I spent the day walking on Inishmore. It’s one of the weather- and wave-beaten Aran Islands which, on a blustery day, seem to be gulping seawater off the west coast of Ireland. Locals, keenly aware that they’re on the west fringe of Europe, are fond of saying, “The next parish over’s Boston.” An elfish, black-clad farmer, determined to make the most of a break in the clouds, invites me to help him turn his hay. Drying in the breeze, it’s destined to become a hearty salad for his cows.
We talk. It’s what you do in Ireland. I ask him if he was born here. Thoughtfully and slowly, as if reviewing his many years, he answers, “No, ‘twas ‘bout five miles down the road.” Later I asked him if he had lived here all his life. A smile ignites his weathered face as he says, “Not yet.”
