They say that for those few who manage to make it to the shores of Skellig Michael, it will become the gem of their Irish travel experience. I can easily see how this is true. Skellig Michael is so rare of an experience mostly because it is heavily reliant on weather. My first day in Portmagee, my trip to Michael got cancelled due to "poor weather." This made no sense to me because the weather ended up being gorgeous. Cancelled trips, however, are a part of the Skellig Michael trip and only those very determined (like me and some others who waited an extra day), or those very lucky (who hit it on the first try), ever get to go.
And once we were out of the water, its easy to see why trips get cancelled so easily. The little boat we boarded swayed and dropped with the swelling waves--some so large I thought they would overtake the vessel. Skellig Michael is eight miles off the coast, and filled with treturous waters even on the best of days. I promptly got sea-sick from the rise and drop of the boat. Luckily, I didn't actually throw up, but it did not do well for my stomach and I had to concentrate on relaxing my knees and flowing with the motion. But if anyone thinks a little sea sickness would keep me from the railing taking picture after picture, they don't know me very well.
The sky was azure blue, the caps of the water brilliant white, and the wind was cool but not freezing--I laughed nearly the entire way, awed by the sheer cliffs of the coast and the shadow of the two mountain-islands up ahead. Who actually gets to do this, I remember thinking in stunned reverence, watching sea birds cleave through the air in such tight formations that they would put jet fighter pilots to shame.
We first circled Little Skellig, a rocky island with jutting peaks covered in white. Now what could be that white? I didn't even pause for a moment to think it was anything other than snow since that made the most sense to me--which is ridiculous to assume since the island is neither tall enough for snowy peaks, nor is the weather cool enough to support snow. Upon closer inspection, I noticed all that white was actually BIRDS. Thousands and thousands of Gannets breed at this island and the rocks are covered with them. Them and "all the rest of the bird," a Swiss tourist informed me, commenting that some of the white comes from the other end of the bird.
Gannets are not only beautiful--with their pure white feathers, bright yellow necks and black tipped wings, but rather large. Their wing span opens to one meter wide, no joke for a sea bird. The sky was filled with them and they gave off the most interesting calls that drowned out the sound of the waves.
While I was gazing at the birds, someone else cried, "Seal! Seal!" and nearly everyone on the boat oohed and ahhed over this elusive seal. "I'm the only one who doesn't see it," I said while they all tried to point it out to me. Then, rather suddenly, I caught a glimpse of its glossy head in the water. It swiveled its head and stared out at me with large, black eyes. "Ah!" I yelled, and the boat laughed because clearly I spotted it.
Once we landed, it was an immediate hike upward. At the tip of Michael, there is a very well-preserved 6th Century monastic complex. Known for their desire for isolation, it doesn't get more isolated than this--the beehive cells are more than 600 steps up to the top of the mountain. But even being eight miles off the coast and at the top of a mountain didn't stop the Vikings from raiding and killing many of the monks--one tactic being starvation--an easy thing to do considering the rough and unforgiving terrain. But Skellig Michael survived the attacks, and it was inhabited by a variety of monks until the mid-twelfth century, then later lighthouse workers would live in the monastery to tend after the lighthouse.
When they told us the steps up were narrow, uneven, and dangerous, they weren't kidding. I tried to keep a good pace, mostly because I didn't want to seem like the fat American, but at some places the black slate stairs were tiny and broken, and the air was thinner. At one point, in a near blind panic, I realized I couldn't catch my breath. I had to calm down and take it slower, pausing to take photos when I needed some extra air. The climb was extremely steep, the stairs winding up the cliff side and it was one of the few times that I realized if I fall, my first concern was no longer my camera. Sure, my camera would break, but so too would I. I decided falling was not on the agenda for the day.
I was lucky that our ship got us there early, making us one of the first at the top. I got to experience it without the mad flow of people, and walked (crawled, in some places) in to the beehive cells, touch the ancient stone crosses or stare out the view over the cliff sides. A historian waits at the top and gives a 45 minute lecture, which was delightful and extremely interesting. I think he must be in great shape to make that climb every day.
I left the top a little ahead of everyone, I wanted to take my time coming down and take more photos. A few others had the same idea and as we were going down, I lamented that I hadn't seen a puffin yet. Skellig Michael is the breeding grounds for Puffins and while a rare bird, one can often see one on the island. An American group (the same ones I warned about the mean cow the day before), stated that they had seen several already. I opened my mouth to wonder why I couldn't find one then right next to my foot, a Puffin left its tunnel home to poke its head out and look around. My hands literally shook as I set the settings on my camera and ripped off the lens cover. The little bird was something of a ham, posing for photo after photo, stretching its wings and even starting straight at me. Then he flew away, making a very graceless flight that sounded like "flub, flub, flub." They're almost humorous when they fly. Such pretty birds on the ground, they don't seem to do well in the air.
Tired, sunburned, but thoroughly satisfied and delighted, I returned to the boat which brought us back to shore. I had a delicious lunch of duck (why is it I see lambs, I eat lamb. I see birds, I eat duck?), and set out for the hour and a half trek for Dingle.
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=444959&id=794430163&l=64e11faf63
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