing, a slow, deep sleep rhythm of breath.
As we worked our way east towards Illauntannig I couldn't help a smile and a laugh to myself. Every now and then on adventures like this the happiness just bubbles up out of me in a private giggle. If anybody was watching I'd have looked like an escapee from a home. The sun had dissolved into a grey haze and the sea was calm. Fulmars buzzed past, keen to see what I was. A distant shape on the water caught my eye. My mind raced with possibilities; dolphin, basking shark, killer whale? As I got closer I realised it was another shag, its long neck fooling me as the rise and fall of waves mimicked the pattern of a bigger, underwater animal. We passed close to Illaunboe (Island of the Cow) and just about made it through the sound to Reennafardarrig (Point of the Red Man - who was he when he was about?) before the ebb tide dried it out, surfing over shallows as a set rolled through. While we paddled along the beach Naoise pointed out a whale spine buried in the sand, clear against the sky and looking for all the world like the remains of a fence. We landed and pulled the boats above the tide line.
Illauntannig (Oileán tSeanaigh, Shannig's Island) is named for the saint who's associated with the monastery out there, as well as the townland of Kilshannig, across the water on the mainland. It's probably from the sixth century, as most of the island monasteries are from around here. It's wonderfully intact, with three beehive cells, a 40m souterrain and a big sandstone cross being the highlights. The rest of the island is limestone. If the lads carried that slab of rock out from the mainland some time in the 500s then fair fucks to them. After a quick exploration of the holy site, we searched for firewood as blue hour darkened to night. Eventually a rotting pallet was found west of the house, and quickly fell victim to stamping feet and Naoise's knife. I got the stove going and started tucking in to a dinner Vincent had dropped down before we left. A gift from the townland. As the timber shavings took the flame the full moon emerged through the mist and shimmered on the still sea below us. This is living. It was Good Friday. A good Friday indeed.
The pallet was more mould than timber, but campfires are more about atmosphere than warmth anyway. We chatted awhile, about deaths in the mountains, as well as sheep, and the ecological disaster they make of the Irish uplands. But with us both due at jobs the next morning we crawled into bivvy bags before finding any solutions to unexpected avalanches or overgrazing. Sea and shorebirds called throughout the night. I had ridiculous dreams and woke not knowing where I was. The world was hazy blue at six in the morning, with the mainland only just visible. We packed up and tied a vertebra from the fake fence to each of our boats. The water was oily smooth. Fifteen minutes paddling had us back to the real world.
Trophy