In Search of the Worm Hole (Part II)

In a thick accent, for likely he usually spoke Irish, the farmer began, "Ah, well there is another path up the road, but since you are here, you might as well go from here. You can walk through this gap in the fence and follow the fence to the sea. Do you see the two ledges out there?"

"Yes," I said.

He seemed skeptical. "You know what I'm talking about? There are two ledges. Well actually there are three, but you can't see the first one from here. The first one is sea level, where the waves break. Then there is the second one, you can see it, bare, without grass at all. Do you see it? Then there is the third ledge, the highest one. You want to follow the second ledge. When you reach it, walk out onto it past the grass, and walk under the cliffs - don't worry, they won't fall on you. Walk for five minutes, and there it will be, in front of you. But don't stop if you haven't seen it. Walk for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. You will see it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, thank you so much," I said.

"Go through this gap in the fence, and follow this fence, through another gap; keep following it until you see the three ledges. You will see how to get to the second one."

"The weather looks fine for it," the farmer said. I had not thought about this before. Surely the tourist literature would have mentioned if you weren't to go out to the worm hole at high tide or rough seas or even fierce winds that whipped about us now?

Sometime during the farmer's directions, Matt had arrived, prompting the farmer to tell again about the three ledges, obviously not believing that I had any idea what he was talking about. In truth, I was confused. This was the direction from which the worm hole could be "more easily" reached?

At the same time, I loved it. I loved that the farmer was tending to his few cows, not bothered a bit by a tourist wandering into his fields, uninvited. Allowing us to walk through his fields in order to not have to backtrack to the actual path that supposedly existed. I loved his accent, so thick it took me a sentence or two to adapt, to really understand what he was saying. Even so, I was not terribly certain of the directions, but we thanked him and moved on.

We squeezed through one gap in the fence, heading up to a higher field.

"Do you have any idea what he is talking about," I asked Matt.

"You see the second ledge?" Matt said, mimicking the farmer. But he had not much idea either.

Suddenly, the three ledges appeared above us. I understood. We just had to follow the fence a bit farther, clamor over it, and cross a shattered limestone field to arrive at our desired ledge. Not the first one, that is sea level. Not the third one, that is too high.



The beauty astounded me. Matt will point out how shocking it is that despite the chill in the air and the bitter wind, I still managed to love this place. No complaints from me, probably for once. All the pain of bike riding on this god-forsaken day and god-forsaken island, pushed to the back of my mind. Because we never would have reached the worm hole from a mini bus tour, nevermind reached it in this simple way. How many times had the farmer ventured to the worm hole? Had he visited it in his youth, out to make a fine day of it? Did he visit it now and still appreciate its awe? He walked with a limp, world-weary it seemed. I imagine he'd lived on this island his whole life. What did he think of these tourists who made a pilgrimage to his stark land? Did he feel pride for his homeland? Maybe he was pleased to share his knowledge with us. He was the old way.

On we scrambled, skipping from rock to rock. The waves crashed below us, on the first ledge. Presently we came upon a path, probably the one the farmer had mentioned. It wound around the edge of the rock field, but seemed to peter out near the ledges. Had we followed that path and not talked to the farmer, I don't know how we would have known which ledge to follow.

We emerged onto the second ledge, leaving the grass behind. We walked between the cliff down to the first ledge below us, and the bottom side of the ledge above us. Soon, the cliffs took on a life of their own. Chasms at the foot of the cliffs, where tiny waterfalls ran from cracks, growing algae and descending through, carving, paths to the sea. Giant boulders wedged under the cliffs, as if to hold them up for our delight. I could have spent a day here, at least, exploring from sea to shelf and back again. It would have been enough without the wormhole.





But presently, the cliffs above us turned back toward the land, leaving open space in front of me. This must be it, I thought, and I walked toward it, slowly, for the rocks were slippery and the wind grand. And there it was below me. I turned back to Matt, "hooray!"

I had not seen pictures. I had not given much though really to what the worm hole would look like. I imagined it might be circular, or fairly small like the blow holes I saw in Grand Cayman before a hurricane took them away forever. (The power of a storm!)

But the worm hole was a perfect rectangle. Perpendicular fractures through the granite. Its lip was down below me, on the first shelf I guess, so I peered down from above. The sea splooshed back and forth inside the chamber, while the waves came up onto the ledge, but did not spill over into the hole, maybe 10 yards away. One particularly big wave startled me. "Is the tide coming in?" I asked Matt. "Hmm," he responded. "Surely the farmer would have told us not to come if there would be danger," I professed. Matt agreed, allowing us to cavort about gaily, not worry about death being swept out to sea unless we took little care and slipped on the washed and rounded rocks, down to the ledge below. Or worse into the worm hole. And then out to sea, of course. Isn't that many a death faced by the islanders?

I kept my distance and braced myself in the wind.

Shortly we had to turn back. Matt was looking forward to Dun Aengus, the promontory fort, and so was I, as there would surely be unfenced cliffs there over which I could lean. And time was running short. Little did we know that exploring this island would have taken us well over a day. We were so hungry from our adventure, and yet we had no time to eat. There was much to sea before our ferry departed.

We scampered back, following the farmer's directions in reverse, hopping the fence, and heading back into the little village. The farmer was nowhere to be seen, but at least our bikes were still there.

I love the ocean, but I'd rather not swim in it. Give me the cliffs, the giant rocks, the lone flowers poking their heads through the cracks, stealing what little soil there is. Give me the starkness, the desolation, the windswept beauty.

At least for the day.