A rough boat journey and a seemingly impossible climb on Skellig Michael brings Eileen Battersby to one of the world's most fascinating monastic sites
Part adventure, part odyssey and definitive privilege, a visit to Skellig Michael, once an austere Atlantic monastic settlement, now a World Heritage site off the Co Kerry coast, is a humbling one on several counts.
Aside from the courage, vision and resourcefulness of those master builders, the ancient monks, there is the ocean itself. The often angry swell that surrounds the two islands - for Skellig Michael is flanked by a smaller and even more elusive companion rock fortress and bird haven - is a test of boatman, pilgrim, archaeologist, birdwatcher, lighthouse enthusiast and tourist alike.
Weather conditions dictate here, and as many thwarted visitors including the great Robert Lloyd Praeger testify, arrival at Portmagee and Valentia does not guarantee a visit to the island. It was here, despite, or rather, because of its remoteness, seventh possibly sixth century Irish monks first established a monastery, and with it an ingeniously defiant hermitage, set to inspire all who are drawn to this singular destination.
"They [the Skelligs\] are one of the few places in Ireland which, to my sorrow, I have not succeeded in reaching" recalled Praeger in The Way That I Went (1937). "Thrice I waited about Valencia [sic\] for a good day, but the sea continued to run high, and landing was declared impossible, though it was midsummer. I suppose it is salutary that some of one's desires in this world should remain unfulfilled."
Even now, long after men have walked on the moon, the 21st-century intending traveller must still defer to sea and sky, mist and cloud, all of which are obstacles to landing on Skellig Michael. For all who have had their expeditions scuppered by poor weather, many thousands more over the years have had their desires fulfilled, some viewing the islands by sea, others landing on Skellig Michael, usually by means of chartered boat trips which are now closely monitored for conservation reasons.
In early July, our expedition, begun on the promise of fine weather, had faltered by 10 a.m. as the heavens closed over in fog, the Skelligs became invisible and the boatmen were adamant no crossings would be attempted. An all-day vigil on Valentia ended in defeat. But as any worthwhile pilgrim or explorer knows, failure motivates. As this long summer ended, and the absent-mindedly stoic little puffins set off on their winter journey, another attempt to seek out the hermitage beckoned. As dawn became day, God and the weather consented.
Some seven or eight sea miles off Valentia - itself an island but also a settlement still maintaining elements of Victorian gentility - the twin sea crags that are the Skellig rocks come into view and appear to defy any notion of landing.
Although a relatively short distance, the 90-minute boat trip can appear suitably purgatorial thanks to the generous fumes of the diesel engine, as well as the relentless rise and fall of a choppy sea. Jeering gulls screech overhead, gleeful as sea sickness strikes several of the passengers; the more the better as far as the birds are concerned.
Watching the line of the horizon is useful advice, but can prove difficult as the boat lurches and heaves. The Skelligs appear to drift in and out of sight, a menacing pair initially resembling shark fins, then becoming leviathans, before striking the viewer as a pair of cathedrals and finally settling into what they are, eerie and majestic fortresses. While the smaller island, Little Skellig, seems to pulsate with the life of the thousands of birds, particularly gannets, Skellig Michael makes no secret of what it is.
This is no romantic island paradise of shadowy lagoons, freshwater lakes and fruit-bearing trees. There are no trees, and aside from the wonderful birds, heroes in their own right, it looks to be what it is - a twin-peaked plug of rock, content to intrigue rather than welcome.
Throughout the boat trip and during much of any stay on this most remote of outposts, one question dominates - "what advanced level of sainthood or desire for holiness and closeness to God brought those monks out here?".
On climbing the highest ledges of the hazardous South Peak, the taller natural pinnacle dwarfing the lower sloping summit which hosts the monastery, one wonders at the sanctity, fanaticism and possible madness of the hermit who singled out a terrace overlooking the sea and exposed to the winds, on which to build his oratory and leacht - which could be either a burial marker, or reliquary or simply a place of prayer.
The one here is similar to that found on another monastic island, Inishmurray, off the Co Sligo coast. Invariably observed at monastic sites and particularly true to Skellig Michael is the level of meticulous planning and superior masonry skill.
Solitude, prayer, an offering to God, or a gesture of atonement - who can wonder at the motivation of another - but whatever guided the hermit, he must have had a head for heights and an eye for natural beauty. The views are spectacular. Far below, like a forgotten toy, stands the disused lighthouse. On a breezy late summer's evening of painterly light, the setting is glorious, but it must have been a desolate hell in the bitter wind and rain of a winter storm with wet stone as the only shelter. The Vikings made several raids on Skellig, but the weather would have proved a greater, more constant enemy.
It is must be said that the hermitage dominates the imagination. It consists of three separate terraces, with part of its access granted by passing through the Needle's Eye, a stone chimney-like channel so narrow it was necessary to push my camera case around to my back to get in. Passage through it brings the climber on to higher levels, including that of the oratory terrace and the summit. The monks may have been nimble, they were certainly thin - not surprising considering the meagre diet of seabirds, fish and little else.
Standing on the summit, consisting of a few rock ledges (albeit accompanied by a semi-comic modern weather vane) more than 200 metres above the sea is sufficiently daunting not to have to clamber out on to the spit, a narrow ridge on the eastern side of the peak. An upright stone slab formerly stood on that end and determined pilgrims are reported to have crawled out to kiss it. Apparently, this method of offering has its origins in the story of a man who had killed his son and arrived here in search of forgiveness.
Such an extreme form of penance carried with it the very real chance of falling to your death, as no doubt some did. The slab itself fell into the sea some time after it was photographed and measured by archaeologists in 1977, shortly before the formal and ongoing conservation works began.
Excitement and terror, as well as peace and serenity explain the mood of Skellig. Then there is the wonder at the doggedness of the hermit who devised methods of catching and storing rain water, vital on an island with no natural springs or wells and no water supply.
The South Peak's remote hermitage site is far less famous than the image of the monastery itself with its six beehive huts, two boat-shaped oratories built together albeit on varying levels, and inspired location overlooking Little Skellig with the Kerry coastline as a fine backdrop. There are far fewer images of the South Peak and its daring hermitage; visitors are not encouraged to attempt the climb.
But its rewards are manifold. To quote from The Forgotten Hermitage of Skellig Michael it is "the remains of one of the most daring architectural expressions of early Irish monasticism: a hermitage built virtually in the air on the treacherous ledges of an Atlantic rock rising straight up from the sea to an altitude of 218 metres." Elsewhere in this excellent, detailed account is an observation referring to the passage leading to the summit that encapsulates much of the mystery of Skellig Michael, with its extensive surviving stone work, and many sequences of carved steps leading from the sea: "On the way up to this traverse one views with amazement a fragment of dry-stone wall built by someone who must have been kneeling on clouds when he placed these stones on a narrow ledge that plummets into what appears to be eternity."
Adding to the layers of history etched into this hermit's island of sheer cliffs, rock spires and turrets, alternatively covered by sea pinks and white campion, is the memory of the brave lighthouse men arriving in the 1820s. For them, Skellig Michael was a long deserted place, once settled by clever monks who by the 12th century had abandoned it in favour of a mainland monastery at Ballinskelligs. It then became part of a pilgrimage route and was also known as the source of immense quantities of puffin feathers, used as part of a rental payment.
The lighthouse men were well-intentioned custodians of the monastic site, if clearly not natural conservationists. Their story belongs to the history of Skellig, just as their mark on the monastery remains a legacy of sorts. Whatever destruction they caused was countered by the care they took with regard to the site's history and relevance without the benefit of training.
But to the monastery itself, on the north of the island. The approach is as dramatic as one could wish, a series of steep stone steps leading ever higher above the sea. For once I did not regret the absence of the puffins: sweet and docile as they are, their colour dilutes the gravitas of the site. Up the steps, and a view unfolds that is reminiscent of Machu Picchu. Further on up the slope, are more steps and then, on entry through a tunnel in the retaining wall, is the settlement, with its sense of community. The tallest stone cross, the priest's stone, appears to preside over the site, particularly that of the monk's graveyard with its collection of crosses standing erect in a group and appearing to become, as darkness falls, a group of monks looking out over the sea.
Having spent a night on the rock in one of the huts used by Office of Public Works' staff, I was lucky to spy Skellig's most subtle resident, the storm petrel, Europe's smallest sea bird which visits land only while breeding. It hides by day and its one egg is laid in stone walls, often within the monastery complex. One of the beehive huts was serving as nursery to a sturdy Manx shearwater chick. A fluffy, awkward little character, it was trusting enough to be petted. But the storm petrels with their odd purring, cough-like cry are different. Against the absolute blackness of the night sky they were more motion than form.
Of the many wonderful monastic sites in Ireland, few are as complex as Skellig. Sitting in the deserted monastery on a beautiful evening long after the last tourist has left, the final photograph taken, there is a feeling of peace and sadness. The quiet of the beehive cells with their atmosphere of prayer and shelter is both restful and death-like. Every point of the monastery appears to be drawn towards Little Skellig. It is easy to dwell on a friend's remark: "That's a wonderful place, you must empty your mind." But Skellig, with its three miraculous stairways trodden by so many feet, has too many ghosts. As have so many before me, I duly took my photograph of Little Skellig, framed through the east window of the small oratory.
Grellan Rourke, conservation architect and co-author of both The Forgotten Hermitage of Skellig Michael and a book on another dramatic monastic site, High Island, off Connemara, has spent 25 seasons working on Skellig. It is a life's project, every stone and its placing is known to him. The excavation-conservation work at Skellig has been subtle, with preservation as priority. His understanding of the monastery and its beautiful buildings is as intense as is his excitement about the hermitage site and its terrace location. He talked me through each individual building as if we were exploring the pieces of a mosaic. Holy men prayed here, but they also worked.
Spiritual and practical, Skellig Michael, its history, its spirit, its silence shattered by the raucous kittiwake, is surrounded by the theatre of the sea and the changing skies. A testament to the art of dry stone masonry, it shimmers in the early morning light once the sea mist disperses. It is a testing self-contained world, not a refuge. It leaves you asking questions. Who were those monks? Why did they come? What made them work so hard and live so dangerously? What devils did they fight? Did they leave Skellig with feelings of sorrow or relief or both? How vast did the sea seem on those dark winter nights?
The Forgotten Hermitage of Skellig Michael by Walter Horn, Jenny White Marshall and Grellan D. Rourke, originally published by University of California Press, is re-issued by Dúchas, price €25
Michael Viney's Another Life column will resume next week