The Island of Seals


The island of Inish Mor lies in a pool of brilliant blue ocean, a few miles from the mainland and the Galway Bay. To the left of where the little ferry docks, a small country road bordered with tall stones twines and twirls up towards a pink farmhouse and a white hotel with a picket fence. If you follow that road you will eventually find the remains of an old monastery and a burial ground looking towards the sea. After that there is nothing more than green fields and rock. But if you instead make a left turn and head towards the horizon where the sun sets, you will find the lagoon. My lagoon. And a house, a white washed house with a red door and a grassy roof. Carts and horses will pass you by, perhaps a small van, but nothing else. You can circle the island on foot in perhaps an hour if you walk briskly. I did once. And I never tire of listening to the sea, roaring, gushing, singing. Sometimes I believe it is all for me. The wind sings too. But it is for the rocks. Those eroded passages between cliffs, tall and steep, love that song so much they bend and shape to its every demand. The old folk call it the mermaid song . There is a lighthouse too, not far from the bay. And a beach with yellow sand, and it was in that sand I wrote: “I’ll be back. “But I was just a little girl.

The Island of Insih Mor was an ideal retreat for me. Isolated as it is, it is safe, but exciting, offering solitude, but not loneliness. I had always wanted to go back. And now, I craved it, to lick my smarting wounds and renew my vows to myself and my craft. But I found myself in a position of doubt, hesitant, unsure. Then one day after aimlessly browsing the World Wide Web for images of exotic locations and retreats, my eyes caught an image of her, my island lover, she shone in all her photoshopped glory, enticing me, calling me. I clicked the image and found myself stranded on a website of a band. A musical band offering drumming classes on the island. I had never felt interested in drumming, but this was an opportunity, maybe even a sign. I clicked on the email address given on the site and a new window opened. I typed the mail quickly and hit send. Ten minutes later the reply came. It was a man. He announced that there were no new classes starting at the moment, but that he could give me private lessons if I wanted. I hesiated. This was exactly the kind of situations the media warned you about. The Internet was a scary place full of predators. But I ignored the warnings, and replied the mail, making further inquiries. The man, whose name was Angus, lived on the island from spring to autumn, giving drumming lessons to groups of tourists, the rest of the year was spent touring Europe with his band.
The next few days, or rather nights as he seemed to be quite the nocturnal kind, Angus and I mailed back and forth. He was sweet and courteous, and I found myself drawn to him. The first mails were all about drumming and practical details, but after a while we ventured into discussions about music, creativity and eventually discovered our mutual interest in folklore and mythology. I started looking forward to his mails with a surprised enthusiasm. I had already booked the tickets. My flight was in just two weeks and I was bursting with excitement. Not just to see my beloved Inish Mor again, but to finally meet the mysterious Angus. A couple of days before my departure was due Angus surprised me with an invitation to stay in his cottage for the duration of my drumming class. Of course, he added, I was to sleep in his guest room. Again I hesitated. I had never even met the man! He was a total stranger! But he didn’t feel like a stranger. Ignoring all common sense and media warnings I accepted the invitation with a racing heart. I hit send. It was done. I was going to stay with him. With Angus! Was I in love? How could I be? I had never even seen Angus; I didn’t know how he looked like! What if he was an old balding man? I shrugged. My thoughts had taken me too far; I was after all just going to learn how to drum.

The day arrived eventually. I was going to Inish Mor. It was a gray rainy day. October days often are in this desolate part of the world. I carried nothing but a backpack and an umbrella. But I had to leave the umbrella with the security at the airport. It was too sharp, too pointed, too metallic, it could be used as a weapon. The flight was long and tedious with two stopovers. I didn’t eat much, but had a fair share of expensive red wine to steady my nerves. Or maybe it was just because it was free. Dublin was as grey and rainy as where I had come from. But the friendly smiling people made up for it. The bus driver greeted me cheerfully and turned up the volume of his radio tuned in to a folk music channel. I recognized the familiar sound of the flute and the violin. The music was skipping and keening in intervals, as if it was not sure whether it was a lament or a drinking song. I caught my foot bobbing silently along to the beat of the haunting music. “So you’re going to Galway, are you?” asked the friendly bus driver. I nodded, then added: “Yes, but I am travelling on to Insih Mor from there.” The bus driver looked up at me with a mischievous look in his eyes. “Ooooo, the island of the seals, is it? Well, you know what the legends say. Better be careful, you’re a pretty young thing.” He chuckled. I wanted to ask him exactly what the legend said, and why it was called the island of seals, but just then a new passenger boarded the bus. It was middle aged man with a bald head and a round red face wet from the rain. It looked as though he knew the bus driver for they commenced an animated discussion with peals of laughter and grunts of disagreement or perhaps disgust in something. The language they spoke was the old Irish, the Celtic language, so I sat back reluctantly and gave up my attempt to get the bus driver’s attention. I fished my iPhone out of my backpack and popped the small pink head phones into my ears, and to the sound of Enya’s soothing voice I fell asleep.

I woke up to the sound of the exhausted engine exhaling noisily. I looked out of the window and discovered to my surprise that I was looking at a rather familiar sight. It was the Galway Market! I got up quickly and climbed down the steps onto the sidewalk. The bus driver was busy helping a woman with a pram disembark the bus. I hurried away, half running through the busy shopping street of the little town; afraid I was going to miss my next bus and the ferry to Inish Mor. I stopped at a little Spar kiosk to buy a sandwich and some crisps.

The next bus ride was a short one. The landscape outside the window was that of Galway bay and the majestic Atlantic Ocean hurling itself with full force unto the rocky coves and little sandy piers. As the bus left the urban coastal landscape behind forests rose to block the view of the bay. Tall evergreens reaching for a graying sky gave way to grassy knolls and little rivers heading for unknown destinations. Small scattered cottages in pale colors bore witness to human habitat, but without the need to tame the outlawed wilderness. Soon the sea came back into view and I spotted the little ferry waiting for the bus. All the passengers were headed for the same destination and the ferry filled up fast. There was a drizzle outside and the seats inside the shelter of the ferry’s belly were soon occupied. I didn’t mind, I wanted to, I needed to sit outside feeling the rain and wind beating my face into submission. There was nothing to see but the sea. White peaked waves, like wild cantering horses, broke against the side of the boat, making it rock uncontrollably. I rocked with it and smiled. Gulls alerted me to the expanding dot on the horizon. Inish Mor. My Inish Mor. I was back.

There was no one waiting for me as I disembarked the ferry. I scanned the dock, but everyone seemed to know what they were doing or where they were going. Then I remembered, I had given Angus the arrival time of my flight, but not the ferry. I hadn’t known. But Angus had given me direction to his cottage, and I decided to see if I could find my way on foot. The early October day was descending into the soft amber glow of afternoon, the rain had stopped and the roads were drying in the dying sun’s surprise visit. The sea was keeping an evening tryst with the little beloved island, and she seemed to be whispering lovers’ secrets to him coaxing his mighty manhood into calm surrender. I felt like a ghost revisiting an old childhood world. These roads were made of a girl’s homespun dreams. I had walked them before, and today those dreams had given me a map to the familiar geography of a rediscovered home. The sea, whose murmur was never out of my ears, was my companion as I climbed the sloping hills heading for a cottage and a man I was not yet sure were real.

The cottage was easily spotted, situated on top of a green grassy hill, individualized by the oddity of its small shape and red inviting door. There was a gate marking the beginning of a path leading up to the cottage. I hoped it was not locked. But just as I was about to find out I heard a noise. Or a cry of sorts, I turned around to see who or what had made the sound and found my eyes staring into the eyes of the sea. But this was not the wild unkempt sea, this was a tamer friendlier version of the same entity. It was a lagoon. A silvery body trapped inside a rocky embrace, holding it fast, forcing it to stay still, and on the rocks seals were lazing about. I had never seen seals like that before. They were big and almost black glistening with salty sunbathed droplets. One of the seals made the cry again. He had lifted his head and was looking straight at me. I did not remember ever seeing seals on the island before. But then it occurred to me that I had never before been here this time of year. It had been early November that time, when I wrote my promise in the sand. Maybe the seals went elsewhere for the harsh winter season. I stood for a while admiring the beautiful creatures basking in the sun, now resting low on the horizon. I smiled at their magnificence. But it was time to face the music; it was time to meet Angus. I turned around and tried the handle of the gate. It opened with a high pitched moan. My legs shook as I slowly climbed the hill. I approached the red door and knocked. Nothing. I knocked again. Again there was no response. Maybe he was outside. I walked around the eaves towards the back of the cottage, but there was no one there either. The light was fading fast now and I needed to find somewhere to spend the night. Should I head back and look for the hotel? Perhaps that was best. But something in me was reluctant, hesitating, holding me back…Maybe Angus would be back soon from wherever he was. He knew I was coming today, just not exactly when. If I didn’t show up he would be disappointed. Maybe I could at least check whether or not the door was locked. I had heard that many people living in the countryside never locked their doors. I made up my mind quickly and went back around to the front of the house. I tried the handle. It yielded and the door opened.

The inside of the cottage was dark in the dimming light. The windows were small and few, too small to let in the light. But there were candles and matches on the table. I struck a match and lit one of the candles. The cottage was small and primitive. The floor was nothing but earth tucked densely together, and there was a hearth, a wooden chair and a table. That was it. There was driftwood piled up together in readiness of a fire, and I lit another match and touched the flame to the dry wood, it flared up immediately, helped by a scattering of torn and crumpled newspapers. He was expecting me after all! The glow from the hearth gave the cottage a cozy and welcoming homeliness. I smiled and put my backpack on the floor. I soon found the two bedrooms. Both had iron beds made ready with clean sheets and thick blankets. Another sign that he was after all aware of my arrival. I found a bottle of red wine on a cardboard box fashioned into a little table and a covered plate of food. It smelled delicious! I opened the wine poured a glass and dug into the food. I was hungry after the long journey.

The sea stirred up again outside at the coming of twilight and the continuous roars and wild howls of the tide mixed with the gusts of the autumnal winds flying about the eaves made me feel as though I had gone back in time. To a simpler life, blessed or cursed by the moods of the mighty Mother Nature. I closed my eyes dreamily. The shadows created by the candle flickered before me and penetrated even the curtains of my eyelids, and I sighed in contentment.

After finishing half the bottle of wine I started to feel drowsy. Stars had climbed up on the bluish black sky and the wind had increased; wailing now, like a ghost looking for a way back home. I shivered. Where was Angus? Why had he not come home? Worried as I was I could stay up no longer. I climbed under the covers of the soft blankets and was immediately lulled to sleep by the keening wind songs. I don’t know how long I had slept when I suddenly sprung out of the bed wide awake. Someone or something had touched me! I had felt a caress, a hand or something that had felt like a hand, had slipped up my leg and caressed my bare thigh! I tore the blanket aside and shook it. I hurried to light a candle, but there was no one there. I lit up every darkened corner, ventured into the other bedroom and looked into the bed. But there was no one there. Perhaps it had been a mouse. It was quite likely that there were mice in a cottage like this. I looked under the beds, examined the sheets, but found nothing. But the thought of a mouse, however disconcerting it was to think of a mouse sharing my bed, eased me a little. A mouse wasn’t dangerous after all. And it was probably gone now. I went back to bed and tucked the blankets around me. I closed my eyes, but couldn’t go back to sleep. I lay awake listening to the sea outside the window. The tide was beating against the rocky lagoon; the rhythm was that of a pulse, steady and musical, almost like… the beat of a drum. My thoughts went back to Angus. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come? I closed my eyes tight trying to think of something else. Then suddenly I felt it again! The hand caressing my thigh, only this time it continued higher towards my stomach. I bolted out of bed, stifling a scream. The candle was still burning on the night stand and I flickered it around frantically. “Who is there?” I cried out. There was no answer. My heart was beating fast now; fear had finally taken me over. But I couldn’t see anyone. “Show yourself!” I tried to sound angry, demanding, self-assured, but I could hear the fear in my own voice. Again, the only answer I got was that of the sea. It sounded menacing now, threatening. Tears sprung to me eyes. All of a sudden I felt alone, foolish and frightened. Someone, or something was out there, or perhaps even inside the cottage, something that meant to…what? Harm me? Or…or…have its way with me? I shivered again and felt the hairs in the back of my neck stand. One thing was certain; I would not go back to that bed.

I lit the fire in the hearth and sat as close to it as I could, seeking shelter in its comforting light. Dawn came at last. It was slow and reluctant, took its time, but it came. I got my things together, beat the fire until it died and blew out the candles. I was not planning to stay here any longer than I had to. I didn’t care about Angus anymore; he was probably not even real.

Even the island had lost its charm. I just wanted to go home. I slammed the red door shot behind me and left the hill with a brisk walk. When I closed the gate, my eyes fell once more on the peaceful lagoon that had charmed me so utterly yesterday. But it was empty. The seals had gone. Maybe the night storm had encouraged them to look for warmer pasture. Maybe it was their time of year to leave. I wasn’t sure, but I frankly didn’t care anymore.

The little ferry was waiting for me at the dock. The morning was not a popular time to leave the island and very few people joined me on the overcrossing. I decided to sit outside again. I needed the fresh air. My nerves were still unsettled and the coldness of the wind soothed me. I kept my eyes on the horizon keenly awaiting the dark shadow of the mainland to be silhouetted against the endless blue. And it was then I saw it; the small black curve of a head bobbing in the waves. A seal. One solitary seal swimming gracefully ahead of the boat, occasionally turning around and staring with black liquid eyes directly into mine.

I was inspired to publish this story by this post:

Please check it out to see beautiful pictures of adorable seals!

71 thoughts on “The Island of Seals

  1. I love this tale Trini, every detail so real and visual, your images magnificent. I too concluded that Angus is a ghost, someone from the past, someone lonely. I thought also of the movie “the Lake House”. Very captivating and intriguing and beautiful writing. 😊💖💖

    • Oh, wow, thank you so so much!! ❤ 🙂 That means a lot to me! ❤ Makes me feel like writing more short stories 🙂 It is just something I recently started doing. I have written stories for kids for a long time, but not short stories for a wider "audience". It is much harder work for me than poetry, but it is worth it when I have readers appreciating the end result! 🙂

  2. What a story Trini. It must have been a fabulous yet crazy adventure. You got me hooked too.
    I love this place – Ireland and this island. I felt peace and serenity around it. I wish to go back one day.
    take care and thank you for sharing this wonderful story. I wanted more…🙂 ❤

    • Thank you so so much!! Irland has given me many mysterious adventures for sure! 😊😊. I wish to Go back there too! 😊. Maybe we Booth will some day 😊. Thank you so much for your beautiful comment! Take care! Lots of love to you 💖💖💖

  3. Very romantic story. We are thinking of going to Inish Mor this summer! Perhaps in July. What a coincidence to read your story just after talking to my hubby about it. I’ll have to look for a cottage or hotel. For FIVE of us. LOL We are quite a crew. The hubby and I will have been married 20 years.

    • Oh, cool!!! 🙂 I stayed in a B&B near the pier, I don’t remember the name, but the house was yellow, it had a view over the sea and a Buddha statue in the garden, it was soooooo lovely!!! Not expensive either (I was a student), super cozy rooms, I highly recommend it! You might also see the house I lived in, it is famous on the island, it is the cottage in the picture here, it lies just above the seal cove 🙂

  4. Thanks for sharing your story. We love such stories, just the right dose of being scary. We suppose when we fly back from Norway we will make a detour to that island. We are soooo curious.
    With lots of fairy dust from the land of the selkies and trolls
    Siri 🙂 and 🙂 Selma, the happy Bookfayries

    • Oh, yes, you should! 🙂 It has a really rich fairy culture (you will find leprechaun houses in almost every garden on the island!). I highly recommend it!! 🙂 And yay!! I am so happy you liked the story! ❤

  5. Good afternoon, dear Trini,
    I just read your story. I really like how you build up the tension. At the same I am reading
    “Where There Is Smoke” by Simon Beckett and I must say you build up the tension as subtletly as he does. And I like also that there is no solution, no clarifiction a the end.
    Thanks for publishing your story here and thanks for mentioning our blog 🙂
    With lots of love and fairy dust from
    Klausbernd and the rest of The Fab Four of Cley

    • Oh, wow!! ❤ Thank you so so very much! 🙂 I love writing in the magic-realism style, because I feel it is often like that with magic. It is never "in-your-face", always subtle, hidden in the corners, and yes, mostly there is always a sensible explanation, if you look for one. It is like "The life of Pi", you can chose the reality you prefer, the magic one, or the other one. 😀 I also like to leave some up to the imagination of the reader, room for making your own conclusion 🙂 I love the mystery, I love riddles 🙂

      • Indeed, you do this very well.
        I suppose if you would go more into detail you could easily write a novel in that style. I am just studying the art of design tension in novels, and I love it when it’s done in tiny details. I love riddles too, they let the passive reader get active, especially when there is no answer given.
        We wish you a happy weekend.
        We really like to communicate with you 🙂
        Klausbernd and The Fab Four of Cley

      • I have tried writing a novel, but it always comes out as short stories! I think one day, a great idea, a wonderful story will come, and it will write itself through me 😄😄. That is what happens to the short stories, I am just transported in to the story through magic, and I can’t override the magic, so when the story is over, it is over. 😄.

  6. Great story, Trini! I live just across from the Aran Islands, looking towards them everyday from Co. Clare. Practically speaking, only Inish Sheer can be walked within maybe an hour, Inish Mor will take at least half a day, unless you can fly but I wouldn’t be surprised you of all people can fly indeed 🙂 I came from Inish Mor before I even knew I was going to live just across the water on the mainland, in Doolin. Wonderful to read about this place through your story.

    • Oh, you are so lucky!! ❤ How lovely to get to see the islands every day! ❤ I have only been to Inish Mor, but I am in love with that island! Yeah, I know I used a little creative freedom with the distances 😀 I think it took me like an hour to walk to the shop from the cottage I lived in (the one in the picture), and that is not even half around the island 😀 I am so happy you liked the story though, especially since you know the island so well! ❤ I have been to Co. Clare, but never to Doolin, at least I think not……my godmother and I went on road trips all over Ireland, but I cannot remember Doolin…

  7. Pingback: Galway – 307

  8. Oh wow, Trini.. Am I pleased I came by today to catch this wonderful story..
    I read it while eating my sandwich for lunch and was glued to every word..

    You held me spell bound within your descriptive narrative that held me within the scenes as you travelled and made your way across to the Island..
    I wanted it to go on and I was half hoping the ghost of Angus would materialise and the girl would have seen the reason for her being so drawn to the Island of Seals..

    A beautiful well told tale dear Trini and a beautiful part of the world.. Now I am off to go see the Seals at the link you provided..

    Have a wonderful day my beautiful friend..
    Love Sue xxx ❤

    • Oh, I love that thought of Angus as a ghost!! 😊😊😊. This is why I often write a little “mysteriously ” and sometimes leave the ending a little open, because I want the reader to imagine things on their own, to participate in the story kind of 😊😊. I guess it comes from my poetic background, where every poem is like a riddle or a mystery 😊😊. I am so so happy you enjoyed the story, Sue! It is loosely based on true events, even though I have of course used my creative freedom liberally 😄. Thank you for your super awesome comment! It was so nice picturing you having your lunch and reading my story!! 💖💖💖💖

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