It is true that most of the Blasket Islanders I knew, admired and loved have now gone to their eternal reward. But I’ll never forget them – that wonderful group of men and women who were migrated by the Irish Land Commission from their insular abode to the mainland at Dún Chaoin, west Kerry, my native parish, in 1953. It is also true that some islanders were quite reluctant to leave at the time, although others were glad to exit this “bare” rock to make their fortunes elsewhere.
How would you describe those islanders to anyone who had not the pleasure of meeting them or making their acquaintance? That they were loquacious and articulate, “always on the point of bursting into poetry” is in no doubt; they were also inspirational, charismatic, musical, gregarious, interesting and, at times, quite funny. It was said of them once, by an eighteenth-century traveller, that they were “strong, healthy and lusty”, but that was before my time! They often pined for the island life they left out in the wild Atlantic and as the saying goes: “you can take an islander out of an island but you can never take an island out of an islander”.
As a boy I listened to their tales of living on the Great Blasket, only one mile out of Dún Chaoin, across the Blasket Sound, as the crow flies on a calm day, but the journey was usually three miles, one way, because of winds, tides and currents. There was often talk of great feats of seamanship in their little naomhóga (skin boats, elsewhere called currachs), of small and large catches of fish, of running up and down cliffs, of visitors to the island, called lá breás.
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The Blasket Island was always there for us to explore, as young Dún Chaoin boys and one of the greatest pleasures I had experienced as a garsún was my first trip in a naomhóg from the little pier in Dún Chaoin to the even smaller one on the great Blasket. It was very heaven as the naomhóg glided over the soft waves, driven by the power of three strong, weather-beaten oarsmen, all islanders, all speaking as Gaeilge.
Yes, all those “Blasketeers” (I hate that word!) had a story or six to relate and they could also sing and play the melodeon or the fiddle and were sought after for “ballnights” and hooleys and other recreational events.
It’s no wonder that I became interested in their social history and in their stories until eventually, after the passage of many years and some islanders of my acquaintance, I decided, like the noted Blasket author, Tomás Dhomhnaill Ó Criomthain, that I should write a bit about them, so that they would be “alive when we are dead”.
The result, after many years of research and interviews and poking in libraries and archives, was Scéal agus Dán Oileáin (The Story and Fate of An Island), which was published by Coiscéim in 2012. There was no one more surprised than I when the book came in at more than 600 pages, a veritable tome, if I say so myself!
Subsequently, I was urged by friends and relatives, to have the book translated into English – and I agreed, but found the task rather daunting. The saviour came in the form of the great poet, philosopher, writer and raconteur from Moyvane, the archangel, Gabriel Fitzmaurice.
It’s because of his support, encouragement and credo that we published An Island Community – The Ebb and Flow of The Great Blasket Island in Dingle recently. This book would not have been even materialised at this stage were it not for the support and drive of publisher Seán O’Keeffe, of Liberties Press, and his dedicated staff.
A long time ago, when reading An tOileánach (The Islandman) in the library of UCG, I penned the first verse of a poem which I have yet to finish:
“Ar bharra na haille do leath orm radharc mo shúl,
Ag breathnú thar muir dom ar an mBlascaod Mór anonn,
Ríocht Pheig, is ríocht Mhuiris, is Thomáis Uí Chriomhthain, ar ndóigh,
Is gan faic ann a thuilleadh, cé is moite de Rí Mhór na nDúl.”
An Island Community, The Ebb and Flow of The Great Blasket Island (Liberties Press) by Mícheál de Mórdha, translated by Gabriel Fitzmaurice
