Heart Beat Maurice NeliganLaurence Sterne wrote that "men tire themselves in pursuit of rest". This is a conundrum of retirement. The longed for, dreamed of days of calm and quiet never seem to materialise. There is never enough time for everything you want to do; there is never enough time for all the books you had intended reading.
Some time ago, I promised my sister and brother-in-law that when they visited us in Kerry this summer, I would take them out to Skellig Michael. This seemed a good idea at the time, discussed in a relaxed atmosphere with good food and wine.
These kinds of airy promises have a way of presenting themselves for fulfilment and, accordingly, I found myself in Portmagee last Sunday morning awaiting Eoin Walsh's boat, the Aengus Olibhear, which was to bear us out to the islands.
The boat duly arrived and we were handed down into same. At this stage I had my first faint premonition that I was not as lithe as heretofore and that memories of a trip of some years before might well have been softened by the passage of time.
It was a lovely morning with only a light breeze, and our small group of tourists/pilgrims settled down happily for the voyage. I remarked hopefully to our skipper, Eoin, that it seemed calm enough.
He replied enigmatically that it would be choppy enough beyond "the heads". He was right of course, and facing into the wind and tide we set sail on our nine-mile journey. We passed Bray Head on our right (I mean starboard) and on our port side we passed the three Death Rocks, a piece of information that I did not share with my travelling companions.
Bolus Head was cleared to the south and then Puffin Island. Wrapped in oilskins, we took stock of our surroundings. Looking back, there was a magnificent receding view of the Kerry coastline and dead ahead the Skelligs slowly grew on the horizon. The first gannets appeared, swooping low over the waves, and occasionally a sail was glimpsed in the distance.
The only characteristic I may share with the Ancient Mariner might be the ability to bore you all, but I must confess that the rolling sea is not my preferred environment.
The medical consequence of the choppy condition soon affected our little group despite exhortations to fix eyes firmly on the horizon and not to move your head.
The gannets became more numerous and our first puffins were seen riding the swell with considerably more aplomb than ourselves. We passed under the lee of the Little Skellig, which was wall-to-wall gannets, and duly noted a few disinterested seals lounging on the rocks at the base of the cliffs.
Finally, we crossed the stretch of water between the islands, heading for our landing at Blind Man's Cove. For what can be a very difficult landing, ours was totally uncomplicated and thus we were marooned for 2½ hours.
Now it was that memory and reality really clashed. I remembered a gentle stroll up the 600 or so steps to the monastery. Reality, and the realisation that I was probably the oldest person on the island, told me that I should have more sense than to be here at all.
Pride stirred and I banished such thoughts and set off for the top. As I proceeded, I became acutely conscious of the passage of years. Hips, knees, balance and cardiovascular system were rigorously examined. Incongruously, I was reminded of Marilyn Monroe's remark when chided for being rude to the late Harold Macmillan, then prime minister of the UK: "who dat guy, dat old stumblebum?" I was that soldier.
I reached the middle of the climb at the area known as Christ's Saddle, rested briefly and for the first time looked down. That was not a good idea. Then I set off again on a very steep section of the path that was devoid of handholds on either side.
I was proceeding slowly upwards, like some form of demented crab, when disaster struck: I wrenched my back.
My heroic struggle to reach the top would require another volume, but eventually sanctuary was achieved in this wondrous place.
I wondered like everybody else at the motivation of the monks who had established their monastery on this isolated rock, 600 ft above sea level. How they built it, how they subsisted, how long they lived; all these questions presented themselves.
"Cells that freeze/ The thin pale monks upon their knees/ Bodies worn with rites austere/ The falling tear - Heaven's King loves these." (Flower, from the Gaelic.)
Not only is the monastery an oasis of calm and peace, but on the other peak of the island a hermitage was constructed 700 ft sheer above the sea. The path to this is no longer accessible to the public, but was once a well-known penitential pathway.
It required a firm nerve and a head for heights. When the penitent reached the summit, he or she edged out astride a pinnacle of rock known as "the spit" and kissed the cross at its extremity. On either side there was a vertical drop to the sea.
They were some men, these monks.
"Melodious bell/ That is struck in a night of wind/ I had rather make tryst with it/ Than with wanton womankind." (Carney, from the Gaelic.)
Maybe there is another clue there. The lads were chased out - anything for a quiet life. If you have not been to Skellig Michael, come here and feel the power and spirituality of this holy place. It will more than repay the effort.
Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon