Part III - Page 2

slung down from a considerable height on top of some sacks of flour
and my own bag, while the curagh swayed and battered itself against
the side.

When we were clear I asked Michael if he had got my letter.

'Ah no,' he said, 'not a sight of it, but maybe it will come next
week.'

Part of the slip had been washed away during the winter, so we had
to land to the left of it, among the rocks, taking our turn with the
other curaghs that were coming in.

As soon as I was on shore the men crowded round me to bid me
welcome, asking me as they shook hands if I had travelled far in the
winter, and seen many wonders, ending, as usual, with the inquiry if
there was much war at present in the world.

It gave me a thrill of delight to hear their Gaelic blessings, and
to see the steamer moving away, leaving me quite alone among them.
The day was fine with a clear sky, and the sea was glittering beyond
the limestone. Further off a light haze on the cliffs of the larger
island, and on the Connaught hills, gave me the illusion that it was
still summer.

A little boy was sent off to tell the old woman that I was coming,
and we followed slowly, talking and carrying the baggage.

When I had exhausted my news they told me theirs. A power of
strangers--four or five--a French priest among them, had been on the
island in the summer; the potatoes were bad, but the rye had begun
well, till a dry week came and then it had turned into oats.

'If you didn't know us so well,' said the man who was talking,
'you'd think it was a lie we were telling, but the sorrow a lie is
in it. It grew straight and well till it was high as your knee, then
it turned into oats. Did ever you see the like of that in County
Wicklow?'

In the cottage everything was as usual, but Michael's presence has
brought back the old woman's humour and contentment. As I sat down
on my stool and lit my pipe with the corner of a sod, I could have
cried out with the feeling of festivity that this return procured
me.

This year Michael is busy in the daytime, but at present there is a
harvest moon, and we spend most of the evening wandering about the
island, looking out over the bay where the shadows of the clouds
throw strange patterns of gold and black. As we were returning
through the village this evening a tumult of revelry broke out from
one of the smaller cottages, and Michael said it was the young boys
and girls who have sport at this time of the year. I would have
liked to join them, but feared to embarrass their amusement. When we
passed on again the groups of scattered cottages on each side of the
way reminded me of places I have sometimes passed when travelling at
night in France or Bavaria,