Wild Atlantic Women E-Book

Gráinne Lyons

• Herausgeber: New Island
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 326

Beschreibung

At a crossroads in her life, Gráinne Lyons set out to travel Ireland's west coast on foot. She set a simple intention: to walk in the footsteps of eleven pioneering Irish women deeply rooted in this coastal landscape and explore their lives and work along the way. As a Londoner born to Irish parents, she also sought answers in her own identity. As Gráinne heads north from Cape Clear Island where her great-grandmother was a lacemaker, she considers Ellen Hutchins, Maude Delap, Edna O'Brien, Granuaile and Queen Maeve among others from her unique perspective. Their homes – in places that are famously wild and remote – are transformed into sites of hope, purpose, opportunity and inspiration. Walking through this history, her journey reveals unexpected insight into emigrant identity, travelling alone, femininity and the trappings of an 'ideal' life.  Against the backdrop and power of this great ocean, Wild Atlantic Women will inspire the twenty-first-century reader and walker to keep going, regardless of the path.

Leseprobe

WILD ATLANTIC WOMEN

First published in 2023 by

New Island Books

Glenshesk House

10 Richview Office Park

Clonskeagh

Dublin D14 V8C4

Republic of Ireland

www.newisland.ie

Text and illustrations copyright © Gráinne Lyons, 2023

The right of Gráinne Lyons to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.

Print ISBN: 978-1-84840-859-3

eBook ISBN: 978-1-84840-860-9

All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owners.

For quoted material, all efforts have been made by the author to secure permission to reproduce it here. Any errors or omissions are oversights and can be brought to the attention of the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset in 11/15pt Sabon by JVR Creative India

Edited by Emma Dunne

Cover layout and design by New Island Books

Cover and map illustrated by Curlew Cottage Design, curlewcottagedesign.co.uk

Printed by L&C, Poland, lcprinting.eu

New Island Books gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaíon.

New Island Books is a member of Publishing Ireland.

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CONTENTS

Prologue: Banba’s Crown

Malin Head, County Donegal

1. South Harbour

Ellen Cotter: Cape Clear Island, County Cork

2. A Remote Country

Ellen Hutchins: Bantry Bay, County Cork

3. Miss Delap

Maude Delap: Valentia Island, County Kerry

4. Big Peig

Peig Sayers: The Great Blasket Island, County Kerry

5. The Ships

Charlotte Grace O’Brien: Foynes, County Limerick

6. The Cliff Edge

Edna O’Brien: The Cliffs of Moher, County Clare

7. On Aran

Úna McDonagh: Inisheer, County Galway

8. Glassala

Kate O’Brien: Roundstone, Connemara, County Galway

9. Queen of Clew Bay

Granuaile: Clare Island, County Mayo

10. Maeve’s Cairn

Queen Maeve of Connacht: Knocknarea, County Sligo

11. Cold Water Mountains

Easkey Britton: Rossnowlagh, County Donegal

Epilogue: Due North

Malin Head, County Donegal

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

About the author

PROLOGUE: BANBA’S CROWN

Malin Head, County Donegal

It’s four days past midsummer and I’m standing on the cliff edge at Malin Head in County Donegal. There’s a sheer drop beneath me and the wind is full of salt. This is Ireland’s northernmost point. Beyond lie the islands of the North Atlantic, the Outer Hebrides, Iceland and, finally, the edge of Greenland, covered in Arctic ice. But before all that is this smudged line of horizon, where the sea and sky have merged. I pull my hood up around me, try to spot basking sharks in the water. Listen to the churn of the ocean as it washes the rocks.

I’m at the end of a journey, of a series of walks I have taken along Ireland’s western coastline, county by county, from the bottom of Ireland to this northern tip – a route known as the Wild Atlantic Way. It’s a coastal pathway that was once, in my mind, connected to rugged masculinity: to war and fishing, shipwrecks and exploration – hardy, enduring and untameable. But just over three years ago, I started exploring a quieter story, one beneath the surface. I began walking – whenever I could – along this Atlantic coastline. I wanted to see if I could unravel how this elemental landscape had informed the lives of the women who had come before me. How they had moved within it, been shaped by it and how, when they had to, they had left it behind.

I had been thinking about these walks for a while. Back in 2016, on the centenary of the Easter Rising, I had visited Cape Clear, Ireland’s southernmost island, where I had celebrated the story of my great-grandfather John K. Cotter. Born on Cape Clear, he was a fisherman and sailor who’d taken part in the Howth gunrunning that had brought to Ireland the rifles used in the 1916 Rising. With skills learnt from years as a pilot in Irish waters, he’d steered Molly and Erskine Childers’s boat, the Asgard, into port, helping unload weapons into the hands of Irish volunteers.

It was only much later, thinking back over that weekend on Cape Clear, that I began to become curious about his wife – my great-grandmother Ellen Cotter. I felt that somehow, in the excitement of finding out about John K. Cotter, her story was one I had overlooked. I began to ask questions. Ellen Cotter, I found out, had been a lacemaker. A woman whose skill with a crochet hook, over a hundred years ago, had allowed her to dodge a life of domestic service. She was to become the first of a series of women in whose footsteps I would tread, tentatively at first, along this western shoreline.

The truth was, when I began to think about walking in this landscape, I was also at a crossroads in my own life. Although both of my parents are Irish, I have always prided myself on being a die-hard Londoner – a reaction, to some extent, to having two Irish parents and such an Irish name. It’s something I share with a lot of second- or third-generation Londoners – pride in a city that gave our parents or grandparents opportunity and gives us a distinct identity. But in 2019, things were shifting. London life was becoming harder than it had been and I couldn’t seem to work my way through it.

I had just turned forty but was still single and without children, seemingly at odds with the general flow of things around me. While the majority of my friends were busier than ever, balancing motherhood with their careers, I had just become freelance and had more freedom than ever before. I found myself with whole weekends of time that I was struggling to fill, wondering what my next move should be. I felt, in some ways, that I was on a new path – diverging from what I had supposed to be the template of a woman’s life. And this all coincided with a shift in my identity too, as I applied for and was newly bestowed, along with 400,000 other British people, with an Irish passport.

Using the story of my great-grandmother as inspiration, I decided to travel along Ireland’s west coast, seeking out the paths and stories of different women who once lived along this shoreline – stories that for me, as a member of the Irish diaspora, were as yet unknown. I thought that perhaps investigating their lives through the words they’d left behind, and the scholarship of the biographers and historians who had come after them, might help me make sense of my own life. That learning about these women could teach me an Irish history I had been lacking and maybe point me in the direction I should go next. And so I began this journey – walking along the coastline with the women of the past, and eventually the present, as my guides.

Each chapter in this book tells the story of a woman, distilled into one walk in the West of Ireland landscape which was or is their home. It is a journey through time that moves up the coastline from Ireland’s southernmost island of Cape Clear to its northernmost tip at Malin Head. In selecting the women whose paths I walked in this book, I chose people rooted in and connected to this landscape. My own great-grandmother lived a fairly traditional life, but the women that follow are people I consider to be outliers or subversives, to be in their own way ‘wild’. They are people who confounded, or are still confounding, expectations of what a woman can do. Somehow, each of them able to navigate the obstacles or boundaries that circumstance and wider society cast their way. Sometimes they did this through guile, sometimes through sheer grit and sometimes through outstanding talent and searing intelligence, outperforming their male peers until their talent could not be denied.

In West Cork, I walked along the shore once trodden by self-taught botanist Ellen Hutchins, who, in the early 1800s, preserved and catalogued the seaweeds of this coastline as nobody had done before. Walking alone, she found escape from a difficult life at home in the beauty of the seaweeds, lichens and mosses of Bantry Bay, laying the foundation for our scientific understanding of the Atlantic shoreline at a time when we were just beginning to study the natural world. On Valentia Island in South Kerry, one hundred years later, lived Maude Delap – a rector’s daughter and brilliant scientist. I walked her island home contemplating how, as the twentieth century dawned, in her homemade laboratory, she became the first person in the world to breed jellyfish in captivity, defying stereotypes to become an expert on these beguiling but sometimes dangerous animals.

In North Kerry, I spent time on the Great Blasket Island, once the home of oral storyteller Peig Sayers, where I found myself in thrall to the force of Peig’s personality and charm, falling in love, through her words, with the remote island on which she had lived out her days. Finding out that Peig had never intended to spend her life on the lonely Great Blasket but had dreamt of emigration to America, I sought stories of those who had made the transatlantic voyage. In my mother’s home county of Limerick, along the banks of the Shannon, I encountered the campaigning fervour of Charlotte Grace O’Brien, who, in the 1880s, sought to improve conditions for the millions of young Irish women who were crossing the ocean on huge liners, seeking a new life in America.

In Clare I walked along the Cliffs of Moher, exploring the story of perhaps Ireland’s greatest living writer – Edna O’Brien. Like my own parents, O’Brien has spent most of her life in London, but in the 1970s she wrote an Irish travelogue, Mother Ireland, in which she looked at her own relationship with this country. Immersing myself in her life and work, I compared her vision of Ireland from a distance with the one I had grown up with in London and asked why Edna O’Brien, and many other young women like her, had sought to escape.

Moving up the coast, on Galway’s Aran Islands I walked the circumference of the smallest island – Inisheer – taking in the extraordinary limestone landscape. There I met traditional knitter Úna McDonagh. In learning how some of those women who stayed in Ireland created an entire industry through the dexterity of their hands, I also found myself thinking about how these islands have often been portrayed as a romantic, rustic place by writers and filmmakers passing through. Back on the mainland, in Connemara, I continued this meditation on how the people of this shoreline have always been portrayed as a little ‘wild’ as I walked the roads around Roundstone, encountering a true bohemian – the novelist Kate O’Brien, who lived openly as a gay woman in a grand house bought with the sales of novels banned in Ireland for their frankness.

As I headed up towards my father’s home county of Sligo, I stepped back further into the more distant past. On Clare Island in Mayo, I explored the island home of ‘pirate queen’ Granuaile, who dominated the lands around Clew Bay in the sixteenth century – the daughter of a chieftain who lived her life with now mythic potency and force. Her strength inspired me to enter the realm of Irish legend, as I climbed the Sligo cairn in which the Iron Age Queen Maeve of Connacht supposedly lies.

Finally, in Rossnowlagh, County Donegal, I met Dr Easkey Britton, one of Ireland’s most well-known big wave surfers, who is also a marine social scientist. Her unique perspective, formed by a deep intimacy with Donegal’s sea and shore, opened my eyes to the most pressing issues of this coastline today – of climate change and how we build reciprocity into our relationship with nature and asked me to think about female identity itself.

Walking along the Irish Atlantic shore in the company of these women was an experience more profound than I could ever have imagined when I first set out. Treading their paths, I took inspiration from how they overcame challenges while moving through this unpredictable landscape, with the full force of the ocean on their doorsteps. Immersing myself in the lives of these very different women helped me understand my own, as I saw how their stories wove and interconnected with each other through time and space, united by the constant, enduring presence of the Atlantic coast.

1. SOUTH HARBOUR

Ellen Cotter Cape Clear Island, County Cork

‘Better to be alone than in bad company,’ the ferryman says, scrawling across my ticket with a dark-blue biro. We leave the scored cliffs of the mainland behind us and I feel all at once the exhilaration of travel. My anxieties about being alone disintegrate like the clouds above as the ferry cuts through the waves, away from Baltimore Pier and across Roaring Water Bay. From Heir to Sherkin, Calf to Castle, Horse to Long Island, these islands are a landscape unto themselves – rocky, shifting forms that sometimes slope into the sea or are hard braced against it. On board, I hold tight against the rail, looking out for dolphins and seals, until after an hour come the white houses and ragged fields of Cape Clear – a small island five kilometres long and half that wide. Aside from the tiny Fastnet Rock, Cape Clear – or in Irish, Oileán Chléire – is as far south in Ireland as it’s possible to go: a place on the very edge of Europe.

I’ve visited Cape Clear Island once before, in 2016. Back then, along with the rest of my mother’s family, I had celebrated the story of my great-grandfather John K. Cotter, a Cape Clear man who had helped unload the rifles used in the Easter Rising. The sea was choppy that weekend, the weather bleak, but the event somehow went ahead. Some of my relatives got up and recited poems that my great-grandfather had written and historian Éamon Lankford had edited for publication. Half of the poems were in Irish, and since I had no idea what they meant, I’d just sat quietly, concentrating on taking it all in – that I was somehow connected to this island I had never before heard of. I have pictures from that trip – the stomach-churning boat over; a rainy walk on the lanes; myself and a couple of rarely seen cousins leaning against a yellow washed wall, pints in hand and knowing looks into the camera. It would be a few years before I’d process what I’d learnt that weekend on Cape Clear and become curious about the story of John’s wife – my great-grandmother, Ellen Cotter. Ellen also had a career, I found out from Éamon, teaching lacemaking here in the early 1900s to the island women in a wooden school near the North Harbour. And so I am back, returning to walk where she walked and to see if I can perhaps find out more about my own connection to this island and her story.

Just past a half-built house, on the South Harbour, three teenage girls sit in a circle. One wears a hoody with her back to the sea and two others face the ocean, escaped perhaps from the summer college where, the campsite owner told me, students come to practise speaking Irish with the ever-patient islanders. The teenagers feel timeless somehow, the latest in a long line of sullen girls who’ve stared into this water. They ignore me as I walk by, their tobacco smoke hanging listlessly in the air. On my way up to the glen, the path lined with pink fox gloves, spiked heather and yellow broom, I pass the youth hostel in what used to be the old coastguard station, catch a glimpse in passing of a bunk bed through the window and feel a pang of sympathy for the girls behind me. Turning a corner, I leave the harbour, climbing up the lane that I hope will lead me to ‘The House of the Glen’, as my great-grandfather called it in his verses, in which he and Ellen once lived.

Like the lace she made, my great-grandmother Ellen Cotter’s story is thinner and harder to grasp than that of her husband, John, but there are some things I know to be true about her early life: that she was born Ellen Nolan on 8 February 1880, 450 kilometres from Cape Clear, in a place then called Greagh, near the Fermanagh border in what is today Northern Ireland; that her mother was called Mary and had once been Murphy; that her father was called James and that he was a labourer; that Ellen herself taught lacemaking on Cape Clear. Everything else is lost to time, right up until her marriage in 1909 to John. She must have learnt her lace skills somewhere – perhaps in Fivemiletown, not far from where she grew up, or in Lisnaskea, where a school had been started by the local landlord’s wife, Lady Erne. In a country ravaged by famine, the ruling British government had jumped on this growing industry, and in the 1890s lacemaking schools were formed all across Ireland by a government project known as the Congested Districts Board, and this is how the school on Cape Clear in which Ellen taught was founded.

She had caught the tail end of the golden age of Irish lacemaking. In 1880, around the time that Ellen was born, a woman making very fine needlepoint lace could save her family from starvation by selling what she had made, her work embellishing dresses across Europe as the middle classes sought to imitate European royalty. I don’t know how Ellen Cotter found her way to the school on Cape Clear – whether she met my great-grandfather and followed him here or whether she had moved for the job. I like to think the latter, but however it was, Ellen found herself at the other end of the country from Fermanagh, bringing industry to the women of Cape Clear, training girls used to gathering seaweed and tilling the soil. Lacemaking could be done at home for extra money between the myriad domestic chores women had to do while the men were away at sea – growing vegetables; tending and milking cattle; churning butter; and hand-washing clothes. I read in an article by Thomas Langan about how these projects operated in Mayo that when the lace schools were formed, there had been concerns that such calloused hands wouldn’t be able to do fine work, but work they did, here on Cape Clear, under Ellen’s tuition. On this island she found herself, ten years into a new century, newly married and walking up this very path to the Cotter home in the glen.

The scent of pine mixes with that of honeysuckle, hidden in a garden somewhere nearby, as I arrive at the cottage teetering above the crescent bay of the South Harbour. Painted white with red wooden shutters on the windows, it’s weathered by time. I peer into the window where a row of china knick-knacks – tiny teacups and a porcelain lighthouse – sit, framed by the pink fuchsias that cover the glen. I linger on the road as I take it all in. There’s nobody home and I’m secretly relieved. Entering would entangle me in more recent stories, lead me into another narrative and away from this particular past that I’m trying to find. What was Ellen’s life like here? It seems to me an impossible feat – raising five children on an island without electricity or running water, tending the garden to grow what vegetables they could, all while her husband was away fishing for days or even weeks at a time.

Today, there are just 125 people on this island, but when Ellen walked here, there were more than four hundred, all making a living from the sea. As I learned from Éamon Lankford’s detailed history of the island, Cape Clear and the other islands around it had been a fishing destination since the Middle Ages. Spanish, Portuguese and French ships joined the Irish to harvest the seas of hake, bream, salmon and herring. But it was mackerel and pilchards that made the Cotter family their living, as well as a sideline piloting boats for other sailors around the coastline of Britain and Ireland. Like generations of women before her, Ellen stood here above the harbour, against the winds that push and pull the island on rough days, watching for the Cotter boats – the Sarah Gale and Gabriel – each of which carried a crew of nine men to fish the waters around Ireland and Britain.

Samuel Lewis, writing in his Topographical Dictionary of Ireland in 1837, had described the Cape Clear men as the best pilots on the coastline, wholly employed in fishing. They left home on Monday and Tuesday mornings in the summer and returned on Fridays and Saturdays, spending their time at leisure before going back out on the water again. Fishing was a trade that involved the entire island, including women and children, who would line the pier at North Harbour when the boats came in, gutting and salting the fish into barrels or smoking the herring, pilchards or mackerel in perforated stone structures that were pleasingly named ‘fish palaces’. Reading through the treasure of knowledge that is Finola Finlay and Robert Harris’s Roaring Water Journal website, I came across a hand-colourised postcard of fish curing on what is unmistakably the North Harbour of Cape Clear from 1906. This is a whole three years before I know for sure that Ellen lived here. A wooden board is set up on barrels upon which the women work on either side, wearing red shawls around their heads. Head to toe in dark clothing and white aprons, the women look clean and industrious as they carry the salted fish back to the barrels lined up by the side of the quay, with the thin-sailed fishing boats behind them. I showed it to my sister and together we wondered if Ellen Cotter knew these women, working fervently on the harbour to pack the cargo coming into port on Cotter boats; if she’d taught them lacemaking, or taught their children, or worked in the harbour herself on days when the catch was large and needed as many hands as could be found.

I turn right onto a narrower sandy path, breathe in the clean air, take a drink of water and look back. I can see the little bell tent I am staying in for a few nights in the campsite on the other side of the horseshoe bay. From here I start to understand the shape of the island – the thin isthmus road that connects the harbours, north and south. I think about how exposed the lives of the women in the photograph would have been – outside almost all of the time. I imagine them packing fish in the harbour wind; controlling children while on the cliffs; tilling the soil with seaweed and sand. The complete control the ocean held of their lives and those of their families. Perhaps these women had indeed learnt lacemaking from Ellen – brought neat baskets of their work to her on the days when they were not covered in blood and oil from gutting, salting and packing fish. A strange life of contradictions, to do both the cleanest, daintiest work alongside the most bloody.

The Irish crochet lace that Ellen taught was simpler than that made in Kenmare or Carrickmacross, but it was still profitable. In Santina M. Levey’s Lace: A History, she tells how at one time 12,000 women and children in the neighbourhood of Cork alone were employed to make it. It is a bread-and-butter lace in which linen or cotton is woven with a simple hook into decorous motifs of daisies, roses, shamrocks and leaves, used for collars, trimming or cuffs that were exported to Dublin, London and sometimes even Paris. An example lies under glass at the Clear Museum: two frail yellow collars made, not by Ellen, but by Sister Ciarán Ó Siocháin, an islander taught by my great-grandmother as a child, with the nun’s picture leaning up against the shelf behind her crocheted work. It frustrates me that there’s nothing else of Ellen Cotter left behind, that her life feels so patchy and filtered by time, that I am scrabbling around trying to find evidence. All I really have, aside from birth and marriage certificates, is the one photograph of Ellen that exists, taken with John, supposedly on their wedding day on 19 January 1909, when he was twenty-nine years old and she was twenty-eight – much older than I thought she’d be. The certificate names them as a spinster lace teacher and bachelor fisherman.

In their wedding photograph, the couple are incongruously posed against a painted walled garden in a photographer’s studio that I guess must be somewhere on the mainland. Ellen is sitting on a wooden chair with John standing to her left, his hand resting on her shoulder. She’s dressed in a prim white blouse that I’d like to think is trimmed with lace at the high collar and cuffs, but the photograph is so blurred that it’s impossible to tell. Beneath that hangs a long checked woollen skirt rather than a wedding dress. Ellen stares into the camera – clever eyes and small lips. Her dark hair is arranged in an Edwardian pile on top of her head and a necklace dangles past her waist. Beside her, John K. has sunken cheeks and the stance of an outdoors person, of someone trussed up and uncomfortable. It’s far from what we’d think of as a wedding photo today, these two people I’m related to, looking purposefully dignified as they sternly regard the future. I wonder was she pleased, at her presumably late age for the time, to have made a match? Perhaps John was glad to have found her – how many women with her skills would knowingly have signed up for island life?

A dog barks somewhere in the distance as I walk. I come across a well-kept vegetable garden in wooden raised beds and think of Ellen not only tending to the seven children she had while living on this island – May, Ellen, John, Kieran, my own grandfather Denis, Joan and Gabriel (two more, Claire and Eileen, would follow later) – but also doing daily tasks to feed the growing family. The soil is thin, and back when Ellen Cotter lived here the only way to fortify this stony ground was to harvest sand and seaweed from the strand and carry it back up the steep cliffs to lay on the fields – a task the women did while the men were away at sea, carrying the kelp in baskets on their backs.

I reach Pointanbullig – a sheer drop. Here the long grass is permanently swept back by the force of the wind coming in from the ocean. In front of me, the outline of the lighthouse on Fastnet Rock is a hazy silhouette against the horizon. An Charraig Aonair, I’ve read it is called, which translates to ‘the lonely rock’. A place so isolated that the children of this island were once taught to include the lighthouse keepers in their nightly prayers. It also has another name – the teardrop of Ireland – since this was the last piece of land so many Irish people saw as they emigrated to build new lives in America. When Ellen stood here in the early 1900s, this sea was full of ships but now it is empty.

Today is a calm day, but still the Atlantic feels all at once terrifying, vast and overwhelming. Ellen must have had a great respect for, a great fear of the sea. I’m glad to turn my back, sit down in the grass and listen to the evening bird song on the cliffs. By the time I take off again, walking back inland, the sun is setting slowly. I turn right onto a narrower, less trodden way. It’s more sheltered here and makes me think about what the winter must have been like – cold and bleak and with the full force of gales blowing in over six thousand kilometres of sea. Cut off from the mainland in an age before phones and email, with only the mail boat every few days, life must have felt precarious, relentless and insular, waiting for fishermen to come home from these dangerous waters. But I wonder, too, if living in such an intimate community brought solace. For Ellen, this would have been a place where her neighbours understood the truth of her situation and were as tied to the unpredictable nature of island life as she was. Even passing through as I am, since I got off the ferry yesterday, I have felt strangely held by the island, as if somehow I have become physically part of it, if only for a weekend.

Ellen Cotter spent at least eleven years of her life on this island, and I suspect more. I know that she was here from the time of her wedding in 1909 until she, John and their children left to start a new life in Kerry in 1920. She was forty then, my own age, while John was forty-one. He had obviously worked hard fishing and piloting in those years – as attested to by his being in Howth with the other island men he was working with in 1916. Perhaps by 1920, with a growing family of seven, Ellen and John both felt that it was time to find a home where life would be less of a struggle. Family lore has it that they sailed down the coastline from Cape Clear’s South Harbour around the Cork Atlantic coast on a boat loaded up with the children, John’s mother and their entire worldly possessions, including a couple of cows.

They spent the next portion of their lives running a post office on the coast road between Sneem and Kenmare, just on the River Blackwater – a place I plan to visit as I head upwards from County Cork into Kerry and where I have a vague arrangement to stay with some family cousins whom I’ve never met. I feel a little apprehensive about this – meeting and staying with people who are strangers to me, even though it’s something I would do for my work making TV documentaries without a second thought. As I follow the track, the bay falling away beneath me, I realise that I have left a level of comfort behind me – that by doing these walks I’m pushing myself in a way that I don’t yet understand.

The loop turns inland and I follow the path downhill, over a stone stile and across an old overgrown mass path, trudging across what I have learnt from my walking guide are called cnoicíns – little hills of grass – now gone to seed. I walk like this for another hour, the sun sinking, until at dusk I rejoin the surfaced road that leads me back down to the north of the island. As I cross the final stile, five magpies sit before me in a row, as if from a picture book of nursery rhymes. We stand off against each other for a few moments until I step forward and they scatter. From Cotters, the bar that was once owned by some branch or other of the family, I can hear music playing. For a moment I imagine the island even more full of life. I am transported to Ellen’s intrepid journey across the country; her strength in using her great skill with needlework to find her place; her resilience in embracing, then surviving, island life. I follow the sound of the music down to the North Harbour and, with her memory still in my mind, I let the night take me where it will.

2. A REMOTE COUNTRY

Ellen Hutchins Bantry Bay, County Cork

I arrive back on the mainland with my skin badly burnt, my hair in need of a wash and my nails jagged and dirty. I’d walked off my night out at Cotters by exploring the other side of Cape Clear and in celebration had swum in the South Harbour at low tide. Now I nurse the remnants of my first ever jellyfish sting, feeling a little stupid but also that I’m learning a bit more about the Atlantic waters and, perhaps, about myself. On Baltimore Pier three women from Dublin stop to ask me about parking and share my disbelief that it’s entirely free, for as many days as their island adventures might take. ‘You’re in a different part of the world now, girls,’ a man in earshot declares from his white van as they park up. I drive on to Skibbereen where, washed and rested, I plan my next walks. They will be in the steps of another Ellen – this time Ellen Hutchins, Ireland’s first and most prolific female botanist, whose background and life experience was vastly different to my great-grandmother’s.

Across the heath and blanket bog of the lower Coomhola mountains, I spend most of the next day walking, climbing steadily across the fields with horseflies circling my ankles, until I can see the entirety of Bantry Bay, across to Glengarriff and the Beara Peninsula. In the early 1800s, Ellen Hutchins spent hours tramping these remote expanses, gathering plants from the shoreline and mountains and becoming the greatest Irish marine botanist of her age. She was one of the first to study the natural life of this Atlantic landscape and her work is intrinsic to any understanding of it. In the nineteenth-century books in which the flora and fauna of Ireland were first catalogued, you’ll see her name again and again – next to the seaweeds, mosses, liverworts and lichens that she painstakingly collected.

Waking early again this morning, I now tramp along a narrow country lane outside Bantry that I’m hoping will lead me eventually towards the shore. It’s what my father calls a soft day. Moisture is heavy in the air and the hills around are covered in mist. The rain hits my hood in huge daunting drops as I crouch to tighten the laces on my walking boots. I think of the guests in the four-star hotel opposite the trailhead, still asleep in their crisply laundered beds, and wonder how long the rain will keep up. Unsure of my bearings, I’ve taken a chance following a signpost to Dromloch. It’s quiet here, the verges fringed with purple foxgloves and yet-to-fruit blackberries. On either side of the lichen-spotted walls lie tufty, boggy fields. I smell the grass in the damp air and am all at once happy to be outside in nature, despite the rain, walking until I come across the sign that’ll lead me to Mass Rock – an isolated spot where people once gathered in penal times, when celebrating Catholic mass was forbidden. Beside Mass Rock, I read, there is also a shrine, Lady’s Well, where the water is reputed to have healing qualities. After that the trail should take me down to the shoreline of Blue Hill, where Ellen Hutchins once walked, gathering the seaweed specimens that would become her life’s work.

I’d not heard of Ellen Hutchins until a year ago, when in my flat in London I began to plan these walks along the Irish west coast. But the more I read about her, the more fascinated I become with this person who, from her late teens until her death just before the age of thirty, both identified and recorded over 1,100 species of plant along this stretch of Bantry Bay. Her story captivated me, and not only because it mirrored my own growing fascination with this landscape. The deeper I explored Ellen Hutchins’s own letters (held in the Wren Library of Trinity College, Cambridge), the research of M. E. Mitchell of University of Galway, and the tremendous knowledge of her great-grandniece Madeline Hutchins, the more I grew to know someone of an incredibly resilient nature – a woman who had used her intelligence to cope with what must have, at times, been an intense and even lonely existence.

As a member of Ireland’s land-owning class, I’d at first assumed that Ellen Hutchins lived in cosseted privilege, but as her story began to surface, I came to empathise with a person whose life was marked by both her own illness and a duty to care for others. Ellen Hutchins was the second youngest of twenty-one children, of whom only six had survived into adulthood. Her magistrate father died when she was two, and with her sister Katherine having passed away two years later, this left Ellen the only sister of four brothers who had begun to war over their father’s inheritance. She had little choice but to stay at home, nursing her frail mother and youngest brother, Tom, who was paralysed after slipping on ice as a child and liked to have her always near to write for him and make him comfortable.

I follow the pilgrim path to Lady’s Well that the sick once walked in the hope of being cured, take a right over a stone stile onto a trail across fields of bog grass grown tall and wild. A small creek of stagnant copper-coloured water runs along the field border to my left, surrounded by pennywort and holly, hawthorn and ash trees. I walk along the border of large dark reeds, over another stile – wooden this time – into the fields where cobwebs are spun across the wet grass. I pass a patch of bog irises – a pure glorious yellow – before trekking into the hills, where gorse fringes a muddy trail leading upwards through rocks and red clay. If I look in front of me, I can see Bantry Bay, still covered in mist.