By C. David Gordon

Part I: An Aran Island Tour

My wife, Barbara, and I took an Elderhostel trip this last August to Ireland’s western coast, ending with a stay in Dublin.

One of a wide array of memorable places our band of 24 travelers visited as we learned about many facets of Irish life was Inishmore, the largest of the Islands of Aran, a short ferry ride off the coast from Galway.

Our experience there especially sticks in my mind. Thirteen of us had hired a local minibus driver to take us around the island for the afternoon. We wanted to see as much as we could before meeting the last boat for the mainland. Others in our group had chosen to walk about, one hired a bike, and some rode in a pony cart, but our means of transportation would allow us to travel in the widest arc.

Not five minutes into our ride, though, all of us began to feel we had fallen victim to the especially flourishing tourist industry on the island. Bertie Mullen, our driver/guide operating his own vehicle, certainly was hauling us about in a commodious and comfortable vehicle. But his idea of how to keep us awake and happy was to maintain a steady stream of jokes. From his driver’s seat microphone he fed us humor from a variety of sources – from strange legends and sights along the road to spontaneous one-liners and puns. It didn’t help that he often punctuated a punch line with sound effects, especially animal calls. And to put a final touch on it all, he’d often chuckle over his efforts at being funny.

I’ll grant that he did intersperse the stream of what he thought was good humor with notes about some landmarks we were passing. He pointed out the elementary school and secondary school he had attended as a child, an abandoned church, and ruins of the ancient fort of Dun Duchatair.

The landscape through which we passed helped distract us from his ceaseless commentary. The narrow paved road, bordered on each side by tall drystone walls, wound up over the spine of the island. In each direction other stone walls divided up the land into tiny plots, many of which held a small, tidy home with colorful flower gardens. Here and there a cow, a donkey, or some sheep grazed the lush green grass. Bushes but no trees only partially screened some of the homes.

Our first stop was the prehistoric stone fort of Dun Aonghasa, built at the edge of a sheer cliff over looking the Atlantic Ocean. Our guide informed us that since we would need more than an hour to climb the hill to the fort on the cliffs, he would drop us off and pick up another group of tourists he’d contracted with to move them along on their tour. We were not to worry, though; he would be back in time to take us through the remainder of a tour and back to Kilronan in time for our ferry.

There we were, already having given 10 Euros apiece to this joker. Could we trust him to be as good as his word? Gamely, we paid the small admission charge to the fort and started along a gently rising gravel path taking us upward toward the fort. Looking up, we wondered how we’d need so much time to see this site.

We soon discovered why. The nicely prepared path gave way to a more steeply rising way. “Paving” this path were limestone outcroppings, irregular row upon irregular row of stone, none of which was smoothed down for easy footing. Several wayfarers turned back at this point, but Barbara and I staggered on, appreciating that the fort had been wisely placed so as to slow down an enemy’s attack.

At the top we found a attractive grassy area. We climbed up to the innermost of the three protective walls that formed a huge semicircle. Inside the semicircle we approached the edge of a cliff with a 200- or 300-foot drop.

People were crawling on their stomachs to the edge of the cliff to look over the side at the sea far below. Barbara and I stayed upright, but we savored the fort’s spectacular, panoramic view of sea, cliffs, island, and mainland. The approach path was like an uptilted version of the Burren on the mainland below the Bay of Galway, the cliffs here reminiscent of the 700-foot Cliffs of Moher – both our destination a previous day.

Back outside the tourist shop, Bertie soon found us, I give him credit. Soon we were off on another road closer to the island’s north coast. Our guide had us explore a second site while he waited for us: a place called the Seven Churches. We walked amid the ruins of but two structures, one a church said to mark the grave of St. Brecan. Among the ancient gravestones here, one is dedicated to the memory of seven Roman saints. Bertie told us that the graveyard was still used for burials, the last one being just a few months previously.

Back in the minibus, as we climbed out of the hollow, Bertie pointed out the recently built, large and well-appointed circular stone building overlooking the ruins and the nearby inlet. Did we think this was some kind of new church? he asked. No, it was actually just an expensive private home.

During this final leg of our trip, Bertie had less time to devote to comic relief. He pointed out his own simple, well-kept home. We saw the island police station. We heard that electricity had only been brought to the island in 1975, and he told us how when a generator on the mainland supplying electricity to the island had failed the islanders seemed to welcome a brief return to the former days of candlepower. He even showed us the house especially built for the famous old movie “Man of Aran.” It’s still in use, with a fine example of the islander’s curragh or canoe-like boat overturned on the grass.

He slowed or even stopped occasionally to point out a small herd of cows, sheep, or donkeys with accompanying young. He drew up to call attention to a single beautiful gray-white Connemara pony. On cue it seemed, the pony moved to the stone wall and placed his nose quite close to my very seat window. What a winning photo op!

As the tour moved on, another Bertie began to emerge. On this even narrower road, he was forever stopping to wave another minibus by, offering the courtesy of the road and to us added chance to look around. A steady stream of islanders heading home from their trips to the village at the ferry slip, waved and gave him a friendly smile.

But the incident that settled our final view on Bertie took place as we neared a bend in the road. We came upon a trio of bike riders, a couple and their child, standing by the roadside looking out to sea.

Sensing what they wanted, he stopped the ‘bus, leaped out, grabbed the dad’s camera, and had them pose for photos with the sea in the background. All three showed how pleased they were.

Then, back on the ‘bus, he warned us not to hand our cameras over to strangers to have our picture taken. They might steal off with the camera.

With that he took us back to the dock in time to join our group on the ferry.

I’ll long remember Bertie. All in all, he had done more than simply show us some island scenery. He had allowed us to see this place as an island community that was his home and to appreciate the people living there.

By C. David Gordon

Part I: An Aran Island Tour

My wife, Barbara, and I took an Elderhostel trip this last August to Ireland’s western coast, ending with a stay in Dublin.

One of a wide array of memorable places our band of 24 travelers visited as we learned about many facets of Irish life was Inishmore, the largest of the Islands of Aran, a short ferry ride off the coast from Galway.

Our experience there especially sticks in my mind. Thirteen of us had hired a local minibus driver to take us around the island for the afternoon. We wanted to see as much as we could before meeting the last boat for the mainland. Others in our group had chosen to walk about, one hired a bike, and some rode in a pony cart, but our means of transportation would allow us to travel in the widest arc.

Not five minutes into our ride, though, all of us began to feel we had fallen victim to the especially flourishing tourist industry on the island. Bertie Mullen, our driver/guide operating his own vehicle, certainly was hauling us about in a commodious and comfortable vehicle. But his idea of how to keep us awake and happy was to maintain a steady stream of jokes. From his driver’s seat microphone he fed us humor from a variety of sources – from strange legends and sights along the road to spontaneous one-liners and puns. It didn’t help that he often punctuated a punch line with sound effects, especially animal calls. And to put a final touch on it all, he’d often chuckle over his efforts at being funny.

I’ll grant that he did intersperse the stream of what he thought was good humor with notes about some landmarks we were passing. He pointed out the elementary school and secondary school he had attended as a child, an abandoned church, and ruins of the ancient fort of Dun Duchatair.

The landscape through which we passed helped distract us from his ceaseless commentary. The narrow paved road, bordered on each side by tall drystone walls, wound up over the spine of the island. In each direction other stone walls divided up the land into tiny plots, many of which held a small, tidy home with colorful flower gardens. Here and there a cow, a donkey, or some sheep grazed the lush green grass. Bushes but no trees only partially screened some of the homes.

Our first stop was the prehistoric stone fort of Dun Aonghasa, built at the edge of a sheer cliff over looking the Atlantic Ocean. Our guide informed us that since we would need more than an hour to climb the hill to the fort on the cliffs, he would drop us off and pick up another group of tourists he’d contracted with to move them along on their tour. We were not to worry, though; he would be back in time to take us through the remainder of a tour and back to Kilronan in time for our ferry.

There we were, already having given 10 Euros apiece to this joker. Could we trust him to be as good as his word? Gamely, we paid the small admission charge to the fort and started along a gently rising gravel path taking us upward toward the fort. Looking up, we wondered how we’d need so much time to see this site.

We soon discovered why. The nicely prepared path gave way to a more steeply rising way. “Paving” this path were limestone outcroppings, irregular row upon irregular row of stone, none of which was smoothed down for easy footing. Several wayfarers turned back at this point, but Barbara and I staggered on, appreciating that the fort had been wisely placed so as to slow down an enemy’s attack.

At the top we found a attractive grassy area. We climbed up to the innermost of the three protective walls that formed a huge semicircle. Inside the semicircle we approached the edge of a cliff with a 200- or 300-foot drop.

People were crawling on their stomachs to the edge of the cliff to look over the side at the sea far below. Barbara and I stayed upright, but we savored the fort’s spectacular, panoramic view of sea, cliffs, island, and mainland. The approach path was like an uptilted version of the Burren on the mainland below the Bay of Galway, the cliffs here reminiscent of the 700-foot Cliffs of Moher – both our destination a previous day.

Back outside the tourist shop, Bertie soon found us, I give him credit. Soon we were off on another road closer to the island’s north coast. Our guide had us explore a second site while he waited for us: a place called the Seven Churches. We walked amid the ruins of but two structures, one a church said to mark the grave of St. Brecan. Among the ancient gravestones here, one is dedicated to the memory of seven Roman saints. Bertie told us that the graveyard was still used for burials, the last one being just a few months previously.

Back in the minibus, as we climbed out of the hollow, Bertie pointed out the recently built, large and well-appointed circular stone building overlooking the ruins and the nearby inlet. Did we think this was some kind of new church? he asked. No, it was actually just an expensive private home.

During this final leg of our trip, Bertie had less time to devote to comic relief. He pointed out his own simple, well-kept home. We saw the island police station. We heard that electricity had only been brought to the island in 1975, and he told us how when a generator on the mainland supplying electricity to the island had failed the islanders seemed to welcome a brief return to the former days of candlepower. He even showed us the house especially built for the famous old movie “Man of Aran.” It’s still in use, with a fine example of the islander’s curragh or canoe-like boat overturned on the grass.

He slowed or even stopped occasionally to point out a small herd of cows, sheep, or donkeys with accompanying young. He drew up to call attention to a single beautiful gray-white Connemara pony. On cue it seemed, the pony moved to the stone wall and placed his nose quite close to my very seat window. What a winning photo op!

As the tour moved on, another Bertie began to emerge. On this even narrower road, he was forever stopping to wave another minibus by, offering the courtesy of the road and to us added chance to look around. A steady stream of islanders heading home from their trips to the village at the ferry slip, waved and gave him a friendly smile.

But the incident that settled our final view on Bertie took place as we neared a bend in the road. We came upon a trio of bike riders, a couple and their child, standing by the roadside looking out to sea.

Sensing what they wanted, he stopped the ‘bus, leaped out, grabbed the dad’s camera, and had them pose for photos with the sea in the background. All three showed how pleased they were.

Then, back on the ‘bus, he warned us not to hand our cameras over to strangers to have our picture taken. They might steal off with the camera.

With that he took us back to the dock in time to join our group on the ferry.

I’ll long remember Bertie. All in all, he had done more than simply show us some island scenery. He had allowed us to see this place as an island community that was his home and to appreciate the people living there.