| EXCERPT |
My first experience of [Clare
island] began weirdly. Noting that its botany was curiously unknown,
my wife and I crossed over from Roonah Quay in the post-boat
on an evening in July 1903. It was dead calm, with an oily roll
coming from the west. All the hills around were smothered in
a white mist, which over the island formed an enormous arch,
solid enough seemingly to walk on, and descending nearly to sea-level.
We lurched slowly across in an ominous stillness, and darkness
descended before it was due, as we explored the island, all was
dense mist and heavy rain, still without wind, and all day we
fretted in our little cottage, unable to move. Late in the day
the rain ceased, and a strange red glow, coming from the north-west,
spread through the thinning fog. We hurried out to the north
point of the island, and there, just sinking into the ocean,
was a blood-read sun, lighting up dense inky clouds which brooded
low over the black jagged teeth of Achill Head, rising from a
black sea tinged with crimsom. It was a scene fitted for Dante's
Inferno, and if a flight of demons or of angels had passed
across in the strange atmosphere it would have seemed quite appropriate,
and no cause for wonder.
☐ pp. 184-185 (cited by Timothy
Collins)
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