A wee island is pure magic. Being is stripped down to bare essentials: turquoise sea, night air, song. Tiny flowers flourish between old stones. Bicycles lie unlocked outside of houses. Children play between currachs balanced on kegs. Two Pony Tony's blonde dog wanders the roads, nosing for treats. Lunch is crab claws and lobster in someone's front garden, a hen browsing at our feet. Outside of Tigh Ned, two trad musicians, beautiful lads, embrace; when they snog, my heart is squeezed by their joy. The next morning, as the ferry returns to the mainland, the island disappears in mist and spray and foaming waves, and I hum part of a Christy Moore song overheard on a cafe radio: "She was a rare thing, fine as a bee’s wing/ I miss her more than ever words can say/ If I could just taste all of her wildness now/ If I could hold her in my arms today/ I wouldn’t want her any other way".

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