Skellig Michael is a rock jutting 217 meters straight out of the Atlantic swell some 14 km off Ireland’s westernmost coast. It bears the brunt of what the Gulf Stream throws at the mainland, so it is fiendishly hard to land on. Nevertheless, it’s been visited since Celtic times by the odd persevering pilgrim — druids were drawn to the impossible fresh-water spring on its cliffs, and in the 6th century, a hermit went to live on its grassy summit, closer to God. A few more pilgrims stayed, and thus Ireland’s most fabled hermitage came to be. There were never more than a handful of monks present, but over the centuries they built a warren of beehive huts at the summit, and carved steps into the cliffsThey held out until the 13th century, when climate change forced them to abandon the monastery. Detailed histories of the island can be found here and here..

Skellig Michael is on the left, further away. Little Skellig, a bird sanctuary, looms on the right.

Until Irish monks discovered Iceland in the 9th century, Skellig lay at the edge of the world. Ships rounding Ireland had to pass by it or flounder founder on its cliffs. Vikings took an interest, and raided the monastery in 812, and again in 823. In 993, the viking Olav Trygvasson visited, was impressed, and came away baptised. He went back to Norway, became King Olav I, and forcibly converted his country to Christianity. Norwegians, then, have Skellig to thank for their religionScilly Islanders are under the impression Olav was baptised on their islands. Both Scilly and Skellig (Sceilig in Irish) are derived from the Gaelic word for rock. But it’s Skellig that had the hermits, and it’s Skellig that induces the fear of God in people. Vikings would have had coddled Scilly islanders for breakfast. The original account (including a mistranslation of Sceilig) is here (scroll down to para. 32). It’s gripping reading, what these vikings got up to..

This is Little Skellig, close up. The white specks are thousands of birds.

Almost a thousand years later, a Norwegian returned the favor. Thirty kilometers to the North of Skellig, some 5 km off the end of Dingle peninsula, lie the Blasket Islands, Skellig lookalikes save for the largest, Great Blasket, a long narrow ridge with grassy slopes. It too is often made unapproachable by the Atlantic swell, but for hundreds of years it supported a hamletful of fishermen farmers.

This community was perhaps Ireland’s remotest. By the turn of the 20th century, most of Ireland had switched to English, but Blasket Islanders still spoke Irish, though their numbers were thinning. In 1907, the Norwegian linguist Carl Marstrander visited Great Blasket and soon had the islanders convinced they were a living treasure of language and folklore. He proved to be the proverbial grain of sand in the oyster; the villagers began to write, and the result was a splendid and prolific literary harvest. Marstrander and his protégés got to the island just in time; the village was abandoned in 1953.

The northwest coastline of Great Blasket Island, looking southwest towards America.

I visited both Skellig and Great Blasket last week. I wasn’t able to set foot on Skellig — the swell was too great on the appointed day — but the island was certainly imposing. George Bernard Shaw’s own account of his visit finds him grasping for words, so I won’t even attempt my own rendition, at least not until I set foot on the island, next time. As our little boat bobbed in the wash of the waves crashing against the rocks, the three most annoying of the 12 passengers threw upNo, Felix, I wasn’t one of them., to my great satisfaction. One of them was an unpleasant German who had previously been snarky about my picture-taking, in German to his wife, but I had understood him perfectly. The captain merely smiled and looked away — at 35 euros a head, I wouldn’t mind rinsing landlubber vomit off my boat either. Perhaps Skellig is closer to God.

The Blasket Islands seen from Dunquin, the closest village on the mainland.

Great Blasket Island is on the verge of being discovered by mainstream tourism. There is a visitor center in place on the mainland, and a 3-room hostel and cafe are open for the duration of the summer, when the island is serviced by a small ferry. For now, many of the visitors are daytrippers of a literary bent; they’ll navigate the abandoned village, book in hand, retracing the steps of the characters they’ve read about. Some come for a few days, erecting tents in the husks of abandoned cottages, in search of shelter, and a little horizontal space on this diagonal island.

The northwest coastline of Great Blasket Island, looking northeast towards the Dingle peninsula.

My own appreciation of the islanders’ literary feats came after I visited. The day I was there, I merely clambered around the island, seeking more and more incredible views. Now that I’ve read Peig’s stories, and Eibhlis’s letters, and as I’m in the middle of The Islandman, their lives are being evoked with an immediacy that few books I’ve read can muster. The whole collection forms a web of narratives spanning generations, sharing characters, yet each with an honest, distinct perspective.

So there you have it: An island of Irish monks and an island of Irish writers, both intimately linked to Norway. It’s stranger than fiction.