Constantly buffeted by sub-arctic ocean winds from the northeast, Inishmore, the western-most land barrier of Europe to the Atlantic, is not an easy environment to ride in with rickety rental bikes. Add to that a dire cycling sprint in a slanting downpour to catch a final boat with 40-pound backpacks, and the feat then becomes sporting.
That was our situation in early fall 2001. Molly and I had been on the largest of Ireland’s three Aran Islands for two days. It was the morning of our third and we were running out of time.
The last two nights we had camped in as idyllic an Irish country pasture as one can fathom — complete with stone walls, cow pies, thick tufts of grass and speckled with flowers. We had less than 10 minutes to race out of there with our tent before catching a 9 a.m. ferry to the smallest of the Arans, Inisheer.
After a night on Inisheer we would catch a boat back to the mainland of Ireland where our plane was scheduled to leave from Shannon International airport to Brussels, Belgium, two days later. It so happened that if we missed the ferry off Inishmore, we’d consequently miss our plane to Belgium and our European odyssey would be confronted with a complete quagmire.
This was the risk we took to see the unparalleled Poll na bPeist, translated from Irish Gaelic as ‘The Serpent’s Lair” or “The Worm’s Hole,” approaching high-tide. The Worm’s Hole, as I’ll refer to it from here, is an enigmatic geological phenomenon. Locals on Inishmore regard it primarily as a mystery, despite most of their generational familial roots being steeped in local lore and legend.
Similar to numerous other spots on the islands, the Worm’s Hole is what fishermen call a “blowhole,” or a shoreline window to subterranean caverns, which spurt out water each day as high tide approaches. What significantly differs about the Worm’s Hole from other blowholes, though, is that it’s a near-perfect rectangle, thus its culturally inexplicable nature. And to fully understand the extraordinary characteristics of this stunning natural wonder, which is as visually moving as any towering waterfall or raging river, one should review some background on the Aran’s geological and mythological make-up.
The Tri-toned, Lunar-like Landscape
Of the numerous creation tales of the Arans in Celtic mythology, one in particular stands out. The islands were created, it asserts, when Finn mac Cool, a famous magical figure in Irish lore, threw a large piece of land out to sea at an approaching ship of plunderers. The rock broke into four pieces. One of them sank, only to ambush the menacing ship from below and take down the villains’ vessel forever. The isles are explained by the other three pieces. Legend goes on to warn that if the fourth island ever appears, doom is imminent for the city of Galway.
The chain of the three above-water islands that make-up the Arans -- Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer -- lie at the mouth of Galway Bay off the country’s western coast. The Aran Islands are believed by scientists to have broken off millions of years ago from two physically unique regions on this coastline: Connemara and the Burren.
Directly to their north is the region of Connemara. This beautiful landscape of mountains (known locally as Bens), bogs, secluded lakes and ponds are bisected by deep lochs occasionally stretching over 10 miles inland. Connemara is about 35 square miles in size.
The geology of the Arans is similar to much of Connemara’s, with terraced, exposed sections of limestone, characteristically punctuated by paralleled fissures, commonly marking the landscape. In Connemara as in the Arans, hardy flora such as heather and peat (what the Irish have used for centuries as fuel for fire) grow between these linear sections of limestone.
The primary difference in the two landscapes is the topography. As Connemara is dramatically mountainous, the isles have only gradual inclines. Inishmore in particular can simply be described as a measured ramp rising steadily from sea level on its northeast shore up to a modest height on its southwest that drops off abruptly from 300-foot cliffs to the crashing surf below.
Southwest of the Arans and divided from Connemara by Galway Bay is the barren region known as the Burren. Comparable in area to Connemara and in topography to the Arans, the Burren is commonly likened to the surface of the moon. Also made up of limestone deposits, gigantic individual sections of this sedimentary rock with intact segments often stretching for nearly half a mile distinguish the Burren.
As one can imagine, the few plants that do grow in this environment are robust and perennial. Heather and peat abound here, as well as scrub plants such as hazels and hawthorns with a fortitude comparable to the manzanitas and sage of California’s chaparral.
The overwhelming deforestation throughout much of the country, especially on the Arans and in the Burren, is yet another feature that augments the distinctive physical identity of this region. Eventually, this aspect fades from one’s consciousness, though it is an ideal reminder of the long-inhabited history of Ireland as a contained region of land.
Indeed, when walking the extra-narrow and dilapidated roads throughout the Arans, the views are generally filled with the green of grid-partitioned paddocks, the grey of the stone walls that divide them, and the dull blue of the surrounding sea.
A picture of unforgiving beauty, this was the scene we raced through that September morning to glimpse the spouting Worm’s Hole. Scuba divers accurately define it as a 60 foot-deep (at high-tide), 20- by 45-foot window to an underwater passage large enough to drive a school bus through, which leads about 120 yards off shore.
The harsh power of tides and waves relentlessly wear down the rocky coastline on the southwest edge of Inishmore, and the Worm’s Hole (at right) was spawned over millennia from this eternal battle. Due to the island’s loads of carboniferous limestone, the feature naturally split on parallel and perpendicular angles, indicative of the sediment’s seemingly brick-layered formation.
Hence, when witnessed at the right moment, the Worm’s Hole can put on a staggering display of raging water that resembles the personal swimming pool of some forgotten pagan deity. This is why we had to see it approaching high tide, trans-continental transportational quagmire or not.
The Mistake and the Race
We were lucky enough to find the Worm’s Hole the previous evening, after having no luck seeking it out much of the day before. Unlike most of Inishmore’s other tourist attractions, it is not on the well-beaten trail and did not, at that time, include the typical complemintary historical and cultural facts. This also meant no admission fee.
No admission fee: the budget traveler’s formula for success. We soon learned to adhere to its logic with religious devotion. Appropriately, it yielded our most memorable experiences on the three-month-long dream season we spent wide-eyed throughout Western Europe.
Though, as with everything, this formula did not always compute agreeable results. The Worm’s Hole was located about half a mile from any paved road, restricting bicycle access and requiring at least a twenty-minute round-trip hike over the awkward formations of limestone.
Compared to the harrowing bike ride on plodding hillcrest roads and the winds and rains that seemed to hold us from behind by a rope, the hike was a rocky cakewalk. Nevertheless, we persisted in our unalterable mission and at 8:17 a.m., reached the Worm’s Hole to disappointment.
Apparently we had been told an inaccurate time of the tides. Or, rather, we failed to get reliable information. Regardless of where we placed the blame, high tide seemed more than several hours away. Unless we returned in time to catch the 9 a.m. boat leaving Inishmore in less than 45 minutes, we had possibly squandered several hundred dollars in plane tickets and months of saving and planning for a pleasant, but docile second viewing of what was supposed to have been some elemental riot.
We were determined not to allow this to happen. Looking back on it now, I’m baffled as to how we returned past the limestone scramble, four miles through the will-reaming weather, over ornery giant-back hills on rickety rental bikes to our campsite, even within that amount of time.
Regardless to say, we made it to the tent before 9 a.m., though only by withstanding a few trials and tribulations in the process. That was the easy part, without our backpacks.
The ride back to our campsite was about half the length of the island in distance. On the way out, the four miles took us a cool 13 minutes, primarily coasting downhill with the wind at our backs.
It goes without saying that the return trip spun a different story. We mutually decided, after assessing the situation together during the return hike (which we cut to under 10 minutes) to avoid as much climbing on the disagreeable bikes as possible. We resolved to stick to coastal roads, thus averting the hills of the interior.
We also decided that whoever seemed to be going faster should not slow down to wait for the other, and should begin packing the tent and bags as soon as he or she reached the site. After 10 minutes of pedaling, we were separated.
I’d gained about two minutes on Molly. By the time I arrived at the paddock, my quads hurt so bad it felt like I’d been grinding rocks through cogs propelled by my legs. I was also soaked to the bone.
My pruned, numbing hands fumbled with the wet nylon shelter. Despite lacking most of my motor skills, I managed to get the dripping tent packed in three minutes. It was 8:51 as Molly coasted to a stop near the closest rock wall.
If she’d not arrived then, I’d have not been able to find any clothes to warm myself for the last and most crucial leg of the race. And she knew what to do without exchanging words.
I caught and put on the wool sweater she tossed me after she rifled through my pack to find it. We helped one another into our humped kitchen sinks and awkwardly straddled our hogs, ready to attack with vigor the final mile stretch with only five minutes remaining.
In the planning stages before we’d left for Europe, we agreed that if we camped whenever we could we’d save a lot of money, although it’d require at least a tent and one sleeping bag and pad each. Along with clothes, camera, books, food and a stove, it eventually added up to roughly 40 pounds each. After all, it was the first extended packing trip for the both of us.
Swaying unbalanced on the cycle, I thought for the first time on the journey I may have over-packed. I don’t doubt Molly felt the same at that moment, as well. Our ray of hope in that darkening tunnel was that after a steep, short climb it was downhill all the way to the bike rental shop and the docks.
“Just pedal a little harder,” I kept telling myself, reverting back to psychological methods of physical training from my days of playing competitive soccer. It seemed as if every inch we went up the hill, two more were added on. And the pace we’d have been clocked at could have been accurately read in inches.
Luckily for our egos, the horse-drawn carriage that had been gaining on our meager clip from behind did not reach us before we crested the hill. While coasting down, we decided that Molly would handle the $20 deposit for the bike “hire,” as they call it in those parts, while I would drop the cycle at the shop’s door and break into a final sprint for the docks a few hundred yards away.
As we rode down into Kilronan, the Aran’s biggest town, we  both glimpsed our boat from across the harbor firing up its engines, untying its lines and readying for departure. Arriving at the bike hire shop, I immediately slid out the back tire like a tough 9-year-old and laid the machine down on its side, nearly tripping over my goofy and exhausted feet as they scrambled into a strained dash.
Blocking out yells from the bike shop employee (Molly would soon quell them), I silenced my universe and focused my energy, like a snake coiling to strike. The initial image I remember seeing as I returned to reality seconds later in full sprint was the wake of the boat lengthening from the furthest jetty of the harbor.
I instinctively turned to see Molly some 50 yards behind me stopped and slumped over her pack on the dock. It didn’t occur to me that the boat had left. I was in my own impervious zone and just kept running. I reached the end of the concrete jetty and before hurling one last wail of desperation toward the departing vessel, now at least 50 feet off shore, I saw it sluggishly begin to turn back toward the docks.
-- |