American photographer and linguist, Alma Curtin, touring Ireland recording folktales. Not quite Peig Sayers or O\'Criothin.
Another day I went to Blasket island. When we
came in sight of the ocean, fog obscured the islands.
The path to the water led down a cliff, at least a hun-
dred and twenty feet high, to a narrow cove dug out by
the waves. The canvas boat that took us to the island
was so light that two men picked it up and put it at the
water\'s edge. At the island Ave entered a cove similar
to the one on the mainland. A curious, busy scene was
before us. Boatmen, their boats loaded with shells used
for enriching land, had returned from the rocks where
the shells were gathered. Girls and boys were helping
the men pull the boats in, unload the shells, and put
them in baskets. Men carried the baskets halfway up
the steep, rocky bank. There they emptied them, and
boys and girls loaded them again into baskets for don-
keys to carry. Donkeys could not bring the baskets
from the water\'s edge, the cliff was too precipitous.
From the halfway place the shells were carried to the
few potato fields on the island and scattered. An im-
mense amount of labor for a few potatoes! We climbed
THE SECOND IKISH PERIOD 455
to the top of the cliff, and there was the village; perhaps
twenty straw-thatched cabins, the thatch held in place
by a network of straw ropes fastened down with stones.
In front of each cabin was a pile of manure. Cattle are
kept in the cabin nights. Each morning the earth floor
is cleaned by shoveling out the straw, but it is not taken
far from the house. It accumulates all winter, and in
the spring is carried to the potato fields. The school-
house is the best building on the island. It has windows,
and the outside walls were whitewashed.
Kate, our faithful servant, found the cleanest house
on the island and asked of its mistress the privilege of
boiling a kettle of water to make tea. The wind blew so
hard that a fire could not be built outside. She made
the tea, but we could not sit inside to drink it; the house
was too dirty. I asked a man on crutches if he knew any
Gaelic myths. His answer was: \'I care more about
getting the price of a bottle of whiskey than about old
stoi\'ies.\' Another man said : \'If you\'ll give me the
price of a bottle of whiskey, I\'ll talk about stories.\' I
got no stories. Our return trip was not without danger.
The boatmen had to row against a heavy wind. Each
time that a wave came toward us it looked as if the boat
would fill and sink, but it rose, went down, and up on
another wave. Mrs. Curtin and Kate were seasick.
Fitzgerald, pale from fear, repeated, time after time:
\'God willing, this is my last trip in a canvas boat.\' We
were thankful when we reached the little cove in safety.
Sennen