Fewer than sixteen thousand people set foot on this island in a year; some of them never get past the lower approach, some have fallen to their deaths on the way up. And, though I didn't know until I got there, a Jedi has called it home.
I've actually written about my grand luck and the stormy approach to Skellig Michael in a previous post, talking about the incredible avian life surrounding the island.
In Portmagee, Ireland, life hinges on about thirteen small boats, chugging to and from the small dock a few times a day. Those few vessels ferry tourists to the Skellig islands, or up and down the stunning coasts and along the Kerry Cliffs; just as they carry bright-eyed adventure seekers across the water, in return they bring home the lifeblood of the town's economy.
So after basically begging my way onto a boat with the most incredible luck, I crossed heaving waters and braved a rain of shite to make it to the base of the island. All of the boats arrive at once, and leave at once. Provided the weather doesn't cancel the trips (which happens around forty percent of the time, with no warning) you're there for the day. At the bottom, a caretaker explains the dangers of climbing the rock face, and takes you through what to do if you experience vertigo or have a panic attack. While I thought this was kind, it seemed a bit extreme. Then, I started to climb.
Seabirds cling to ledges no wider than an inch or two, as the winding climb up the island takes you along the edge of the crashing surf. There are no handrails or barriers.
The stairs are hewn from the living rock, or are awesomely heavy slabs laid and held only by gravity. Careful stacks of shale, placed just so, perch along the contours of the mountain face. The idea that sandaled monks carved and carried and cajoled any path to ascend out of the harsh cliff is a truly incredible one. After only about twenty steps, the reality had begun to set in that my upwards trajectory was nearly vertical, and any slight misstep would be also... albeit in the opposite direction. In the preliminary warnings, the caretaker had pointed out that if you fell, it was best that you either hoped you bounce, or die on impact, as getting help out to the islands is not an easy task. I've mentioned before that I'm not afraid of heights, but pairing the views of the empty ocean expanse with the single foot of rock between my solid stance and open air, I could see very easily how someone could become overwhelmed and disoriented. Three out of the small group I was with opted out of the climb before even starting.
This standing plinth marks one of the first landings. A solitary figure eternally watching the waves, abraded by hundreds of years of the fury of the water and wind, it's almost soft and rounded looking. It's also just now become incredibly recognizable, due in part to the trailers for The Last Jedi. See if you can spot it and some of the other views I share in this post.
Half way up, my palms were decidedly clammy. In some spots, I needed to bend forwards and monkey-climb on all fours to keep my equilibrium as I moved through a particularly steep or narrow section. Everywhere, puffins watched inquisitively from cracks in the rocks or sitting, fluffed up and unconcerned, in small tufts of greenery. I mean, for me, puffins are one of the most adorably cool things in the world that I've always wanted to see — and oddly and honestly, all I could think about was not embarrassing myself in front of them by falling and dying horrifically. Yeah, I really don't know either.
From the first plateau, looking across to Little Skellig, a protected island where no humans are allowed to step. The flat path from where the boats are moored to the base of the stone steps is visible, with the newly added retaining wall.
The view in the opposite direction, with some of the stairs visible; the sheer tumble waiting for those who trip is pretty apparent here.
Before reaching the monastery at the top, there is a flat path of carefully laid stones. Standing there, flexing my toes in subtle dips worn by hundreds of years of dozens of shuffling supplicants, I twirled until I was dizzy. (Which, admittedly, was stupid.) The view... oh friends, the view. Across from me, a valley with a vertical set of stairs descending into it, and a thin, snaking path up to a drop to the ocean, and a rock face that leads to a single introspective cell, barely visible in these photos. You must have mountain climbing training and credentials, and apply more than a year in advance to even be considered for an attempt at the barely-there handholds. To the left, open air, and a dizzying look at the stairs I just conquered. Continuing around, the entrance to the terraced gardens leading to the beehive cells.
It defies words, to stand in a place that feels older than time itself, buffeted by winds that have swept the entire world to still somehow end up here to meet you in a welcome both threatening and exhilarating.
If you squint, you can see a slight, single standing stone marking a path around the edge of the promontory to the hermitage, at the middle right, on an outcropping. The path is visible as well, from the cleft in the rock, down into the valley below.
I immediately scrambled down the stairs to run through the grassy island center to climb into the vee-shaped indent. For scale, see the few birds, and imagine the path is about four feet wide. Standing in that space and viewed from the vantage point here, I'd barely show in this picture.
Having done my best mountain goat impression through the grass and up the scree, I sat carefully in the window created by the fold in the rock and looked out over one of the closed paths up to the pass. While it looks alright from this vantage, it essentially ends in a drop that can only be navigated with climbing gear, and is water slick and treacherous year round. No one is allowed to come up that route now; movie producers have built a helicopter pad on the opposite side of the island to avoid the unpleasantness of boat rides and deadly storms and climbing. (Later at home, I would realize that this is where Rey first sees Luke Skywalker pull back his hood to reveal his face, extending the lightsabre in silent entreaty, as the camera spirals outwards to highlight the stark, lonely rock. I'll admit, my inner fangirl squeed. HARD.)
As I dangled my feet I considered what it would be like to live on this rock with essentially nothing, seemingly apart from space and time. I absentmindedly tugged on a rusted rope piton left from first explorations of the island (barely visible by my foot in the last photo), and a chunk crumbled away in my fingers. A bit of a sobering reminder that this side of the island is dormant for many reasons, I decided to cross the valley again and head into the monastery itself.
These photos and words are my own work, inspired by travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️
