AN IRISHWOMAN'S DIARY

A HARD, white moon shines in the clear night sky. The great stone fort of Dun Aenghus on Inis Mor remains as dramatic and menacing as ever. Darkness merely enhances the surreal atmosphere created by the strange fort overlooking the sea. Was it built as a defence or for storm worship, who knows? It is better not to.

Speculation can never quite penetrate some mysteries. And Dun Aenghus, as sophisticated as it is primitive, is a mysterious, romantic, barbaric, even terrifying, place. It ends on the cliff edge in a line so straight that it makes you want to peer out over it.

A sickening feeling builds in the stomach, a combination of fear and passive fascination. You feel you are being pulled to the edge, you want to look over. The still sea below has a sinister calm. But even by day when the shadows retreat to reveal the powerful stone forms of its three concentric semi circular rows of defence.

On a yellow morning so clear that it is possible to see the Clare coastline, it is difficult to imagine the vicious winter nights when the waves thunder against the cliffs, producing the weird, wailing sounds Liam O'Flaherty believed capable of inducing insanity. His birthplace, the village of Gort na gCapall, is visible from the fort.

Aggressive Tourism

Away from the pagan splendour of Dun Aenghus and the thousands of sharp stake like stones of its menacing chevaux-du-frise designed to defy ancient intruders, some islanders are busily involved in an aggressive style of tourism.

Many natives are concerned about the changing image of Aran. Their home is facing a crisis of sell, created by the conflicting positive and negative aspects of tourism. Visitors disembarking from the 40 minute ferry journey from Rossaveel are greeted by men intent on driving them around the island in small buses. A pot of tea for one cost £2 at a restaurant; 70p secured an ordinary 20p fruit scone at the visitors' centre.

Elsewhere, negotiations are in progress. A bored young man in a pony and trap announces to the middle aged Dublin housewife and her two adolescent children he'll lake them around the island "for £10 a head". All said without removing his cigarette from his mouth, without even looking at her.

On recovering from the shock of the price and his attitude, the woman sees sense and the three set off to hire bikes". Many ponies and horses of indeterminate age are pulling carts containing three adults - the driver and at least two adults with possibly up to three children around an extremely hilly island. It is a massive weight for any working animal to be forced to haul. The drivers all name their own price.

Beckoning Landscape

Arriving back on the mainland, tourists are overheard deciding they can "do" the island in two hours. Meanwhile, away from the small pier, the landscape is beckoning. Purple skies have been washed to a pale blue, the mountains are sharply outlined. The light is superb. No matter what time of the year, Connemara light has a luminosily all of its own. The roads are freer of traffic, the seasonal visitors are leaving.

In Lettermore, a couple are standing on the road. Both are immense. Their large white camper says Netherlands, making them almost a novelty in Connemara. Most of the Dutch touring campers I've seen this year were in Clare attempting the narrow, corkscrew, zig zag roads with a tenacity reminiscent of cartoon elephants complete with pink parasols tottering on tight ropes.

Back to the warring Dutch couple. They are fighting over the map. When it tears in two jagged pieces, she appears to have won - at least she gets most of it. But the map is forgotten as the argument continues. Although in Dutch, it is easy to follow. And it is serious.

Suddenly the man became aware of their audience, me. He is a raw boned character with white eye brows and a crazed, reddish face, he has decided I'm German and shouts at me accordingly. It is not necessary to translate.

Embarrassed at being caught; staring, I initially reverse, before managing to drive to Carnal in world record time. It takes a detour to Rossmuck and Pearse's holiday home to shake off the feeling of being on the run.

The shifting light playing on, stone and heather and water is beautiful. No cars, no tourists; it is possible to photograph the constantly changing wide skies' with no interruptions. Back up to Maam Cross increasingly resembling a trading post in the old Wild West for petrol.

Past Recess, another trading; post and on to Letterfrack. No, on to Clifden. The jazz festival is opening. Humanity appears to have gathered in force.

Outside Clifden, on a quiet beach, dogs are being walked. The darkness closes in and that same, strange white moon which shone over Aran shines on the water here. Away from the lights of the town it is easy to forget the jazz festival.

Cattle Mart

None of the farmers at the fortnightly cattle mart next morning are discussing jazz either. The sheep sales are on later. But the men are waiting around for the livestock to arrive. Battered cars hauling tiny trailers with a lone cow pull in with the same urgency as the Land Rovers with the deluxe animal transporters.

Out on the Sky Road, beyond Clifden, a Canadian who looks like a film star and an English man who could be Harry Whelehan's double are lost. The Whelehan look alike has the map in a plastic sleeve on the dash, he decides the route. They end up in a dead end. The Canadian struggles to reverse his top of the range Mercedes in the narrow lane. His wife looks bored. The Englishman is waving his arms, directing, eager to make amends for his faulty map reading.