Inishraam

Captain's Log 15

2005-11-07T02:15:00.000-08:00

I've written quite a bit of Thursday - 800 words or so.

I reckon I need at least another 500 words to finish.

I have two meetings tmw and a workshop in the evening.

The workshop will take abt two - three hours to prepare.

The meeting will take me from 10 am - abt 2pm.

Then I might hv to pick up the kids from school.

I MUST not drink tmw night.

Mineral water only.

Will hv to burn the Midnight Oil in order to catch my self up.

Sunday has come and gone. By Monday - ie tmw - I nd to have got to the end of the First Week on Inishraam, ie Saturday.

So - tmw:

Finish Thurs

Plan & draft Fri

Finish Sat...

I hv a relatively free day on Tuesday.

I must really get going.

All guns blazing!

Steady as she goes.

Inishraam

2005-11-06T22:15:00.001-08:00

Wednesday

-We have thirteen people living on the island altogether.
Mairtin and I were out walking in the fresh morning air. The sky was a clear cold blue, and the wind was gusting around us like spirits dancing and making mischief.
-We all live in Kilbannon, and you will meet everyone later this morning. It is perhaps best if I tell you who’s who, so that you have some idea of the people you will be meeting.
We had come to the point in the road where the track led down to the beach. I had fallen a little behind and Mairtin waited for me to catch him up. Overhead two herons were flying inland, their long beaks hawkish in the blue sky. I could see the sea over a small sandhill and all was still now and calm. Inishraam seemed to sleep upon a mirror, and I felt serene and at peace.
-Myself and Bridget you have met, and Peter of course. Then there are the Twins, Seamus and Sean, short, blondhaired identical twin brothers. No one can tell them apart. They live in the cottage next to Peter’s, two cottages down from Bridget and myself. In the final cottage in our row Brendan, a shy man, lives by himself.
We were now on the beach, the white sand speckled with strands of kelp and studded with scatters of tiny shells.
-Does Peter live by himself ?
-Who else would put up with him ?
We both laughed and our laughter was answered by the cry of curlews swooping about in the breezes that breathed gently upon the island like whispers from the clouds.
-On the other side of the road there are three couples. In the first cottage live Tomas and Kathleen. He is a nice man, but quick-tempered sometimes. Kathleen is a high-spirited woman and she gives as good she gets. They may fight but they always make up. The second cottage is the home of Fergus and Moira. They are great chess players and there is no one on the island who can beat them. The cottage next door to them is where Frances and Richard live. They love going down to the beach, and they usually take a swim in the sea every day, except for when it’s stormy.
I looked at him then. There was still no sign of any storm coming. All was calm and gentle, as if a spell had been placed on the island. And I realised that I too was starting to fall under that spell, that the simple charm of this place and these people, despite the initial wariness we had felt with one another, was starting to work on me.
-Who’s in the last cottage ?
-Let’s go and see, shall we ?

11am – 12 noon

As we walked down the road to Kilbannon with Mairtin, I could see all the villagers standing outside their cottage doors. We passed Bridget, who was wearing a plaid shawl and long brown skirt, smiling at us as we passed. I waved to her and she waved back. On the other side of the road a red-headed man wearing a green bottleneck sweater and black flannel trousers was scrutinising me between narrowed blue eyes. A woman emerged from inside, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. This must have been Tomas and Kathleen. She smiled at me and I passed on.
The cottage that came after Peter’s was a little more untidy than the rest. Most of the cottages where neat, whitewashed cabins, with clean windows and tidy thatched roofs. They looked like loaves of bread, stacked along the road. This cottage’s windows were smeared with grime, a black edge to the lower ledges, and its roof wasn’t as thickly thatched as the others. It had been let go, I thought, and was in need of repair. The Twins, Seamus and Sean, glowered at me from their doorway as I passed. These two had also been there on the beach that first evening. They looked a lot less friendly now.
-Take no notice of them, said Mairtin. They are very clannish. They’re like that with everyone.
I looked across to the facing cottage on the other side of the road. A handsome couple were framed in the doorway, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling at me. He was tall and blond, with broad cheekbones and a striking blue eyes. He wore brown corduroy trousers, a black wasitcoat and collarless white shirt. She was dark, a black queen to his white king, a long flowing blue skirt and green chemise distinguishing her from the other women of he island. She looked almost fashionable. This was Fergus and Moira. He was the last of the men who been on hand when I came to on the beach.
We arrived at the final pair of cottages. A tall man wearing a cap and a black suit with an open necked white shirt held a violin to his chin. As we came near he started playing a jig on the fiddle, and everyone starting clapping in time to the music. Once he’s finished they broke into applause and he smiled. So this was Brendan, the shy man who lived by himself. He seemed very gregarious to me.
I looked across the road. The last cottage stood with its door shut and its curtains drawn.
-Who lives there ? I asked Mairtin.
-Come in and see, he said. He walked up to the door and gave it two sharp knocks with his knuckles. I looked around to see that everyone else had gone back into their cottages. The door opened and we went inside.

-This is Robert. He is our leader, if you like.
We sat by an open fire, turf burning in the grate. Mairtin and Robert sat on two wooden kitchen chairs at one end of the fireplace, and I sat on a matching chair facing them. The flames flickered and danced in the grate, and our faces were taking on a ruby glow from the heat.
-Mairtin tells me you are of Irish descent.
-That’s right, I said.
Robert seemed to be older than the others, who ranged in age from Fregus and Moira, who appeared to be in their late 20s, to Brendan, who could have been any age between 40 and 50. Robert had grey hair, unlike any of the rest, a thick shock of it, and his face was more lined and weatherbeaten even than Mairtin’s. He wore a coat too, a long sandy brown tweed coat, with large darker brown squares dividing up the cloth. The coat was unbuttoned and the skirts of it hung open to show corduroy trousers and a thick black leather belt, and a collarless shirt, like the one Fergus had been wearing. He wore heavy black boots which had been polished til they shone like glass, laces looped round the top of them and tied tight. A blackthorn stick lay in front of him on the floor and a black and white sheepdog stretched out between us in front of the fire, half asleep. I noticed that Robert’s cottage was the only one to have any books in it, a bookcase with glass doors standing at the wall behind him. It was the most handsome piece of furniture I had seen so far on the island, polished and glowing in the ruddy light from the fire. I couldn’t make out the spines or the titles of the books, but they all seemed to be in a foreign language, possibly Gaelic.
-And that you know a little of the island’s history ?
-Yes, I said.
-And what do you know ? he continued in his husky, gentle voice.
The dog growled in his sleep, and Robert reached down to scratch the sleeping animal’s ear.
-I know that the island was abandoned in the 1950s. The population had declined and Inishraam couldn’t keep its young folk, who left the island in the late 40s and early 50s as soon as they could.
I paused. Robert seemed to have eyes that looked right through me. I took a deep breath and continued.
-There were never more than seventy people on the island, and the Government made assistance available for the old ones who had to give up a way of life that had carried on unbroken for hundreds of years. Brian O’Nuallain, the last islander to leave the island, said their like would never be seen again.
At this Mairtin and Robert seemed to exchange a smile. The bland eyes of the old men fell on me again and I picked up where I left off.
-Anthropologists made various studies of Inishraam in the 30s and 40s and two classics of the discipline, ‘The People Of Inishraam’ and ‘The Last Parish Before New York’ were published to great acclaim. O’Nuallian also published a memoir of life on Inishraam, ‘Island Folk’.
Robert considered my account of Inishraam’s history.
-You seem very well informed, he said at last.
- Inishraam is part of my roots, I said. I’ve read all of the books, and have even got a few old films about the island.
-I see, said Robert. Well, no doubt you must be very curious about us.
-Yes, I am, I said.
-What do make of our way of life ?
-What I’ve seen seems very… quaint.
Robert and Mairtin laughed.
-Yes, said Robert at last. I’m sure that’s how we must seem. But there’s a little more to us than quaintness. You are coming to the Village Council Meeting tonight ?
It looked like I didn’t have much choice, but I bit my lip.
-Of course, I said.
-Let me show you something, said Robert.
He rose rather unsteadily and Mairtin stood up to assist him. He reached for his blackthorn stick and tottered forward and I realised suddenly that Robert was blind.
Mairtin helped him towards the door into his bedroom and they returned with the older man holding an envelope in his hand.
-What’s that ? I asked .
-It’s Brian O’Nuallain’s letter to us, he said.
-To you ?!I cried, startled.
-Yes, said Robert. Read it.
He gave me the letter and I took the sheet of paper out of the envelope and read the strong, sloping hand.

To Those Who Come After Us.

Inishraam, May 25th, 1953.

We leave this island tomorrow and with it a way of life that has carried on here for centuries. We are heartbroken to be going. But there are only us old ones left now, and Inishraam, says the Government, is too hard for us to bear.
We do not want to go, and we leave against our will. We are evicted and that is the simple truth.
If you are reading this, then you have come to the island for the same reasons we stayed.
You will find on Inishraam a peace you will not find in Ireland, which has become a Godforsaken place, full of busybodies and greedy people all trying to get on. Or if they cannot, then leaving for those other hellholes, England and America.
We ask that you make this island your home, as we did, that you live quietly and peacefully with your neighbours, as we did, that you take care of Inishraam, as we did.
Welcome to the paradise we leave you.
You may not see our like again, but we go to our graves in the hope that Inishraam will draw new island folk to her shores, who will make their home here amongst what we leave behind.
Cead Mile Failte !

Brian O’Nuallain

6pm – 8pm

4 items on the agenda

Grazing of sheep
Nabbers
Seal hunt
Feast

-All right everyone, if we can come to order.
Robert turned his milky eyes on the Village Council and the stranger in their midst. We were all sat in the front pews on either side of the aisle in the chapel of Inishraam. The chapel had been the only place of worship on the island but was now used for these meetings. It was a small chapel, as raw as the rest of the island, with barely a statue or a holy picture in the place. Instead, four ranks of pews marched from the chapel door to the transept where a bare altar testified to the abandonment of ceremony as well as the bleakness of Inishraam. Robert sat on the priest’s chair behind the altar with Mairtin sitting alongside him. Robert’s dog lay with his head on his paws at the right hand side of the altar, facing the little congregation, and eyed us all.
-Everyone is here, aren’t they ? There are no apologies ? Good, said Robert briskly. And you’ve all read the minutes, which were posted in the porch last Thursday after our previous meeting ?
-We meet once a week, whispered Bridget, who sat beside me at the end of the front pew to the left of the aisle. Fergus and Moira were along from us, Moira nearset the aisle, wearing a cream scarf with red and green pailey patterns over her head. She could have been a parishioner from the Forties, when the chapel was full and devotions took place with monastic regularity.
-Can we all agree the minutes ? Any amendments ?
There was a silence.
-Right, the minutes are approved. Nice to see that we can do the minutes in seconds.
There was some polite laughter.
-The next joke will be about not being able to find the agenda, whipered Bridget. Someone will be accused of concealing it, and we’ll all be asked if there is a Hidden Agenda. He always makes the same dry old jokes, and we always laugh at them to humour him.
-I heard that, Bridget, said Robert. I could feel her reddening beside me.
-And there is no need to blush, woman. We have known each other far too long for embarrassment to ever come between us. But please – you are giving our guest the wrong impression about me. My jokes may be old, but Council procedure doesn’t lend itself greatly to humour.
-I’m sorry, Robert, said Bridget.
-You are forgiven, he said. Now – before we come to Matters Arising : has anyone seen the agenda ? Somone seems to have pinched it, and I think there might be a Hidden Agenda.
Everyone laughed, and the dog pricked up his ears and started howling as if not to be left out.
-Nice of you all to humour an old man, said Robert. Shall we continue ?
The laughter died down and Robert waited for silence.
-Matters Arising. There are three Matters Arising I’ve identified. Has anyone else anything to say under this item on the agenda ?
Again silence.
-Fine. The three points I think we need to discuss are the grazing of sheep ; the state of the island’s fleet of nabbers ; and preparations for the forthcoming seal hunt.
The first point was dealt with quickly. The Twins had been grazing the few sheep they had down in a field on the eastern edge of the village. This had led to the sheep catching ticks. The Twins, as they knew very well, were supposed to graze their sheep on the hill like everyone else. They had been asked to treat the sheep and bring them to pasture once they had been checked by Moira, who acted as the island’s vet. Robert checked whether all was well with the sheep, and that they were now feeding on the hillside. They were.
The second point proved a little more tricky. Every cottage on the island, apparently, had a shed at the side of it where a nabber was housed. But the nabbers had been damaged in the storm, and though an examination of the boats the week before had found them all in good order and ready for the seal hunt, they needed urgent work to be made ready for the hunt the following day. Robert asked everyone where they were with their repairs.
Peter’s was ready. He had had help from Mairtin and Bridget, whom he had helped in turn, so that made two nabbers. However, The Twins, Seamus and Sean, were behind. They needed to caulk the sides of the nabber and hadn’t been able to find anything to do it with. The other three couples were all fine. Tomas and Kathleen had not sustained much damage to their nabber in the first place, and Fergus and Moira and Frances and Richard had been able to make repairs to their boats quickly and without much bother. Brendan had helped to mend Robert’s nabber, and his own was ship shape and bristol fashion, and he described it.
That left only the plans for the seal hunt. Robert postponed firther discussion until The Twins nabber was fit to sail. He asked for volunteers to help them. Brendan and Peter said they would give them a hand . Robert asked then that all assemble with their nabbers down at the beach tomorrow at 10.00 hours.
-All that remains, he said, is the feast in honour of our guest. I think we should have this on Saturday night. Any volunteers to help prepare the food ?
I would be on the island another three days. I started to get the feeling they didn’t want me to leave.

Wednesday

Villagers ; Walk ; Council

9am – 10 am.

-We have thirteen people living on the island altogether.
Mairtin and I were out walking in the fresh morning air. The sky was a clear cold blue, and the wind was gusting around us like spirits dancing and making mischief.
-We all live in Kilbannon, and you will meet everyone later this morning. It is perhaps best if I tell you who’s who, so that you have some idea of the people you will be meeting.
We had come to the point in the road where the track led down to the beach. I had fallen a little behind and Mairtin waited for me to catch him up. Overhead two herons were flying inland, their long beaks hawkish in the blue sky. I could see the sea over a small sandhill and all was still now and calm. Inishraam seemed to sleep upon a mirror, and I felt serene and at peace.
-Myself and Bridget you have met, and Peter of course. Then there are the Twins, Seamus and Sean, short, blondhaired identical twin brothers. No one can tell them apart. They live in the cottage next to Peter’s, two cottages down from Bridget and myself. In the final cottage in our row Brendan, a shy man, lives by himself.
We were now on the beach, the white sand speckled with strands of kelp and studded with scatters of tiny shells.
-Does Peter live by himself ?
-Who else would put up with him ?
We both laughed and our laughter was answered by the cry of curlews swooping about in the breezes that breathed gently upon the island like whispers from the clouds.
-On the other side of the road there are three couples. In the first cottage live Tomas and Kathleen. He is a nice man, but quick-tempered sometimes. Kathleen is a high-spirited woman and she gives as good she gets. They may fight but they always make up. The second cottage is the home of Fergus and Moira. They are great chess players and there is no one on the island who can beat them. The cottage next door to them is where Frances and Richard live. They love going down to the beach, and they usually take a swim in the sea every day, except for when it’s stormy.
I looked at him then. There was still no sign of any storm coming. All was calm and gentle, as if a spell had been placed on the island. And I realised that I too was starting to fall under that spell, that the simple charm of this place and these people, despite the initial wariness we had felt with one another, was starting to work on me.
-Who’s in the last cottage ?
-Let’s go and see, shall we ?

11am – 12 noon

As we walked down the road to Kilbannon with Mairtin, I could see all the villagers standing outside their cottage doors. We passed Bridget, who was wearing a plaid shawl and long brown skirt, smiling at us as we passed. I waved to her and she waved back. On the other side of the road a red-headed man wearing a green bottleneck sweater and black flannel trousers was scrutinising me between narrowed blue eyes. A woman emerged from inside, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. This must have been Tomas and Kathleen. She smiled at me and I passed on.
The cottage that came after Peter’s was a little more untidy than the rest. Most of the cottages where neat, whitewashed cabins, with clean windows and tidy thatched roofs. They looked like loaves of bread, stacked along the road. This cottage’s windows were smeared with grime, a black edge to the lower ledges, and its roof wasn’t as thickly thatched as the others. It had been let go, I thought, and was in need of repair. The Twins, Seamus and Sean, glowered at me from their doorway as I passed. These two had also been there on the beach that first evening. They looked a lot less friendly now.
-Take no notice of them, said Mairtin. They are very clannish. They’re like that with everyone.
I looked across to the facing cottage on the other side of the road. A handsome couple were framed in the doorway, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling at me. He was tall and blond, with broad cheekbones and a striking blue eyes. He wore brown corduroy trousers, a black wasitcoat and collarless white shirt. She was dark, a black queen to his white king, a long flowing blue skirt and green chemise distinguishing her from the other women of he island. She looked almost fashionable. This was Fergus and Moira. He was the last of the men who been on hand when I came to on the beach.
We arrived at the final pair of cottages. A tall man wearing a cap and a black suit with an open necked white shirt held a violin to his chin. As we came near he started playing a jig on the fiddle, and everyone starting clapping in time to the music. Once he’s finished they broke into applause and he smiled. So this was Brendan, the shy man who lived by himself. He seemed very gregarious to me.
I looked across the road. The last cottage stood with its door shut and its curtains drawn.
-Who lives there ? I asked Mairtin.
-Come in and see, he said. He walked up to the door and gave it two sharp knocks with his knuckles. I looked around to see that everyone else had gone back into their cottages. The door opened and we went inside.

-This is Robert. He is our leader, if you like.
We sat by an open fire, turf burning in the grate. Mairtin and Robert sat on two wooden kitchen chairs at one end of the fireplace, and I sat on a matching chair facing them. The flames flickered and danced in the grate, and our faces were taking on a ruby glow from the heat.
-Mairtin tells me you are of Irish descent.
-That’s right, I said.
Robert seemed to be older than the others, who ranged in age from Fregus and Moira, who appeared to be in their late 20s, to Brendan, who could have been any age between 40 and 50. Robert had grey hair, unlike any of the rest, a thick shock of it, and his face was more lined and weatherbeaten even than Mairtin’s. He wore a coat too, a long sandy brown tweed coat, with large darker brown squares dividing up the cloth. The coat was unbuttoned and the skirts of it hung open to show corduroy trousers and a thick black leather belt, and a collarless shirt, like the one Fergus had been wearing. He wore heavy black boots which had been polished til they shone like glass, laces looped round the top of them and tied tight. A blackthorn stick lay in front of him on the floor and a black and white sheepdog stretched out between us in front of the fire, half asleep. I noticed that Robert’s cottage was the only one to have any books in it, a bookcase with glass doors standing at the wall behind him. It was the most handsome piece of furniture I had seen so far on the island, polished and glowing in the ruddy light from the fire. I couldn’t make out the spines or the titles of the books, but they all seemed to be in a foreign language, possibly Gaelic.
-And that you know a little of the island’s history ?
-Yes, I said.
-And what do you know ? he continued in his husky, gentle voice.
The dog growled in his sleep, and Robert reached down to scratch the sleeping animal’s ear.
-I know that the island was abandoned in the 1950s. The population had declined and Inishraam couldn’t keep its young folk, who left the island in the late 40s and early 50s as soon as they could.
I paused. Robert seemed to have eyes that looked right through me. I took a deep breath and continued.
-There were never more than seventy people on the island, and the Government made assistance available for the old ones who had to give up a way of life that had carried on unbroken for hundreds of years. Brian O’Nuallain, the last islander to leave the island, said their like would never be seen again.
At this Mairtin and Robert seemed to exchange a smile. The bland eyes of the old men fell on me again and I picked up where I left off.
-Anthropologists made various studies of Inishraam in the 30s and 40s and two classics of the discipline, ‘The People Of Inishraam’ and ‘The Last Parish Before New York’ were published to great acclaim. O’Nuallian also published a memoir of life on Inishraam, ‘Island Folk’.
Robert considered my account of Inishraam’s history.
-You seem very well informed, he said at last.
- Inishraam is part of my roots, I said. I’ve read all of the books, and have even got a few old films about the island.
-I see, said Robert. Well, no doubt you must be very curious about us.
-Yes, I am, I said.
-What do make of our way of life ?
-What I’ve seen seems very… quaint.
Robert and Mairtin laughed.
-Yes, said Robert at last. I’m sure that’s how we must seem. But there’s a little more to us than quaintness. You are coming to the Village Council Meeting tonight ?
It looked like I didn’t have much choice, but I bit my lip.
-Of course, I said.
-Let me show you something, said Robert.
He rose rather unsteadily and Mairtin stood up to assist him. He reached for his blackthorn stick and tottered forward and I realised suddenly that Robert was blind.
Mairtin helped him towards the door into his bedroom and they returned with the older man holding an envelope in his hand.
-What’s that ? I asked .
-It’s Brian O’Nuallain’s letter to us, he said.
-To you ?!I cried, startled.
-Yes, said Robert. Read it.
He gave me the letter and I took the sheet of paper out of the envelope and read the strong, sloping hand.

To Those Who Come After Us.

Inishraam, May 25th, 1953.

We leave this island tomorrow and with it a way of life that has carried on here for centuries. We are heartbroken to be going. But there are only us old ones left now, and Inishraam, says the Government, is too hard for us to bear.
We do not want to go, and we leave against our will. We are evicted and that is the simple truth.
If you are reading this, then you have come to the island for the same reasons we stayed.
You will find on Inishraam a peace you will not find in Ireland, which has become a Godforsaken place, full of busybodies and greedy people all trying to get on. Or if they cannot, then leaving for those other hellholes, England and America.
We ask that you make this island your home, as we did, that you live quietly and peacefully with your neighbours, as we did, that you take care of Inishraam, as we did.
Welcome to the paradise we leave you.
You may not see our like again, but we go to our graves in the hope that Inishraam will draw new island folk to her shores, who will make their home here amongst what we leave behind.
Cead Mile Failte !

Brian O’Nuallain

6pm – 8pm

4 items on the agenda

Grazing of sheep
Nabbers
Seal hunt
Feast

-All right everyone, if we can come to order.
Robert turned his milky eyes on the Village Council and the stranger in their midst. We were all sat in the front pews on either side of the aisle in the chapel of Inishraam. The chapel had been the only place of worship on the island but was now used for these meetings. It was a small chapel, as raw as the rest of the island, with barely a statue or a holy picture in the place. Instead, four ranks of pews marched from the chapel door to the transept where a bare altar testified to the abandonment of ceremony as well as the bleakness of Inishraam. Robert sat on the priest’s chair behind the altar with Mairtin sitting alongside him. Robert’s dog lay with his head on his paws at the right hand side of the altar, facing the little congregation, and eyed us all.
-Everyone is here, aren’t they ? There are no apologies ? Good, said Robert briskly. And you’ve all read the minutes, which were posted in the porch last Thursday after our previous meeting ?
-We meet once a week, whispered Bridget, who sat beside me at the end of the front pew to the left of the aisle. Fergus and Moira were along from us, Moira nearset the aisle, wearing a cream scarf with red and green pailey patterns over her head. She could have been a parishioner from the Forties, when the chapel was full and devotions took place with monastic regularity.
-Can we all agree the minutes ? Any amendments ?
There was a silence.
-Right, the minutes are approved. Nice to see that we can do the minutes in seconds.
There was some polite laughter.
-The next joke will be about not being able to find the agenda, whipered Bridget. Someone will be accused of concealing it, and we’ll all be asked if there is a Hidden Agenda. He always makes the same dry old jokes, and we always laugh at them to humour him.
-I heard that, Bridget, said Robert. I could feel her reddening beside me.
-And there is no need to blush, woman. We have known each other far too long for embarrassment to ever come between us. But please – you are giving our guest the wrong impression about me. My jokes may be old, but Council procedure doesn’t lend itself greatly to humour.
-I’m sorry, Robert, said Bridget.
-You are forgiven, he said. Now – before we come to Matters Arising : has anyone seen the agenda ? Somone seems to have pinched it, and I think there might be a Hidden Agenda.
Everyone laughed, and the dog pricked up his ears and started howling as if not to be left out.
-Nice of you all to humour an old man, said Robert. Shall we continue ?
The laughter died down and Robert waited for silence.
-Matters Arising. There are three Matters Arising I’ve identified. Has anyone else anything to say under this item on the agenda ?
Again silence.
-Fine. The three points I think we need to discuss are the grazing of sheep ; the state of the island’s fleet of nabbers ; and preparations for the forthcoming seal hunt.
The first point was dealt with quickly. The Twins had been grazing the few sheep they had down in a field on the eastern edge of the village. This had led to the sheep catching ticks. The Twins, as they knew very well, were supposed to graze their sheep on the hill like everyone else. They had been asked to treat the sheep and bring them to pasture once they had been checked by Moira, who acted as the island’s vet. Robert checked whether all was well with the sheep, and that they were now feeding on the hillside. They were.
The second point proved a little more tricky. Every cottage on the island, apparently, had a shed at the side of it where a nabber was housed. But the nabbers had been damaged in the storm, and though an examination of the boats the week before had found them all in good order and ready for the seal hunt, they needed urgent work to be made ready for the hunt the following day. Robert asked everyone where they were with their repairs.
Peter’s was ready. He had had help from Mairtin and Bridget, whom he had helped in turn, so that made two nabbers. However, The Twins, Seamus and Sean, were behind. They needed to caulk the sides of the nabber and hadn’t been able to find anything to do it with. The other three couples were all fine. Tomas and Kathleen had not sustained much damage to their nabber in the first place, and Fergus and Moira and Frances and Richard had been able to make repairs to their boats quickly and without much bother. Brendan had helped to mend Robert’s nabber, and his own was ship shape and bristol fashion, and he described it.
That left only the plans for the seal hunt. Robert postponed firther discussion until The Twins nabber was fit to sail. He asked for volunteers to help them. Brendan and Peter said they would give them a hand . Robert asked then that all assemble with their nabbers down at the beach tomorrow at 10.00 hours.
-All that remains, he said, is the feast in honour of our guest. I think we should have this on Saturday night. Any volunteers to help prepare the food ?
I would be on the island another three days. I started to get the feeling they didn’t want me to leave.

Captain's Log 14

2005-11-06T22:15:00.000-08:00

I've just finished 'Wednesday'.

A long ch than usual - nearly 3000 words.

Means tho that I need to finish Thurs & Fri to stay on track.

I think if I make Thurs 1000 words and Fri the same I can do it.

Abt keeping to schedule now.

May hv to sort out these shorter chs on a rewrite.

Going to check where I am with it all on this site, then post it up.

Pieces of eight!

Inishraam

2005-11-05T13:55:00.000-08:00

Tuesday

Light flooded the room and I woke up. I had had a long deep sleep, and I felt refreshed. Bridget stood in the middle of the room, dressed in the same kind of navy blue sweater and dark trousers Mairtin had been wearing the day before.
-Good morning, she said. Are you ready for some breakfast ?
-I will be, I said. Just as soon as I’ve freshened up.
-Fine, she said. I have some rashers and eggs cooking downstairs. And there’ll be tea and bread as well. I’ll see you in the kitchen ?
-Thank you.
She smiled, her green eyes twinkling at me like the eyes of a little old lady. She went back downstairs and I got up. She’d left a bowl of hot water on the table, along with soap and a flannel, a razor and a toothbrush.
I washed and shaved. It felt good to be clean and smart again. My mother used to say that where there was dirt there was comfort, but that was a bit of blarney. She scrubbed me till I shone as I kid, wringing my hair out after washing and rinsing it, flannelling and nailbrushing me, sanding and blasting away, fighting my schoolboy grubbiness with all the vim of a hospital Matron. I thought about her, barely fifty miles away. Had the news of the boat’s sinking got through to her ? I was certain it had.
Bridget had left a pair of dark blue corduroy trousers and a thick checked red shirt at the foot of the bed. I put them on and went downstairs.

-Hello, Mike.
It was Mairtin, sitting at the table in the front room in the same chair he’d sat in the night before.
-Good morning, I said. I sat facing him, and noticed that his hands were covered in the same light blond hair I’d noticed on his face. He was one of the fairest men I’d ever seen.
The smell of bacon and eggs from the kitchen suddenly sharpened my appetite. I was starving.
Bridget brought in two plates of rashers and scambled egg, and laid them before us. She returned to the kitchen and I heard her rattling cups and saucers and wetting the tea.
-We have a busy day ahead, my friend, said Mairtin. I know you are curious to know what we are all doing here, how we live, what keeps us here. It is best if we answer these questions by showing you our way of life on Inishraam. Then you will be able to see for yourself.
-And when can I get off the island ? I asked.
Bridget returned bearing a tray with the big brown pot she’d used last night, the same big cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl. She placed them on the table and went outside, a blast of wind blowing into the cottage as she closed the door behind her.
-You can leave as soon as we can arrange it, said Mairtin. It will not be safe for another day or two. Another storm is on its way, and as our guest you will be safe here.
We ate our breakfast in silence as I thought over what he said. The food was delicious, and at last I said,
-Right. Where to first ?

11 am – 1 pm

-Hello. Are you the stranger ?
-I suppose I am.
Mairtin and I were standing at the door of the cottage which stood directly across the road from Mairtin and Bridget’s cottage. A tall, sandy-haired man, freckled and fairskinned, stood in the doorway. He wore a chunky Aran pullover, its knitted cables like ropes, and brown trousers tucked into wellington boots
-My name is Peter. Come with me, he said.
We walked around to the back of the whitewashed cottage, and came to a neatly tended sprawl of garden. A low white fence marked off the smallholding and I could see the desolate fields full of stones and rocks stretching away towards the large hill in the distance.
-I have a few ridges of potatoes over there, he said, a patch of oats down there and some carrots just behind that.
As he spoke he pointed to neat the strips of soil where his produce grew.
-The land is poor, he continued, and the soil is sandy, but I manage to grow my little crops and they usually do well. We hold a competition for the best harvests every year. It’s a big thing. Everyone on the island enters. But it’s usually me who wins.
He grinned.
-Why’s that ? I asked.
-Because I add a secret ingredient to my feed.
-And what’s that ?
-If I told you it would no longer be a secret !
We all laughed.
-Let me show you my boat.
Peter led us back towards the cottage. To the left of his small house stood a long shed. It was neatly constructed, the walls made of black creosoted slats of wood, and the roof gabled with scalloped earthernware tiles. The door stood open and in the gloom I could make out a long canoe resting on a trestle.
We followed Peter into the shed. It smelt faintly of fish and sailcloth.
-We call this kind of boat a nabber. It’s a great little boat. You can put up a sail on it when the wind’s right and it’s easy to steer and manœuvre, so you can take it in close to the rocks. I’ve caught a great deal of fish in this boat. In the nabber I can trawl my lines, set trammel-nets and troll for pollock. Have you ever eaten pollock ? It’s delicous, delicate, like cod. Come and have supper with me tonight. I cook the best pollock on the island.
-Don’t tell me, I said. You use a secret ingredient ?

2pm – 4pm.

-He’s a bit of a character, Peter.
-Yes, said Mairtin. He’s a character all right.
We were walking down to the beach, taking the track we had taken the night Mairtin brought me to the village. He had told me that there was something he wanted me to see. The sun was out and the wind was blowing hard. The landscape, bleak as it was, looked spectacular in the midday sunshine.
-And does anyone know what his secret ingredient is ?
-Some say he talks to his crops, some swear they have heard him playing a penny whistle to them when the moon is full, others that he sprinkles pepper on the soil, and one islander is sure he pisses on them himself.
I laughed.
-What do you think ?
-Me ? I think fishbones have a lot to do with it.
-Really ? How so ?
-Peter eats more fish than any of us. Means he’s as fit as a dog with two tails. He could make the whole island flow with milk and honey.
I laughed again.
-I thought there was something fishy about him.
-That’s a terrible joke, said Mairtin, groaning and chuckling.
We came at last to the beach. A broad strand of white fine sand stretched from one end of the island to the other. I could see the shingle patch down towards the eastern tip of the beach where I had laid on the stretcher. The waves rode in, light flashing on the crests like a shower of golden coins skimming and skipping in the sunshine.
-Look, said Mairtin. Can you see ? Down there ?
I looked to where he was pointing. A small cove lay at the western end of the beach. An outcrop of rocks, like a snaggle of stepping stones, stretched out from the cove into the sea. On the rocks and in the cove I could see about six creatures sitting in the warm sunlight, still and serene.
-Seals ! I cried. But there aren’t supposed to be any seals on Inishraam ! They were all culled !
-You are very well-informed about our little island, said Mairtin.
His eyes narrowed. I thought about what Peter had called me: the stranger. I had heard a story about how strangers were seen on the island, before it was abandoned. The original inhabitants of Inishram used to sell the lobsters they caught to French restaurant owners. There were rumours that an islander had killed a representative from the Château Charles, a large hotel in Normandy, after a dispute about money. The Frenchman was never found, and the man’s killer eluded justice. The islanders wouldn’t speak to the Gardai, and without a body, witnesses or evidence, the investigation was wound up. That was way back in the 30s. I heard that lobsters fetched very good prices after the man from the Charles went missing.
-My parents are from Killorglin, I said. I spent every summer of my childhood and adolescence in Kerry, staying at my uncle’s farm. Inishraam had passed into legend by then. So I know a few of the tales.
-I see, said Mairtin.
He paused, and I could see him weighing up what I had said.
-So where have the seals come from ?
-We found a colony of them around that little cove, he said. We think they may have come from British waters. Some of them were covered in oil. We believe a tanker may have foundered, emptying its cargo bays into the ocean. We cleaned up the poor creatures who had been saturated in crude oil, thick, ugly stuff, which took us a lot of hard work and patience to shift. The animals were very distressed. But we did it. Of the twenty or so seals we found, all survived.
-Amazing ! I said.
-Now we have about fifty around our waters. We catch some, but always maintain a good balance in the population. We eat them roasted on our high days and holidays, cooking them out of doors. Have you ever eaten seal ?
-No, I can’t say that I have, I said.
-They are delicious. While you are here, we shall cook one in your honour.
I looked up at the sky. It was clear and blue, and the sun was warm. If a storm was coming, it didn’t look like coming today. How long did Mairtin intend to keep me here ?
-Come on, he said. It will soon be time for supper.

6pm – 8pm

-Now, said Peter, what do you think ?
-This is delicious.
We were sitting in the front room of Peter’s cottage, the four of us around his table. Bridget and Mairtin were mopping up the sauce from their plates with slices of soda bread and I was starting to feel stuffed.
-What do you put in this stew, Peter ? I asked. Besides your secret ingedient.
They all laughed.
-I’ll tell you, he said. There’s pollock, which I told you about, delicate and milky. I also have a little crab, some cockles and mussels, and a few periwinkles. I put about a pound of the fish into a pan, and I cover it then with water, thyme and honey. I bring this slowly to the boil, to let the flavours all get to know one another and to blend well. Just as there are harmonies in music or colours that go well together in art, so there are families of flavours, and I have made a particular study of these.
- He wants a recipe, Peter, not a lecture, said Bridget, laughing.
- We have all the time in the world, said Peter. Food is an art like conversation - it is best mulled over slowly, not rushed and hurried.
- Carry on, Professor, she said. They smiled at each other and Peter continued.
-While the main theme is being composed in the pan, I am working on the counterpoint. I sauté some mushrooms and onion in butter, then I blend in a little flour and cook of all this until it is smooth and starting to bubble. I take it off the range and sing a fisherman’s song. And slowly, slowly, I stir in about a cup of milk. Then I heat all of this, ready to bring the two themes together in a wonderful harmony. I stir in my little school of mixed fish, cover it all, and let it warm gently for five minutes. To finish, some parsley chopped sprinkled and Voilà ! With these wondeful potatoes, it is magnificent, is it not ?
-It is, I said, it is.
There was a lull in the conversation. Bridget and Mairtin had brought a cake with them, like the barm bracs my aunt used to make. It was in the kitchen and Bridget offered to bring it in, with butter and cups of tea. While she was gone, Peter said,
-So what do you think about our island ?
-It’s very beautiful, I said, and very bleak.
-If you mean that here Nature is revealed in all her simple, magnificent glory, I would agree with you.
-I was thinking more than it must be hard to survive here.
-We do more than survive. We live well here. Surely my Fish Stew is testimony to that fact ? Does your full belly not tell you as much ? Do your taste buds not agree ?
Peter was a charming and persuasive man, but I couldn’t agree with him. The island, what I had seen of it, was too primitive for anyone to live well on. I was about to say as much when Bridget came in with the tea and cake and said,
-I’m sure our guest is tired Peter. Let him finish his supper without you cross-examining him. He has a big day tomorrow.
-Oh ? I said.
-Yes, tomorrow I am going to introduce you to the rest of the villagers, said Mairtin. Then we have a meeting of the Village Council in the evening. You are our guest of honour at the meeting.
-And what about the storm I asked ?
Mairtin look at me coolly
-It looks like it may have passed, he said.

Captain's Log 13

2005-11-05T04:00:00.000-08:00

I'm abt 300 words behind my daily word target.

But I hope to catch up tmw.

Went to Guy Fawkes Night Party and then to see a friend.

Hv written a little tonight - abt 100 words.

But it's v late.

I really nd to catch up tmw.

I'm now a day behind on my calendar of what goes on on Inishtraam... so I nd to pick up speed tmw.

Big Writing Day Tmw.

Best go and check the topsails.

Captain's Log 12

2005-11-05T02:05:00.000-08:00

I'm a little behind.

It's because my last ch is slightly longer than the 1,670 words or so a day I'm trying to stick to.

Makes the novel less programmatic if the chs are different lengths.

But I have to get two majors scenes for Wednesday on the island out of the way by lunchtime today (Sat 5th Nov) and write Thursday on the island by the end of the day (Sat 5th Nov).

I've crawn up a little chart so that I can stay on course.

At the moment the pace is quite leisurely, but I think after The First Week on the island things will hv to pick up.

Time I was in my hammock.

Nighty night.

Captain's Log 11

2005-11-04T17:05:00.000-08:00

I am back on track - just need to post the latest installment.

But my plan to make each ch one day on Inishraam, and to make that the day's word count - 1,670 wds - has slightly slipped.

My most recent ch - when Mairtin sets off to show Mike life on the island - still needs abt another 800- 1000 words. So I need to write this extra bit, plus the new chapter today.

That cld be as much as 3,000 words!

But I'm really into it and motoring.

My prose style is a little... literary, almost dull.

It would be gd to egt feedback, but hey, this is theBlogosphere.

I can't expect the world to be focused on my site.

How many sites are there in the world?

Untold!

So - more zip in the style, and a bit more of a move on.

Staying in tonight, shld I get it done.

Need to weigh anchor.

Captain's Log 10

2005-11-03T16:40:00.000-08:00

I need to write another 1,200 words today.

Do-able, but I'm babysitting tonight.

I hv a Psion Revo somewhere in the messy place of mine... but I can't find it.

That wld help...

Of course, I can always use pen & paper...

But that will slow me down a little...

I wish I cld take this laptop with me...

But I don't think a baby appreciate the Great Irish Writer turning up with this thing in tow...

A fraught day...

Hving a hangover hasn't helped...

Need to see the sip's doctor.

Going below for a bit.

Inishraam

2005-11-03T14:50:00.001-08:00

We walked along the beach, the seven of us in solemn patrol, the blond man and myself at the front, Mairtin and the four others behind us. It was dark now, and cold, with only the light of the moon and the distant stars to guide us. We started to move inland, further up and away from the beach and the calm black sea. I looked back to see a ghostly slick of moonlight on the water, stretching far out into the Atlantic. Strange how something so beautiful could be so cruel.
We came to a point where the beach ran out and a path led up towards the hill I’d seen when I was swimming towards the island. It was harder to make out the way now, as clouds passed across the face of the moon and night deepened into absolute darkness .
My blond companion, however, wasn’t troubled at all. He picked his way nimbly along the path, and I realised that this was something he’d done before, many times before. Who were these men ? And why were they here ? I was completely mystified. Eventually we came to a roadway, and I could make out that this was the major road through Inishraam. The clouds moved and the moon cast a pale eerie light on the scene.
Low walls lay on either side of the road and beyond the walls small flat fields of naked rock stretched out, desolate and barren. In the distance I could hear the waves lapping against the beach but apart from the sighing of sea on shingle, there was no other sound. The road stretched away, and the lunar emptiness of Inishraam came home to me then. How had anyone ever sustained themselves in such a bleak place ?
-We’re nearly there, said my blond companion.
-Nearly where ? I asked.
-The village, he said.
-The village ?! I asked. Do you mean Kilbannon ? But Kilbannon’s been abandoned for the last fifty years !
-So they tell me, said Mairtin.
The men all laughed and I started to become unnerved. What the hell was going on ?
The blond man stopped. He pointed further down the road.
-There. You see where the lights are ?
I could see a lights up ahead, like a small advent calendar.
-My God ! I said. Kilbannon ?
-Yes, said the blond man. A turf fire and some nourishing food are waiting for us.
We walked towards the village, which was now only about five hundred yards away. I counted eight cottages on either side of the road, and could smell the turf smoke curling up out of their thatched roofs. The moon passed behind the clouds again and we walked on in the darkness.

-Is that you Mairtin ?
A strong female voice called out in the darkness. I peered into the night to see the outline of a slim red-headed woman standing in the doorway of the first cottage. She was silhouetted against the dark, and I glimpsed an expanse of light stretching out behind her inside the doorway.
-It is, said Mairtin. And we have a guest. Do you have that fire going and refreshments ready?
-Of course I do, answered the woman, and we passed inside her cottage.
The front room had a stone floor and a plaster ceiling, and two windows facing each other. A small staircase was at the right hand side of the room, wooden steps leading up to the eaves. A turf fire was buring away in the fireplace, peaty smoke wafting up into the air. There was a sofa and two armchairs in the middle of the room and an oak table and four matching chairs by the door into the kitchen. The door was open and I could see bare flagstones and open rafters, a range and a dresser, and two doors at the far end opening into a scullery. The cottage was primitive but warm and homely.
-Will you have a cup of tea ? the woman asked me.
-Yes please, I said.
She went into the kitchen and we all followed her. The walls had been kippered by the turf-smoke to a soft brown that blended with the grey earth-colour of the floor. Fishing-tackle, nets and oil-skins, were hung on the walls or among the open rafters, and right overhead, under the thatch of the cottage, hung a large tarpaulin.
A kettle was boiling on the range and the woman made a big pot of tea for us all. I noticed that she was dressed rather like the islanders of old, in a long brown skirt and white blouse, a green knitted cardigan with large green plastic buttons her only concession to modernity .
She took down three large cups and three large saucers from a shelf on the dresser and arranged them on a tray on the dresser’s painted surface. A small jug of milk and a sugar bowl completed the teaset.
-Now, she said, let’s go in and have some tay, shall we ?.
She pronuonced ‘tay’ in the Irish way, as if making fun of the whole ridiculous ritual. I noticed, though, that she had the same curious accent as the others. I tried hard to place it, but it was elusive somehow, like a breeze.
-We’ll be going now, said the blond man.
-Tomorrow ? said Mairtin.
-Tomorrow, he replied, and he nodded a curt farewell. The blond man opened the door and the whole blond patrol went out into the night.
-Shall I be mother ? asked the woman.
-Why not ? said Mairtin, and she poured out the tea.
-Milk, sugar ? she asked me.
-Yes, please, I said. Milk and two sugars.
I drank a sip. It was strong and dark, made the way my mother used to make it.
-Well, Mairtin ? she asked. Aren’t you going to introduce us ?
-Of course. Forgive me, darling. This is my wife, Bridget. And I think you know my name.
-I’m Mike, I said.
-Mike ? he asked. Are you Irish, Mike ? You don’t sound very Irish.
-I’m not, I said. I was born in London. But my folks are Irish.
-Oh ? And where are they from ?
-Not too far from here, actually. Killorglin, in Kerry.
A look passed between them. I couldn’t quite read it, but I had the feeling that they were both looking at me rather too intently for this to be just small talk. I had the uneasy feeling that were interrogating me.
-Would you like something to eat, Mike ? Bridget asked.
-That would be great, I said. I’m ravenous. What do you have ?
-What about some soad bread, ham, pickles, and a few scallions ?
-A feast ! I said. That would be very kind of you.
Bridget smiled at me and went off into the kitchen.
-That was a terrible storm, said Mairtin. Is that what your nightmare was about ?
-No, I replied. That was… something else.
-Now, said Bridget, how’s that for you, Mike ?
Bridget returned with another tray on which was a large plate of food, a knife and fork on ether side of it, like a culinary coat of arms.
I ate in silence. Just as I had many questions for them, I sense that they too were curious about me. I may have said something in my delerium that they weren’t sharing with me. Or perhaps there was something else. But I definitely had the feeling that they were wary, despite the hospitality.
After I’d finished, Bridget said,
-Would you like me to show you where you’re sleeping tonight, Mike ?
-Yes please, I said.
She went over to the staircase and I followed her upstairs.
-Here you are, she said.
She stood in the middle of a small attic, with a boarded floor and ceiling, and two windows opposite each other. A large brass bed stood in the middle of the room, and there was a small fireplace to onse side.
-Sleep well, she said, and smiled at me, then turned suddenly and went back downstairs.

Captain's Log 9

2005-11-03T14:45:00.000-08:00

I went out last night - fatal mistake...

Have really fallen behind - but hv managed to get back on track.

Means that today I still need to write my 1,670 words from a standing start.

It's now 2.45pm.

I'll post the latest installment now.

Phew!

This is going to be hard work!

New Rule:

Go On The Wagon For The Whole Of November.

Inishraam

2005-11-02T16:45:00.000-08:00

Monday

I turned my head. A tall blond man, aged about forty, stood over me. He had a weatherbeaten face, lined with a light stubble, and pale blue eyes. His features stood out in the gloom, and I was aware of a fire burning behind him, sparks flying upwards and shadows dancing. His accent was hard to place – not an Irish accent, I thought, but then Inishraam wasn’t exactly Ireland. It was some older, more primitive place, a place whose language and customs belonged to a bygone age. He wore a navy blue bottlenecked sweater, the kind submariners wear, black trousers and wellies.
-Why am I tied down like this ?
-You were feverish. We thought it best to make you comfortable here, where we found you. Help is on the way.
-We?
-Yes, we.
I looked around. Behind him, a little way off, stood four others. They were blond, like him, men, like him, and about the same age.
-I thought this island was uninhabited ?
-You are obviously mistaken.
-But it was abandoned in the Fifties!
-It was.
There was a pause. Overhead the stars wheeled in their courses and day was turning quickly to night. Even with the heat from the fire, a chill was in the air.
-Ah, here is Mairtin.
A dark-haired man came towards us from along the far end of the beach. He scuffed the shingle as he walked, the stones jingling like coins in his pockets. He reached the fire and nodded to the blond man.
-I have something for our visitor, he said.
-What? I asked.
-Just some honey and hot milk. With a few herbs thrown in. Drink it. It will do you good.
The blond men looked at me. The first of them had moved aside and they were standing over the fire, their faces red in the heat, shadows twisting and leaping in the gathering darkness.
Mairtin bent down and held a mug to my lips. The taste of honey, milk and herbs was like ambrosia. I drank the hot liquid and immediately warmth and well-being returned to me, suffusing my body, like sunshine coming out after a drenching shower.
-There. Are you feeling better?
-Yes. Thanks. How long have I been out?
-We found you lying on the beach eight hours ago.
-Eight hours!
-Yes. Your boat was destroyed in the storm.
The storm! I had forgotten it.
-And have you found anyone else ?
Mairtin looked at the blond man.
-No. We have found no other survivors. You are the only one. It was a terrible storm. You are lucky to be alive, lucky that we found you.
It was the blond man who spoke. He seemed to be the leader of this solemn crew.
-But…
-But what are we doing her ?
-Yes!
-All in good time. If you are feeling better we can take you somewhere dry and warm.
-OK.
-Mairtin?
Mairtin came forward and knealt down. He started undoing the bands which held me. I saw that I was lying on a stretcher and that the bands were straps attached to the sides of it.
I was soon out of them. Mairtin offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet.
-Right, said the blond man. Let’s go.

Captain's Log 8

2005-11-02T16:40:00.000-08:00

A difficult day.

Lots on.

But I have completed my first 500+ words and only need another two sessions to go.

I have also find out thru The Wonderful World Of Bloog that Gill & Macmillan in Ireland accept online proposals of novels.

I'll hv a closer look at this.

Getting a Prop together for them is going to mk me focus a little more closely on structure, plot, arc...

Another plot development occurred today in writing my 500 - don't you just love process?

Right - posting up the next intstallment...

Captain's Log 7

2005-11-01T23:40:00.000-08:00

I did it!

I made my word count target - 1,667 words today.

I've finished Chapter 1 and I think I've done a pretty good job.

I had a little help from Messrs Synge and Swift, but hey! If you're going to steal, steal from the best.

My plot is cooking nicely.

I just need now to think abt tmw's chapter, work out my 3 part structure for the chapter, and then I'm away.

I've bn doing a little more research, but I'll keep that up my sleeve.

I wldn't want to let my readers (if I hv any!) know too much.

11.40 pm in Brighton now.

I hv a few more chores to get out of the way and then it'll be bed.

See you tmw, landlubbers!

Inishraam

2005-11-01T23:35:00.000-08:00

I’m in a cool white room. There’s nothing in the room except a bare matress with a plastic cover. I’m a few feet away from the matress, in the middle of the room, on the floor. A thick rubber floor covering cushions me as I lie on the floor. I’m wearing a thin cotton night shirt and I’m sweating. But I’m not hot. I’m shivering and my sweat is icy cold. My teeth start chattering and I shake in great starts and spasms.
A slot in the door slides back with a sharp bang. Someone is looking at me. I can see a magnified blue eye gazing coolly through the hole. It does not blink but stares at me shivering, chattering, shuddering.
Plumes of smoke start to float out of the white wall, the wall where the door is, the door which is watching me. Each plume is scented and carries with it the odour of violets, a sweet, sickly smell. The scent is choking, and the plumes of smokefill up the room, hanging heavy and cloying and dense.
Something is moving out of the corner of my eye. It’s at the periphery of my vision. It fills me with fear. For it is scuttling now and there are more of them, running round in the white room, scurrying and scuttling just out of my line of sight. I am shaking uncontrollably on the floor now, drooling and helpless. What is happening to me ?
Now I can see them. There are hundreds of them, shiny black beetles scurrying all around the room. They will soon be on me. There are so many of them. They swarm over each other, scuttling and scurrying, their shiny black backs whirring as their wings expand. They are flying now, flying through the room, a great black glistening racket of beetles swarming through the air.
Now they are on me. They are in my hair and on my face, on my body, my genitals, in my anus, crawling all over me.
I scream. And scream, I scream until that is all I am, along, loud, terrified scream. But it is no use – the beetles are eating me now, eating me piece by piece. I scream with all the warped intensity of the mad. And still the eye gazes down at me. And screams back.

I came to. Cold sweat was pouring down my face and my back was drenched. Where was I ? I could smell woodsmoke and feel the heat of flames a little way off. I seemed to be dry and I was definitely alive. It was dusk now, darkness falling fast above me.
I tried to sit up. But I couldn’t. My arms and legs were fastened on each side, bound with some kind of thick bands to the ground. My head was also tied down. There were also bands across my body, from my armpits to my thighs. I could only look up and saw the moon, full and mysterious, far above me. What was going on ? There was a noise of shingle breaking under someone’s footfall and I heard a husky voice say,
-Welcome to Inishraam.

Inishraam

2005-11-01T17:30:00.000-08:00

The cold was intense. It chilled me to the bone. But worse was the storm. The waves picked me up and tossed me about like a doll. And the wind howled and raged at me, the rain warring with the sea, and I was caught in it all, swimming for my life.
I could taste salt in my mouth and knew I couldn’t survive for long. I swam away from the boat, just flotsam and jetsam now, fragments floating on the waves, and heard moans and cries from the crew. Panic – icier than the water and just as deadly – surged through me. Nearby people were drowning, dying, far from home, in a watery hell none of us could escape. How much time did I have ? How much time did they ?
I swam and swam, through darkness and downpour, my legs kicking and my arms flailing, swimming as I’d never swam before. I knew that if I stopped, I’d die. And I didn’t want to die. Not after all I’d come through. No, I didn’t want to die… Swim and live - stop and … it was as simple and as stark as that.
The wind started to die down. The howling bacame more of a low, whining moan, and the rain too was letting up, the cascading torrents easing into steady, consistent rainfall. The sea seemed to be growing calmer as well, the waves less turbulent, less restless and angry. The fit was passing.
I looked up. Darkness had fallen on us with the coming of the storm. Now a grey light was returning to world, and I could see in the distance what looked like land. Inishraam – it had to be! I dared to hope.
The cold was brutal. I knew that it would start to slow me down, that I’d start to succumb to its deadly numbing embrace. I had to focus on Inishraam. If I could get as far as that deserted island, I might have a chance. Out here, in the cold, stormtossed sea, I would die. Inishraam was my only hope.
Pale shafts of sunlight started to pierce the grey world. The sea grew calm and still, and overhead I could hear seagulls crying into the wind, as if to let the world know that life had triumphed, that they had survived the storm, that nothing could now kill them.
It was suddenly as if the storm had never been. The sea was as flat as glass and the wind had become a gentle breeze. I could see Inishraam now when I looked up, I could smell it. I kicked and flailed, for the cold was making me drowsy, and I knew that that though the worst was behind me, I couldn’t hold out much longer.
Mist started to from ahead of me, great swirls of it, as if the wind had thickened into fog. Inishraam was disappearing! Sight of the island had kept me going – now I panicked again, thinking I’d never find it. I kicked as hard as I could, knowing that this would be my final effort. I had no reserves of energy left – the cold was slowly killing me.
I knew I must be close. I had been swimming forever, and as well as the cry of the seagulls overhead mocking me, I could hear the slap of waves hitting the beach.
In the dim light the mist cleared and I could see the shoreline on the right between the movement of the waves and the fog, though as I swam towards the island it seemed to fade before my eyes, as if under a spell, and I could see nothing but the mist curling in above the sea again, and a small circle of foam.
I swam on. The water was really cold now and I weas chilled to the marrow. I knew I couldn’t last much longer. Slowly, dreamily, I saw a large rock emerging up from the fog, and beyond it the makings of a hill. I swam on and could feel rocks start under me in the water, and hear the slap of waves and the jingle of stones as the sea ebbed and flowed onto the beach. I could feel shingle under me now and stood up to wade ashore. I was on dry land ! At last ! I collapsed onto the cold flinty stones, and passed out.

Inishraam

2005-11-01T14:35:00.000-08:00

The First Week

Sunday

When we set off it was a brilliant morning of April... yet as
we drew nearer... a sudden thunderstorm broke out behind
the rocks we were approaching, and lent a momentary tumult to this
still vein of the Atlantic.

All afternoon the storm had been threatening and now it finally broke. The darkness gathered on the horizon was upon us and fury fell like vengeance on the boat. The wind roared, and the waves smashed down, towering and falling as if to smash the little vessel. Great laces of spray flew onto the deck, and were caught up and hurled into the wind. Rain lashed down, biblical and angry, as if the world had turned to water and was drowning everything in cold, bitter, torrents. The boat climbed the huge waves, and crashed back down, a toy of the gods.
I sat on the bridge, white with fear. All around me the horrible noise of the storm. It sounded like the end of the world. I didn’t think we had a chance. If the boat sank, what would we do?
The noise was getting louder. The howling wind and driving rain, the tumult, reached a crescendo, and I heard a loud crack. A voice from the deck called out,
-We’re going to have to abandon ship! The mast is broken ! Everybody into the life-rafts!
I rushed out into the storm, the little boat climbing and bucking the huge waves.
But it was too late.
There was another loud crack! and the boat lurched onto her side. I was flung against the rail of the deck and clung to it as hard as I could.
-She’s going ! shouted the same voice.
The boat was sinking, lurching and dead now, surrendered to the fury of the elements.
The storm was raging. Lightning bolts rent the sky, the curtain of the world torn in two. Great slices of light and huge booming thunder, like war in the sky, split the heavens.
I was soaked to the skin, the rain whipping my face and hair. Another wave would bury us. Where were the life-rafts? But it was too late for life-rafts now. The boat was cracking and splintering, breaking to bits in the storm. It was every man for himself. No place to run, no place to hide: I was going to have to jump into those deep, deadly, Irish waters.

Captain's Log 6

2005-11-01T14:30:00.000-08:00

I'm off!

I've written nearly 500 words of Inishraam.

I hv three scenes to make up Ch 1:

shipwreck
swimming
landfall

I'm using little snippets from the Aran Islands by Synge as epigraphs to each Ch.

I'll post it up now.

Yippee!

Captain's Log 5

2005-10-31T01:00:00.000-08:00

Structure

I was just thinking about this.

In terms of keeping things simple I think I shall go with four sections and an epilogue:

Week 1

Week 2

Week 3

Week 4

Epilogue

The Epilogue will have a twist in it.

If I work to the schedule of writing a chapter per day that will be 28 chapters, plus the Epilogue.

I want to keep about 2 - 3000 words for the Epilogue.

So that's 48,000 words divided by 4 = 12,000.

Divide that by 7 for the days of the week and we arrive at: 1700 approx.

Which is the daily word count I need to aim at anyway!

Tempted to make the chapters Blog Posts...

But I don't think my plot will allow this... diary entries perhaps...

Good to hv the 'look' of the novel sorted out...

It's late and I must leave the bridge and go below decks to my quarters.

Good night!

Captain's Log 4

2005-10-30T23:50:00.000-08:00

Kay came back to me.

The Group is meeting in a coffee shop in Western Road tomorrow.

It's rather a busy coffee shop - I hope we get enough peace to discuss what we're up to.

I also have a workshop for The South to run tmw night - Poetic Forms.

It's going well - 10 weeks of workshops in which we pick apart the intricacies of a wide range of poetic forms and write our own version of that week's form - so far we've attempted the sonnet and the villanelle and they've gone very well.

There is still time to get on board!

E-mail if you'd like further info.

I did a little more research this evening - read Lamb's Tale of The Tempest by Shakespeare.

Reading the story of The Tempest has given me a few clues about characters.

I have the main character worked out, and where he's from, and why he ends up on Inishraam.

I also have a secret I've given him.

A great tip I was given in a workshop at The New Venture Theatre by Anita Sullivan - give yr character a secret which is revealed in the course of the story.

My character's secret will lead to a crisis...

I also need to think about my other characters a little more and to work out their relationships.

Some intertextaulity with The Tempest would be good.

The island is such a strong archetype in the English psyche - Shakespeare influenced Defoe, who influenced Swift... right down to Ballantyne and Golding and Alex Garland - and I see that James Hawes has a book out covering similar territory.

Of course, the island has a different resonance in Irish literature, which perhaps influenced Swift also.

I won't say too much abt this, because I want to make Gulliver's Travels the focus of a play I'm also writing.

I know how my story starts - with a storm and a shipwreck.

And I know how I'm going to write this - I'm going to find a description of a Victorian shipwreck, and 'overwrite' it.

This is the technique I want to use with my 'Base Text', J M Synge's Aran Islands.

More tomorrow.

That first chapter goes up on Tuesday.

Not long now...

Captain's Log 3

2005-10-30T18:10:00.000-08:00

Captain's Log 2

2005-10-30T17:45:00.000-08:00

Here are some Rules I've come up with.

I'll expand on them during the month.

1. Plan

David Mitchell (Ghostwritten, number9dream, Cloud Atlas) has written v successful novels which are really linked collections of long short stories.

5 - 10 linked sections could make the whole thing a lot more manageable.

Chapters, characters, plot - all this well help in terms of preparation.

2. Use a 'Base Text'.

My novel is going to be set on an unpopulated island off the coast of Kerry.

I've downloaded the Aran Islands by J M Synge and have been playing abt with his text, using it for descriptive passages.

I take a para or two of Synge, and polish it into my slightly more modern style.

I shall also be looking for other Irish classics such as The Islandman to download.

Out of copyright classics, ie abt 100 years old, are often in digital form and can be used like this.

The use of such texts is both postmodern, and a timesaver.

It creates a palimpsest and gives your own text resonance.

BUT the re-writing has to be significant.

There is a thin line btw the derivative and the intertextual.

You still have to WRITE!

To say nothing of plagiarism...

3. Set targets

50,000 words is approximately 1,700 words per day for 30 days.

Two sessions a day - writing and revising - can accomplish this word count.

It is a stretch: Anthony Burgess, a v prolific writer - aimed for a 1,000 words a day.

Dickens, on the other hand, would churn it out...

5,000 words at one sitting was a feat he regularly accomplished.

Means he wld do Nano-Wrimo in under a fortnight...

4. Clear yr schedule.

Goes without saying - dedicated times daily for writing, cutting down on everything else - as much as you can...

5. Seek support.

Join a group!
There are plenty about...

Captain's Log 1

2005-10-30T15:40:00.000-08:00

I'm entering Nano-Wrimo, the competition to write a 50,000 word novel in a month.

As well as posting the novel on this site, I also want to post brief journal entries about the whole process.

I'm not going to tell my family about what I'm up to. I have a wife and four children, the eldest at college, the rest at home.

I live in Brighton and I know there's a group who are supporting one another through the month.

I've made contact with them through Kay, who is probably very busy - she hasn't come back to me yet.

I have a few tricks up my sleeve to get the novel written.

I'll be sharing these with you as the month - and the writing! - progresses.

I mean to do it!

More later,

Beachcomber.