The stack is only a stump now, but the beach at its foot is as golden and prehistoric-looking as ever. Faill a' Staic∅n, or Cliff of the Stack, in Ring, is cut off from the rest of the world. Only the agile and those in the know - admittedly, quite a few - find their way. But once you stand at the top and look down, it's hard to resist.
Empty. Brilliant. It's ours. You can sit at the top and watch the sea or go down immediately. And so the descent begins.
Ropes, crampons and mountain boots would help, but usually we wing it in sandals or runners, carrying towels and bags with flasks, sandwiches and swimsuits.
We choose our route: the smooth and dangerous rock face or the narrow sloping channel called the chimney. We begin, forming a link, to help the youngest or maybe the oldest member down. Feet go on knees, shoulders, backs. It's physical and precise. This year we'll bring eight-year-old Joseph Foley, our youngest recruit, for the second time. He's been asking to go.
At the foot of the cliff, you race across the boulders and the slippery seaweed, the rocky outcrops and pools of water. You run like a goat, up, down, sideways, risking a twisted ankle with every jump but feeling like Rudolf Nureyev as you fly across to the strand.
Sometimes picnickers arrive by boat. To those who've suffered to get there, it's almost cheating, but we forgive them.
All the time, the sun is sparkling on the sea, the sand is glistening and you think you'll never get there quick enough to go for a swim. It's not always warm and sun-blessed, but in our minds it is. Agus riail amhβin eile: Gaeilge a ·sβidtear mβs fΘidir th∅os ar an ngainmneach sa Ghaeltacht.
