The Little Irish Sketchbook

Imperfections make everything more interesting. They may be no bigger than a question mark on a map, no longer than one night without accommodation, but they can turn your whole trip upside-down. Or, as it is, move it to the other side of the island.
When my plane landed in Dublin, I decided I had no time to waste: if a detour had to be done in the middle of my trip, I could as well do it right there and then. I jumped on a bus for Galway, unknowingly giving a kick to my whole plan.
I guess it was for the pictures and other reminiscences from my old geography book that I found myself on the Aran islands. I may, at that time, have forgotten all about the curraghs (Aran fishing boats), the cunning way fields have been made on the rocks, and the traditional extraction of iodine from kelps, but I guess I could hear the breathing of Poll na bPeist, the Serpent’s Cave, in my heart, even through second hand words of a second hand school book.

It was the first time I travelled with a sketchbook. My travel sketches were very rough depictions of what I saw but, even through them, I can still feel how the sea itself painted every corner of those islands, from the blackish cliffs down to the last blade of grass, giving them a peculiar hue of blue.
One of the things I learned from that trip is that hostel’s kitchens are the perfect place to make acquaintances. There I met two German girls who thought me about Irish folk dance, a French girl with whom I enjoyed pub’s live music, and that incredible group, on Inishmore, of people from all around the world. We were from Italy, Germany, Norway, Hawaii, Israel, Canada, and Ireland enjoying a taste of middle-east asian food. That night I found the travel mates for the next day trip to Dún Dúchathair, the Black Fort.
It’s no wonder that is still debated whether the function of many archaeological sites on the island is defensive or ceremonial: Inishmore inspires religious meditation and, at the same time, shows a stony dedication to defending Ireland from the violence of the Atlantic waves. We felt it, while looking at water of such a deep blue-black that my attempts to reproduce it got close to punching a hole in my sketchbook.

On our way back, lost in the tangled system of walls and fields that surrounded the Fort, I realized how much I owed to that small imperfection in my travel plan, which got me on a totally different path and made me live such a beautiful experience.

Imperfections can be perfect opportunities.