Lying off the west coast of Ireland are the Aran Islands. The largest, Inishmore, boasts a few ancient forts. The owner of the B&B recommended I visit Dún Dúchathair, locally known as the Black Fort, on my first day, a few miles away. I walked toward the harbor and followed the coastal road. She had given me a fairly good idea of the route but when I saw a man working on his truck, looking very much at home, I decided it best to clarify the path.

The natives in lands I travel to do not often speak English. Although Irish is still spoken here, I had to remind myself that I need not formulate a simpler means or hand gestures to convey my thoughts. My words were immediately understood and the response, floating on a lilting accent, was equally clear.

He added to his directions the caveat that the winds on top of the cliffs could be fierce. It was wise to take care.

Arriving at the fort a desire to look over the edge down to the sea was tugging at me, but I kept a prudent distance. A powerful gust almost knocked me off my feet; I was glad to have heeded his words.

The sea extended on, the view was sublime, the remnants of the ancient structure were marvels of humankind.

I made my way to the pub back in town. I ordered a pint and was soon invited by locals to discuss world affairs.