Emer McLysaght: Would an island like Arranmore welcome a blow-in like me?

Anyone who’s ever had a late night in Smugglers’ Nightclub on Arranmore Island is surely amused by the commotion around the news that 6am nightclub openings are to be permitted under new licensing laws. Living in such a remote place as a 22 sq km rock rising from the Atlantic Ocean off the far northwest coast of Donegal must come with some compensatory perks, and deciding for themselves when the island’s only nightclub should close for the evening (or morning) is one of them, according to local chat.

The 6am limit will not be novel to Smugglers’ patrons, it would seem. A degree of relatively harmless lawlessness is surely one of the fringe benefits of living in an isolated place.

I’m on a third visit to Arranmore in four years. The first time I was here I learned, to my amusement, that the island didn’t have a Garda station or a permanent Garda presence. Instead there were semi-regular visits by a member of the force to carry out necessary duties and hear from residents with concerns. I happened to be on Arran for such a visit, and witnessed the Garda car travelling around various premises before reversing back on to the ferry to return to Burtonport harbour on the mainland.

In 2021 a dedicated community Garda was appointed for the island after some June Bank Holiday unrest and visitors engaging in disorderly behaviour. Local media reports suggested islanders feared that Arranmore was becoming a destination for alcohol-fuelled day trips.

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The idea of bringing The Dryrobe Wars to this heavenly rock is obscene

When I think about moving to an island like Arranmore – and I do often think about it – I worry about how welcome someone like me, or indeed anyone who is an “outsider” might be. Small islands by their nature are insular. Arran, with its rugged west coast, is populated mostly in the east with a population of 469 recorded in 2016.

My current visit has occurred over Halloween and as the children in my party went out trick-or-treating on October 31st, their accompanying adults reported that there was gently but insistent questioning at some of the houses they visited. Whose house were we staying in? Where had we come from? How many of us were there? As a nosyhole myself I appreciated the questioning. I’d be exactly the same.

[ Emer McLysaght: Ireland is unmatched in conjuring up scary old ladies ]

The trick-or-treating also yielded heartwarming displays of welcoming kindness. As we are visitors here, we were not aware of the decent trick-or-treating spots and so several of the residents were not expecting our knocks. Treats in the form of a few bob or a packet of biscuits were hastily rustled up to avoid disappointing the dead cheerleader, silver demon, scary vampire, terrifying ghostface and miniature Harley Quinn.

I had stayed behind to man our own sweet dispensary, and was surprised by the seven or eight groups who made their way to our fairly remote door. Some were fellow visitors, some were local children and teenagers. All were delightful.

[ Emer McLysaght: Have I somehow stolen another person’s pet without realising it? ]

I worry about patronising the island, in both senses of the word. While our group came in three cars laden with supplies for a week, we are also keen to spend some money locally. There aren’t many ways to spread it around during a late autumn trip, but several visits to Phil Ban’s shop and pub have been made. The small shop is really the only source of supplies on the island, and operates an opening schedule more in line with 1980s or 90s Ireland rather than the dawn to dusk services I’m used to in Dublin.

My amusement at such limited convenience feels patronising. I only have to endure it for a week or so. Could I live with it? Would I be able to stick it? Would they laugh at this wan from the Pale who thinks the ferocious winds that bend the panes of glass on the Airbnb windows are exciting?

Nothing I’ve experienced on Arranmore has led me to believe I’d be anything but welcome, but I live in a city where the use of the literal open sea is gatekept

It’s not as if Arranmore isn’t welcoming. In 2017, a community council of residents formed after the 2016 census showed a drop of around 150 people. They published an open letter inviting people to move to Arranmore, aimed particularly at Americans and the island’s diaspora around the world. Relocating to a brisk and beautiful Irish island sounds utopian, but it’s not much use if you don’t have the infrastructure to support working from home or setting up a business.

In 2018, Three mobile chose Arranmore as a demonstration of how its services can transform rural and remote areas. You might have seen the television ads. Between the improved internet and the open letter, the island gained some new residents. Why then do I feel like I’d be intruding if I made a similar move?

I think there’s a terrible fear of being accused of whatever the rural island version of gentrification is. Blow-in-ification? Nothing I’ve experienced on Arranmore has led me to believe I’d be anything but welcome, but I live in a city where the use of the literal open sea is gatekept. The idea of bringing The Dryrobe Wars to this heavenly rock is obscene. I don’t even own a Dryrobe though, so maybe they’ll have me. Más é do thoil é?