The triangle of Atlantic Ocean between Doolin, Inis Oírr, and the Cliffs of Moher is dark dusky blue, nearly black in some places except for the whitecaps. Crashing waves sprayed sea water onto the deck of our ferry, splattering us. Forty minutes after boarding in Doolin, cold and quite wet, we landed on the smallest of the Aran Islands. We were drenched down to our fuzzy wool socks.
The crowd of queasy ferry passengers spilled out onto the dock with sea-sick desperation, plunging into a gauntlet of shouting horse carriage drivers and bike renters each hawking their best fares—in fierce competition to snag the most tourists. Amid the chaos, a stoic dog sat in a tractor bucket, observing the frenzy with an unimpressed gaze, patiently awaiting his farmer's return.
It’s best to explore Inis Oírr by foot or bicycle, where the horse carriages cannot go. Savor the island slowly, with an easy stroll and periodic pauses to inhale the sweet air and relish the views. Meander along serpentine stone walls, through tiny homesteads strung intermittently along the bumpy dirt roads (only 250 residents live on the island), past cows and horses, by castle ruins, to the top of emerald green hills, and down to the beaches. Wander the graveyard on top of a grassy hill, with stunning Celtic crosses set against the bright blue sky. Call on the ruins of O’Brien’s Castle atop a breezy peak—stone walls spidering across the farmlands below.
Back onto the ferry, a short trip to the base of the towering Cliffs of Moher—bands of Namurian sandstone, siltstone, and shale formed more than 300 million years ago exposed to the salty air as if a knife sliced through the cliff face and laid its layers bare. My first visit to this magnificent natural wonder was at the top of the Cliffs, where the 40mph winds made it difficult to walk (100mph is common, easily lifting vehicles from the ground). This time, a new perspective—looking up at the staggering 700-foot cliffs rising out of the churning greenish-blue Atlantic, whitecaps breaking at its base.
