I always enjoyed lobster fishing in summer and early autumn, by the side of the great Skellig Michael. For me personally it had an emotive influence. I felt the power and natural beauty of the place, so complete in colour and formation. Wild, savage beauty on the one and, blending harmoniously with great beds of near-crimson sea pinks and cliff-dwelling clumps of brittle little white, yellow and blue flowers, filling the hollows and rock crannies between the stately spires of weather-worn multicoloured rock of slate blue and grey, including a mixture of brownstone and marble veins, iron and geodic rock crystals. The brittle flowers I have referred to, a lightkeeper told me that climbers called them dead mens flowers.
The approach to the rock on a sunny day presents a picture of colour only to be found in the secluded bowers of isolated nature, exuding tranquillity and sheer beauty. The various sea-fowl flitting lightly among the rocky peaks or nesting in the caves, give evidence of a constant sustenance of life and order, combined with an aura of peace, unbroken by the intrusion of man.
This is an extract from Skelligs Calling, published with kind permission of the author and his publishers, the Lilliput Press.
Remembering a day in my youthful thirties, while ashore on the Skelligs, I rested on a lofty rock ledge overlooking the Blue Mans Cave where I could gaze down into the clear green depths, to where the water was calm and lightly ruffled. I noticed a school of mackerel circling and also hundreds of glossan Pollock moving very slowly, while in another cave near at hand, a school of porpoise seemed to be either hunting or playfully cavorting, puffing and diving, never leaving a seemingly chosen area. Several great black-backed gulls stood on points overlooking the marine display, as if in total indifference. I suddenly became aware of a puffin flying in from sea and heading straight toward me, only to land on the ledge just an arms length away.
Now, I had read about St Francis and his way with birds and wild animals, but other than that, the good saint and I had nothing in common. For a while I was afraid to move or breathe lest I disturb my feathered companion. At the same time I couldnt help admiring the perfect colour scheme nature had arranged for its plumage. The creature seemed to accept me as another wild species, an appraisal I would be happy to get away with. The bird completely ignored my intrusion into its domain. I thought was this the land of ultimate bliss where the lion shall lay down with the lamb? Strive as I may to become a lamb, the transition would only be miraculous.
But what has all this got to do with lobster fishing? Where you have sea and rocks you are sure to find seabirds, but as the wise old fisherman said: Ní fios cá bhfaighfeá gliomach (You can never be sure where youd find a lobster). It was during the lobster season that I was able to observe more closely the great rock in all its aspects, and above all, its crowning glory the old-world monastery, a masterpiece of its time and an inspiration of wonder. Every quarried stone, from the heavy slab to the rough splinter spoil, found a place in the scheme. Hundreds of tons of stone were quarried, lifted and carried and set by skilful artisans who must have worked like Trojans. They built walls of dry stone on the edge of overhanging cliff-face which have stood the test of centuries. Theirs was undoubtedly a labour of love. They were craftsmen whose ancestors had emerged from the Stone Age. They evidently wanted to get away from the hurly-burly of the world, seeking the peace which the risen Christ had promised when he said: The peace I leave you is not of this world.
Alas, their dream of seclusion and peace was rudely shattered in the 9th century, by the plundering greed of the Northmen.
The beehive, dome-shaped cells, completely habitable, leave a legacy to be marvelled at. The completed settlement, surrounded by an outer rampart of solid stone wall protecting and enclosing the entire structure, was at the time a massive undertaking. The evidence is to be found in the amount of work left behind by those early Christian monks, suggesting the occupation and construction on Skellig Michael started at a very early date and spread over many centuries therefore, perhaps it is safe to assume that Rome wasnt built in a day.
Another distinctive feature of the rock is its two lighthouses, one now electronically controlled from the mainland. The earlier lighthouse, built up high on the north-west corner, was abandoned. It is suggested that early mariners complained of the lamp being often obscured by low cloud.
Now I must return to the realm of a lobsterman, and to the reality of hard work, and as this document relates to fin, fur and feather, give variety to the menu by adding plenty of shellfish. Lobster traps must be baited and set in the most likely ground, usually by the side of the reef which extends westwards from Skellig Michael called Na mná (The washerwoman). In the 1920s and 1930s the reef teemed with red crayfish. Now, as a result of over-fishing, illegal diving and nets, crayfish will soon become an endangered species.
In those days we carried eighty large unwieldy barrel-traps that today would be considered old-fashioned in comparison with modern equipment. Our ropes were fibre grass, which chafed and raised blisters on our hands. Mechanical winches were unheard of in our neck of the trade. When hauling by hand in deep water, all that was required was a strong back and a weak mind. We overcame the chafing somewhat by improvisation, using old part-worn woollen socks as mittens, cutting a hole for the thumb.
Now, what would a fisherman wish to find in a trap? Lobsters and crayfish, of course, but if wishes were lobsters, a fisherman could become a wealthy merchant perhaps. But woe betide, this is not always the case. The worst and most unwelcome freeloader of all is the conger eel, a dangerous and powerful marauder causing havoc and disruption to the fishing gear. In those days we didnt have a market for red edible crab, which were most numerous, and are up to the present plentiful.
All the species I have found in tidal rock pools and have already mentioned, come as unwelcome guests to dine at the lobstermans expense. Tonight I will overhaul my lobsterpots, evict unwanted tenants, and replace torn or missing baits. I must use a number of different fish pieces to attract lobster. Salted mackerel is my first choice, but alas congers love salt mackerel and so I must use other fresh bait like pieces of fat bollan wrasse, which we get in our trammel net; fresh gurnard we get from the trawlers. Small flatfish, any kind of bait, scraps of fish not used for sale; I have tried pieces of meat, and portions of conger eel, and parts of drowned seafowl. Meat seemed to be rejected by the most voracious freeloaders who frequented our lobster table. Now, having prepared our traps, let us set them in the most likely places for the evening, to dusk haul. The lobster is a hermit, but will sally forth if attracted by the smell of bait in twilight.
It was an evening to remember, sixty-five years ago. Jim brought the Island Rover to a gentle stop in shelter of the Blue Man, telling me to cast the mooring stone, the great ocean like a millpond. It seemed so unreal, as if all nature was resting. The boat swung gently to the mooring, the only sound the gurgling ebb and flow of the darkening water between the rock fissures in the caves.
We put the kettle on and made ourselves mugs of nice hot tea, with delicious crab claws and slices of boiled crayfish tail, not forgetting homemade bread and butter. It was our usual cheap fare, but this evening, somehow, it seemed special. Then Jim said suddenly, Well lay our head, before we make the last haul. Ah, but Jim was like Napoleon, who only had to hit the pillow and was gone. The last rays of a declining sun filtered like threads of gold, as if sown specially, through the Needles eye and into the valley of Christs saddle, lighting up the ramparts of the old monastery, casting a last soft glow of lingering light along the south face of the rock. I couldnt sleep perhaps not tired enough to relax looking up at the old settlement walls and listening to the plaintive calling of roosting kittiwakes, mixed with the lone-call of a passing gull. I could not help thinking of how many beautiful evenings such as this, centuries ago, did the monks of Skellig Michael chant their evensong of prayer in praise of the Risen Christ.
This poem for the occasion, I dedicate to my skipper, Jim Fitzgerald.
The Last Haul
At last, a gentle silver mist
Shuts out
The torment of my brain
And like a child
Rocked in a chariot
Of sleep,
Sweet peace
Begins to reign.
I listened
To the vesper song
Slice through
The twilight eve
And kneeling there
Within their shadowed cells
I thought I heard
The hooded men
With upraised palms
Tell Christ
We owe you love.
I listened
To the kittiwakes complain
Within
The Blind Mans Cave,
The clamping
of the Northmans oars,
The stealthy rush
Ashore,
The clash of axe and spear,
A warrior
Of flaxen hair,
A stolen
Golden cup
Held in his grasp.
And all is peace
Once more
Until I hear Jim call,
Awake, its the last haul.
Skellig Michael was plundered three times by the Vikings in the 9th century, eventually forcing the decimated order to abandon the rock and build the Priory called St Michaels near Horse Island. It is ironic, and interesting also, to note that what the Danes failed to achieve in the 9th century, Elizabeth I and Oliver Cromwell carried out on a more grandiose scale of total suppression and annihilation. The last Fransiscan monk was captured and beheaded on Scarriff Island in Ballinskelligs Bay by Cromwellian forces, bringing monastic Christianity in Ireland to face a grim future. The Ireland of saints and scholars became engulfed in the funeral pyre of St Olivers firebranding yeomanry. The Priory at Ballinskelligs, known to us today as the Abbey, was razed to the ground and its monks exterminated.
