The Great Blasket Islands

Visits long ago to the Blaskets Islands, to untouched areas on the Dingle peninsula came to mind on this sleet winter’s eve. The peninsula, nestled in heather mountains. The coastline, tongues of lonely white sand. waved rocks, drenched in blue mussels tide pools, alive with shrimps and periwinkles A sea-salted life unspoiled and free. Only marine life remains, but I still hear the music our native language, the voices of Seanchaí the ballads, sean?s, Peig Sayers who shaped our school years, her renditions of island life her mad pise?gs, handed down from generation to generation. Stories of Islanders huddled together under thatch, open turf fires cooking pot on a hook, the sweet air wafting of clay pipe tobacco a pinch of snuff sniffed from a silver box, nursing a glass of neat Poitín, uisce beatha, the strong smell of tweeds and geansaí báinín. I think of times lost, changed forever. Cottage ruins, where goats roam free, An Blascaod Mór my history, my heritage. Gaelic words in this poem * Seanchaí – storytellers Sean?s – singing without music Peig Sayers and her mad pise?gs – A Gaelic writer who we studied in school and her mad superstitions. Poitín, uisce beatha – very strong alcohol made from potatoes, called the water of life. geansaí báinín – strong sheep wool sweaters usually in a cream colour with complex patterns.