The lockdown blog: day 12

Today was a day of wandering and wondering. I wandered along Dublin's River Dodder, wondering at it's pale ale frothiness, and vicariously around several of Ireland's islands. The latter was for research, turned procrastination. From what I can deduce, Ireland has fifteen inhabited islands. A significant amount more than what I had first guessed, only managing to pull The Aran Islands out from the top of my head. Another, which remains burnt into my memory is The Great Blasket, whose only inhabitants are its bloodthirsty midges. 

Islands have always fascinated me, to prove this point, I was one of the 24k applicants that applied to live as 'caretaker' of An Blascaod Mór. Apparently I am not so unique in this fascination. I informed an Australian friend that I planned to do this. She replied that "nothing" could make her "step foot on that island again". I thought this was rude. To clarify, this same Australian had camped with me amongst its ruins. With our camping gas we made a foraged seafood dinner of mussels and sea spaghetti which we ate whilst listening to the sea hissing at the rocks. The air was still, the sky was pink and the seals were in choral harmony. 

Writing can make anything seem romantic. 

The reality of the insatiable midges was annoying for me and traumatic for her. 

 I find myself once more, drawn to these isolated island hideaways. I am contrary Mary, wanting to know how their gardens grow. Are their cockle shells all in a row? 

John Donne claims that "No man is an island". In recent times, many might feel that John spoke too soon.

 Cut off, anchorless, rudderless and remote. Here I sit in a small flat, on a quiet street, in a bustling capital, on a mainland. Here I sit, trying to remember what it was like to feel the bustle of that capital, to reach the corners of that mainland. I am surrounded by four walls and a five kilometer radius to explore, home to some shops and other inhabitants residences. Remote has become a byword for more than just location, but way of being. We socialize with other islanders/islands at a remote distance of two meters and we receive news from the mainland by way of remote devices, such as the one I now type at. 

But then. Suddenly. Breakthrough moments of connectivity bind us tighter than ever: invisible gossamer threads, hard to snap. Octopus tentacles pulling us in, sucker pads impossible to resist. They are there in our consciousness, our 'collective' psyche as we remember, breathe and imagine a together, together. Our umbilical cords to the rest of crazy, beautiful, infuriating, living, breathing humanity are never cut off. We are not islands. 

I remind myself daily of this by the simple fact that the only things getting 'washed up' are the dishes--sometimes.

To spare you anymore of my attempts at wisdom, I'll quote the man himself. 

And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

I do wonder though, will the idea of relocating to the 'remote' Blasket Island be quite as sexy after this year? We might all feel we have the suss on that adjective by now. 

xoxo not an island