Inishfarnard Overnighter
29th January 2020
January is not a month I'd usually associate with sea kayaking. Calm seas tend not to feature at this time of year, at least not where I’m living. It also tends to be cold, and the nights are pretty long. But a rare forecast last week brought suggestions from a friend, which planted a seed that sprouted and grew as the balmy conditions came through. A knee injury and the potential seriousness of anything going awry in the depths of winter both played on my mind, but neither seemed good enough reason to stop us. With multiple escape options and as good a forecast as you could ask for in winter (or any time of the year actually) we set out from Travaud on the Beara Peninsula last Thursday morning. The boats were well-weighed down with firewood, warm layers and food, so we set an easy pace eastwards along the coast towards Eyeries, and caught up. The last time Werner and I met was for an astonishing 40km paddle around the Blaskets in October, a rare gift of a day at that time of the year. This day seemed no less special, all the better because you never have expectations of the winter (while the summer seems destined to disappoint). Werner will be moving to Canada later in the year, depriving me of a regular paddling partner, and this being potentially our last trip for awhile was all the more reason to go for it.
Off Eyeries Island. Inishfarnard is the island beyond Werner.
The sun was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any wind to speak of, and the thick blanket of low cloud and the stillness in the air kept things feeling mild. Despite our slow pace I was tending towards overheating, dressed in full winter gear. We stopped on Eyeries Island for a quick look around. The salted grass was peppered with splotches of gull shit, regurgitated mussel shells and goose droppings, as well as a few tumbled old walls. The distant village was pretty against the mist-clad hills behind it, the gaudy row of houses the only show of colour on this grey day. We left the island through a narrow channel along its south side and headed north and then northwest over the polished grey sea surface. Some dark openings in the cliffs east of Kilcatherine Point drew us in, revealing themselves as impressive, square cut caves. Waves boomed in the black backs of the caverns and cold drops dripped from the wet ceilings, landing as shivers on my neck. Eerie places are sea caves, but that's what draws us in.
We made quick time across the short sound to Inishfarnard, the low hum of the boats working the nearby fish farm growing louder. We poked our bows into more zawns and coves all along the island's southern coast. The boat landing cove described in Oileáin seemed totally devoid of any infrastructure, not even a rusted iron stake to be seen above the rocky narrows. A little to its west was a rough slipway hewn from the surrounding stone. Neither place seemed very boat friendly, but given how long it’s been since anybody lived on the island this needn't have been surprising. Further along was an impressive, steep-sided cove, with climbing to be done if you could just overcome the obvious issues of access, anchors, tides, sea states... In an imaginary perfect world, with a RIB and driver and a group of like-minded friends on a warm summer day, the place would make a fun DWS venue. But that's a hell of a lot of variables to get lined up.
Out the gap
As we continued westwards the swell grew heavier and I wondered what the landing would be like. We'd left enough time to get back to the mainland if conditions dictated, but that would be disappointing. Thankfully I needn't have worried. We soon ran the gap between Inishfarnard and Bridaun Beg to catch sight of the storm beach we hoped to pull in at, and all was calm. First though, there was another channel to run, between Bridaun Beg and Bridaun. This second gap was more fun, squeezing the swell to rise in the narrows and push a kayaker out the other side. We sprinted round the western point of Bridaun between heavy sets, keeping a keen eye on big lumps of teal-grey water pushed skywards by a hidden reef outside of us. It always seems to me that a winter swell has a lot more weight beneath it than a summer swell of the same 'size' on a forecast. It's great to be able to admire this huge energy so closely. It's hard not to let it rub off on you. Back on the north coast of Inishfarnard we examined a long, deep channel from outside a tight arch. Paddling through wasn't an option in the conditions, but it was clear from the outside what an amazing feature it is all the same, only a few metres from completely cutting through the island. It won't be terribly long before a third island joins the two Bridauns here off of Inishfarnard. There's more climbing to be done in this area too, up some strong natural lines that are unlikely to see chalk in the near future, given where they are. But once you've been a climber for a certain amount of time it's impossible not to see these things, regardless of whether or not you'll ever climb them. A climber doesn't look at a cliff like a non-climber does. Most people only see the broad view, without the details, but a climber looks for lines of ascent, cracks and holds and ledges and edges that lead a way through steep terrain. Even though somebody else might look at the very same features they don't see the path they make, much like looking at words in a language you don't understand. Most of my own climbing recently has been on these imagined lines, and with a knee that will probably never be fully right again I hold the imaginary lines closer; at the moment it's hard to resist the idea that they'll form the bulk of my climbing life as time goes on.
The landing was a little less than ideal but the camping doesn't get better
Onto slippery stones we landed around lunchtime. My bad knee had seized up a bit in the cockpit and hauling two heavy kayaks over rough ground was a rude awakening for it. But we managed, and soon started bringing our gear up to make camp on a perfect pitch, perched above a cleanly overhung cliff. The storm beach was filthy with plastic debris, a disappointingly common sight nowadays. The place must get washed out in big storms, as the full few hundred metres of its length was a mess of tumbled stones and rubbish. As we were getting set up two farmers with dogs appeared on the ridge opposite, supposedly out to check on the sheep. After lunch we went for a wander round the island, hoping to meet the men and get some history of the place. But they were gone without trace, having left the sheep after them.
Looking west from Inishfarnard. Bridaun Beg and Bridaun are the two dark green patches, not obvious as islands from here as they're only separated by narrow gaps.
Though the day was dull the visibility was quite good, and as we walked the higher ground of the island The Cow and The Bull were obvious on the southwestern horizon, while the unmistakeable profiles of Deenish and Scarriff lay clear off Iveragh. The old village in the centre of the island was still and silent, neatly laid along an east-west 'road', with long, fading fields stretching south from the houses. Perfect lintels still supported stacked lumps of sandstone here and there, but humans had evidently long since vanished, as nothing but the stonework remained. A more recent pair of black marble headstones offered only little of the island's story, etched with lists of birth and death dates of some O'Sullivans from the island who'd ended up in Butte, Montana. The opening of copper mines in that part of the American West drew emigrants from Beara in the 19th century, as the same industry was ongoing around Allihies at the time. Our loop took us back along the island's ridge, past crumbling stone outcrops and steeply down to the storm beach again, where we found planks and fish boxes to make front row seats for the fire. The evening would be long around the flames, so it was imperative to get comfortable.
The old village and new fish farm
Whenever I see images like this I see a double page magazine spread with the empty space filled with text. It just doesn't quite have the same impact presented on its own.
I set the kindling alight while Werner boiled water for tea. A porpoise surfaced a few times a few hundred metres out, and then went down on a deeper dive. The dull day darkened to black as the fire grew in its shallow stone hollow. It was incredibly mild and dry; I felt no need to get the down jacket or long johns I'd packed, and was quite comfortable sitting barefoot while my damp shoes dried by the flames. We chatted and ate, drank more tea and chatted some more, between bouts of wintry quiet, only broken by the crackle of timber, the washing of rocks by the swell or the odd oystercatcher calling shrilly in the darkness. Tending the fire kept us as entertained as anything else. It's a primal satisfaction I still thoroughly enjoy, despite daily worries about emissions and air quality. After about five hours of fire appreciation (better than TV) we retired to the tent. In high summer a day would have ended and a new day dawned in the amount of time we sat there in the dark, and the night was still young by the time we got into our sleeping bags. Emissions aside, we were both very glad of the timber we'd carried out.
Wacky dreams are standard for me, and camping on abandoned islands tends to exaggerate them. And so, I slept fitfully, though not for a lack of comfort. The weather the next morning was still still, still mild and still dry - not even a trace of dew. I walked around a bit to loosen up and got a better look at where we were, wowed by the full view of the cliff we'd camped on. It put me in mind of Ailladie, with thin cracks drawn up the steep, clean rock, culminating in a beautiful curve before the sudden flat top. A rope ladder hung off a few medium sized cams would get you down to the bottom easily enough, and it's a nice height for an exciting solo. More mind climbing...
Dawn
Another view of camp. What a wall!
...and another view
Werner got the fire going again and we had a slow breakfast before cleaning up camp. As the tide was almost fully out we had a bit of a carry to get the boats to the water, but they were considerably lighter with all the firewood now up in smoke. A bit of swell had me waiting awhile before launching; with this weakened knee having me feeling very geriatric I wanted to be sure about getting away in as calm a period as possible. The idea of tipping over while fighting to get my left leg into the cockpit wasn't appealing, but thankfully I had no trouble, and we were soon heading east.
The left-most crack would be quite amenable, everything else looks desperate
We paddled close in under the camp cliff and also checked out an inlet near the northern tip of the island. Or at least I did; the gap between bigger sets was too short for both of us to get through so I had a quick look around before leaving as fast as possible in the next lull. Oileáin mentions this as a possible landing site for kayaks but I wouldn't recommend it if there's any swell running. A rock at the mouth of the inlet causes a bit of confusion when bigger swells come in and at low water the boulder beach at the back didn't look very inviting, what with the surf pounding on the rocks.
Patches of sun were breaking through to the east of Sneem but Iveragh looked otherwise damp and drizzly. I couldn't believe our luck with the weather. Black guillemots were plentiful, gorgeous in their grey winter feathers. Shags were very common too, their comic little leaps catching the eye easily on such a calm sea. Why does a bird that sits on the water have to get airborne to dive under the surface? It seems like they could just duck under like an auk, and sometimes they do, but apparently not most of the time I see them. An otter traveled close to the shore near Tranacappul, its small head and tapering tail appearing and disappearing regularly. What a treat! And not long after I caught sight of a sickle-shaped fin outside of us. First it was one, then a group of four, then another solitary animal, common dolphins in a southwest-northeast formation, heading out to open water. We paddled in their direction but they had no interest in us and were soon long past us, their exhalations and small splashes clearly heard, even as they grew distant. The swell lessened as we continued east, but bigger waves came occasionally, running obliquely against the low cliffs like great, rising belly breaths. For a long time now I've imagined ocean swells to be the breathing of the living planet; huge and raging when it's angry and low and quiet when it's calm. The woodland on the steep slopes above Cleanderry Harbour almost hid houses, sending my thoughts down idyllic home rabbit holes. Those kinds of daydreams are up there with imagined climbing lines for me...
Rare strip of sunlight
Lunchtime was due, and I hoped we could pull out at the caves east of Pulleen Pier. These would be very easy to pass by, hidden until the last moment from the seaward side, but a popular coastal walk goes right past them and I'd been on it recently, and kept the caves in mind. It's an incredible tunnel, all the more so because it's quite large despite being very sheltered from the prevailing winds and sea. Unfortunately, neither of the two rocky openings were very enticing to land in, but it was worth the trip into them all the same. A little further east we stopped to explore another cave under impressive cliffs, and while I got the camera out to make a photo of Werner another otter swam within 20 feet of my bow. Two otters in less than two hours, and three since we'd arrived the previous day (we saw one crossing the road on the way to Travaud). What luck! And it got better. After I joined Werner at the cave's mouth the animal appeared again a few times, clearly startled by the company in this usually quiet place. It was great for us to get such a close up look, but I'm not sure the otter would share the same view. We soon left so as not to cause any more disturbance.
Pulleen Cave
We met an otter in this cave, staring at us within a boatlength
Lunch spot
East again and we just about managed to sneak through inside Kidney Rock (very satisfying) and landed for lunch on an unusual stony spit under small, smooth cliffs. It was nice to be out of the boats for awhile. It wasn't a big mileage day but I wasn't feeling very fit either, it being three months since I'd last been paddling, and two since I'd done much more than shuffling around at home. Onwards then past the mouth of Ardgroom Harbour and its strings of aquaculture bouys and their attending cormorants. A pair of hooded crows hopped between the floating barrels, picking at something offered on their weedy sides. Their feet slid on the smooth surfaces as little waves rolled under them, and their jerky little slips forced a smile to my lips. Crows are class, they ooze character.
When the coast gets lower and less dramatic it's great to have a fine backdrop instead
Misty mountains
Killmackillogue glass
The sea was a dull molten silver, the hills shrouded in slow white mist. Into Kilmackillogue Harbour and the shark's tooth peaks of Knockatee were reflected in the water. Beara's mountains are fucking beautiful. The deeper into the harbour we went the more the surface smoothened, 'til it was mirrorlike. Ridged, rocky hills mirrored in a smooth, silky sea. The air was completely and utterly still. "A day that wouldn't put a match out on you," as a West Kerry farmer once said to me of similar conditions. Every sound was crystal clear; the lonely, weird cry of a great northern diver, the distant cooing of a woodpigeon in the surrounding trees, the sharp tweet of a songbird I didn't know, the soft brushing of seaweed on my hull in the shallows. I don't think I'd ever been on water so still. A seal trailed after me, its bright black eyes urgent in its round, dog-like head. It was lovely to be paddling near trees, and shapely hills behind them. The closer I got to our destination the less I wanted to arrive.
Magic
Approaching the end...
Off Eyeries Island. Inishfarnard is the island beyond Werner.
The sun was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any wind to speak of, and the thick blanket of low cloud and the stillness in the air kept things feeling mild. Despite our slow pace I was tending towards overheating, dressed in full winter gear. We stopped on Eyeries Island for a quick look around. The salted grass was peppered with splotches of gull shit, regurgitated mussel shells and goose droppings, as well as a few tumbled old walls. The distant village was pretty against the mist-clad hills behind it, the gaudy row of houses the only show of colour on this grey day. We left the island through a narrow channel along its south side and headed north and then northwest over the polished grey sea surface. Some dark openings in the cliffs east of Kilcatherine Point drew us in, revealing themselves as impressive, square cut caves. Waves boomed in the black backs of the caverns and cold drops dripped from the wet ceilings, landing as shivers on my neck. Eerie places are sea caves, but that's what draws us in.
We made quick time across the short sound to Inishfarnard, the low hum of the boats working the nearby fish farm growing louder. We poked our bows into more zawns and coves all along the island's southern coast. The boat landing cove described in Oileáin seemed totally devoid of any infrastructure, not even a rusted iron stake to be seen above the rocky narrows. A little to its west was a rough slipway hewn from the surrounding stone. Neither place seemed very boat friendly, but given how long it’s been since anybody lived on the island this needn't have been surprising. Further along was an impressive, steep-sided cove, with climbing to be done if you could just overcome the obvious issues of access, anchors, tides, sea states... In an imaginary perfect world, with a RIB and driver and a group of like-minded friends on a warm summer day, the place would make a fun DWS venue. But that's a hell of a lot of variables to get lined up.
Out the gap
As we continued westwards the swell grew heavier and I wondered what the landing would be like. We'd left enough time to get back to the mainland if conditions dictated, but that would be disappointing. Thankfully I needn't have worried. We soon ran the gap between Inishfarnard and Bridaun Beg to catch sight of the storm beach we hoped to pull in at, and all was calm. First though, there was another channel to run, between Bridaun Beg and Bridaun. This second gap was more fun, squeezing the swell to rise in the narrows and push a kayaker out the other side. We sprinted round the western point of Bridaun between heavy sets, keeping a keen eye on big lumps of teal-grey water pushed skywards by a hidden reef outside of us. It always seems to me that a winter swell has a lot more weight beneath it than a summer swell of the same 'size' on a forecast. It's great to be able to admire this huge energy so closely. It's hard not to let it rub off on you. Back on the north coast of Inishfarnard we examined a long, deep channel from outside a tight arch. Paddling through wasn't an option in the conditions, but it was clear from the outside what an amazing feature it is all the same, only a few metres from completely cutting through the island. It won't be terribly long before a third island joins the two Bridauns here off of Inishfarnard. There's more climbing to be done in this area too, up some strong natural lines that are unlikely to see chalk in the near future, given where they are. But once you've been a climber for a certain amount of time it's impossible not to see these things, regardless of whether or not you'll ever climb them. A climber doesn't look at a cliff like a non-climber does. Most people only see the broad view, without the details, but a climber looks for lines of ascent, cracks and holds and ledges and edges that lead a way through steep terrain. Even though somebody else might look at the very same features they don't see the path they make, much like looking at words in a language you don't understand. Most of my own climbing recently has been on these imagined lines, and with a knee that will probably never be fully right again I hold the imaginary lines closer; at the moment it's hard to resist the idea that they'll form the bulk of my climbing life as time goes on.
The landing was a little less than ideal but the camping doesn't get better
Onto slippery stones we landed around lunchtime. My bad knee had seized up a bit in the cockpit and hauling two heavy kayaks over rough ground was a rude awakening for it. But we managed, and soon started bringing our gear up to make camp on a perfect pitch, perched above a cleanly overhung cliff. The storm beach was filthy with plastic debris, a disappointingly common sight nowadays. The place must get washed out in big storms, as the full few hundred metres of its length was a mess of tumbled stones and rubbish. As we were getting set up two farmers with dogs appeared on the ridge opposite, supposedly out to check on the sheep. After lunch we went for a wander round the island, hoping to meet the men and get some history of the place. But they were gone without trace, having left the sheep after them.
Looking west from Inishfarnard. Bridaun Beg and Bridaun are the two dark green patches, not obvious as islands from here as they're only separated by narrow gaps.
Though the day was dull the visibility was quite good, and as we walked the higher ground of the island The Cow and The Bull were obvious on the southwestern horizon, while the unmistakeable profiles of Deenish and Scarriff lay clear off Iveragh. The old village in the centre of the island was still and silent, neatly laid along an east-west 'road', with long, fading fields stretching south from the houses. Perfect lintels still supported stacked lumps of sandstone here and there, but humans had evidently long since vanished, as nothing but the stonework remained. A more recent pair of black marble headstones offered only little of the island's story, etched with lists of birth and death dates of some O'Sullivans from the island who'd ended up in Butte, Montana. The opening of copper mines in that part of the American West drew emigrants from Beara in the 19th century, as the same industry was ongoing around Allihies at the time. Our loop took us back along the island's ridge, past crumbling stone outcrops and steeply down to the storm beach again, where we found planks and fish boxes to make front row seats for the fire. The evening would be long around the flames, so it was imperative to get comfortable.
The old village and new fish farm
Whenever I see images like this I see a double page magazine spread with the empty space filled with text. It just doesn't quite have the same impact presented on its own.
I set the kindling alight while Werner boiled water for tea. A porpoise surfaced a few times a few hundred metres out, and then went down on a deeper dive. The dull day darkened to black as the fire grew in its shallow stone hollow. It was incredibly mild and dry; I felt no need to get the down jacket or long johns I'd packed, and was quite comfortable sitting barefoot while my damp shoes dried by the flames. We chatted and ate, drank more tea and chatted some more, between bouts of wintry quiet, only broken by the crackle of timber, the washing of rocks by the swell or the odd oystercatcher calling shrilly in the darkness. Tending the fire kept us as entertained as anything else. It's a primal satisfaction I still thoroughly enjoy, despite daily worries about emissions and air quality. After about five hours of fire appreciation (better than TV) we retired to the tent. In high summer a day would have ended and a new day dawned in the amount of time we sat there in the dark, and the night was still young by the time we got into our sleeping bags. Emissions aside, we were both very glad of the timber we'd carried out.
Wacky dreams are standard for me, and camping on abandoned islands tends to exaggerate them. And so, I slept fitfully, though not for a lack of comfort. The weather the next morning was still still, still mild and still dry - not even a trace of dew. I walked around a bit to loosen up and got a better look at where we were, wowed by the full view of the cliff we'd camped on. It put me in mind of Ailladie, with thin cracks drawn up the steep, clean rock, culminating in a beautiful curve before the sudden flat top. A rope ladder hung off a few medium sized cams would get you down to the bottom easily enough, and it's a nice height for an exciting solo. More mind climbing...
Dawn
Another view of camp. What a wall!
...and another view
Werner got the fire going again and we had a slow breakfast before cleaning up camp. As the tide was almost fully out we had a bit of a carry to get the boats to the water, but they were considerably lighter with all the firewood now up in smoke. A bit of swell had me waiting awhile before launching; with this weakened knee having me feeling very geriatric I wanted to be sure about getting away in as calm a period as possible. The idea of tipping over while fighting to get my left leg into the cockpit wasn't appealing, but thankfully I had no trouble, and we were soon heading east.
The left-most crack would be quite amenable, everything else looks desperate
We paddled close in under the camp cliff and also checked out an inlet near the northern tip of the island. Or at least I did; the gap between bigger sets was too short for both of us to get through so I had a quick look around before leaving as fast as possible in the next lull. Oileáin mentions this as a possible landing site for kayaks but I wouldn't recommend it if there's any swell running. A rock at the mouth of the inlet causes a bit of confusion when bigger swells come in and at low water the boulder beach at the back didn't look very inviting, what with the surf pounding on the rocks.
Patches of sun were breaking through to the east of Sneem but Iveragh looked otherwise damp and drizzly. I couldn't believe our luck with the weather. Black guillemots were plentiful, gorgeous in their grey winter feathers. Shags were very common too, their comic little leaps catching the eye easily on such a calm sea. Why does a bird that sits on the water have to get airborne to dive under the surface? It seems like they could just duck under like an auk, and sometimes they do, but apparently not most of the time I see them. An otter traveled close to the shore near Tranacappul, its small head and tapering tail appearing and disappearing regularly. What a treat! And not long after I caught sight of a sickle-shaped fin outside of us. First it was one, then a group of four, then another solitary animal, common dolphins in a southwest-northeast formation, heading out to open water. We paddled in their direction but they had no interest in us and were soon long past us, their exhalations and small splashes clearly heard, even as they grew distant. The swell lessened as we continued east, but bigger waves came occasionally, running obliquely against the low cliffs like great, rising belly breaths. For a long time now I've imagined ocean swells to be the breathing of the living planet; huge and raging when it's angry and low and quiet when it's calm. The woodland on the steep slopes above Cleanderry Harbour almost hid houses, sending my thoughts down idyllic home rabbit holes. Those kinds of daydreams are up there with imagined climbing lines for me...
Rare strip of sunlight
Lunchtime was due, and I hoped we could pull out at the caves east of Pulleen Pier. These would be very easy to pass by, hidden until the last moment from the seaward side, but a popular coastal walk goes right past them and I'd been on it recently, and kept the caves in mind. It's an incredible tunnel, all the more so because it's quite large despite being very sheltered from the prevailing winds and sea. Unfortunately, neither of the two rocky openings were very enticing to land in, but it was worth the trip into them all the same. A little further east we stopped to explore another cave under impressive cliffs, and while I got the camera out to make a photo of Werner another otter swam within 20 feet of my bow. Two otters in less than two hours, and three since we'd arrived the previous day (we saw one crossing the road on the way to Travaud). What luck! And it got better. After I joined Werner at the cave's mouth the animal appeared again a few times, clearly startled by the company in this usually quiet place. It was great for us to get such a close up look, but I'm not sure the otter would share the same view. We soon left so as not to cause any more disturbance.
Pulleen Cave
We met an otter in this cave, staring at us within a boatlength
Lunch spot
East again and we just about managed to sneak through inside Kidney Rock (very satisfying) and landed for lunch on an unusual stony spit under small, smooth cliffs. It was nice to be out of the boats for awhile. It wasn't a big mileage day but I wasn't feeling very fit either, it being three months since I'd last been paddling, and two since I'd done much more than shuffling around at home. Onwards then past the mouth of Ardgroom Harbour and its strings of aquaculture bouys and their attending cormorants. A pair of hooded crows hopped between the floating barrels, picking at something offered on their weedy sides. Their feet slid on the smooth surfaces as little waves rolled under them, and their jerky little slips forced a smile to my lips. Crows are class, they ooze character.
When the coast gets lower and less dramatic it's great to have a fine backdrop instead
Misty mountains
Killmackillogue glass
The sea was a dull molten silver, the hills shrouded in slow white mist. Into Kilmackillogue Harbour and the shark's tooth peaks of Knockatee were reflected in the water. Beara's mountains are fucking beautiful. The deeper into the harbour we went the more the surface smoothened, 'til it was mirrorlike. Ridged, rocky hills mirrored in a smooth, silky sea. The air was completely and utterly still. "A day that wouldn't put a match out on you," as a West Kerry farmer once said to me of similar conditions. Every sound was crystal clear; the lonely, weird cry of a great northern diver, the distant cooing of a woodpigeon in the surrounding trees, the sharp tweet of a songbird I didn't know, the soft brushing of seaweed on my hull in the shallows. I don't think I'd ever been on water so still. A seal trailed after me, its bright black eyes urgent in its round, dog-like head. It was lovely to be paddling near trees, and shapely hills behind them. The closer I got to our destination the less I wanted to arrive.
Magic
Approaching the end...
Comments
By Gerard Sullivan: hi Richard
thanks for this
what a lovely piece
this is actually my island and delighted to see it can bring such pleasures
kind rgds
Gerard .