This passage is part of an account written 100 years ago.
It was written by someone who went to live on Inishmaan, a remote island off the
west coast of Ireland.
It describes his first journey to his new home, and his impressions of it.
Early this morning the man of the house came over for me with a curagh — that is, a
boat with four rowers and four oars on either side, as each man uses two — and we
set off a little before noon.
It gave me a moment of exquisite satisfaction to find myself moving away from
civilisation in this rough canvas canoe of a type that has served primitive races since
people first went on the sea.
We had to stop for a moment at a vessel that is anchored in the bay, to make some
arrangements for the fish-processing. When we started again, a small sail was run up
in the bow, and we set off across the water with a leaping up-and-down motion that
had no resemblance to the heavy movement of a larger boat.
The sail is used only as an aid, so the men continued to row after it had gone up, and
as they occupied the four cross-seats, I lay on the canvas at the stern and on the
frame of slender wooden laths, which bent and quivered as the waves passed under
them.
When we set off it was a brilliant morning of April, and the green, glittering waves
seemed to toss the canoe among themselves, yet as we drew nearer this island a
sudden thunderstorm broke out behind the rocks we were approaching, and caused a
momentary tumult in this still vein of the Atlantic.
We landed at a small pier, from which a rough track leads up to the village between
small fields and bare sheets of rock like those in Aranmor. The youngest son of my
boatman, a boy of about seventeen, who is to be my teacher and guide, was waiting
for me at the pier and guided me to his house, while the men settled the curagh and
followed slowly with my baggage.
My room is at one end of the cottage, with a boarded floor and ceiling, and two
windows opposite each other. Then there is the kitchen with earth floor and open
rafters, and two doors opposite each other opening into the open air, but no windows.
Beyond it there are two small rooms of half the width of the kitchen with one
window apiece.
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The kitchen itself, where I will spend most of my time, is full of beauty and
distinction. The red dresses of the women who cluster round the fire on their stools
give a glow of almost Eastern richness, and the walls have been toned by the turfsmoke to a soft brown that blends with the grey earth-colour of the floor. Many sorts
of fishing-tackle, the nets, and the oiled skins worn by the fishermen, are hung upon
the walls or among the open rafters; and right overhead, under the thatch, there is a
whole skin from which they make leather sandals.
Every article on these islands has an almost personal character, which gives this
simple life, where all art is unknown, a natural artistic beauty. The curaghs and
spinning-wheels, the tiny wooden barrels that are still much used in place of
earthenware, the home-made cradles, churns, and baskets, are all full of
individuality; and being made from materials that are common here, they seem to
exist as a natural link between the people and the world that is about them.
Explanation: You can read the passage if it helps.
