Inis Meáin, also known as Inishmaan, is the least populated of the Aran Islands. The number of year-round residents hovers around 160. I arrived by boat from Inishmore. Unlike the horse-drawn carriages which awaited their arrivals, I was the sole passenger to disembark on this tiny land mass and the pier was void.

I had the name of the B&B I reserved, but foolishly forgot to note anything more. Despite the mere 9km square expanse, the narrow roads were many, leading off in a multitude of ways. Sheep in the adjoining pastures exhibited little interest or concern.

I chose this island for its tranquility, intact Irish culture, and lack of automobiles, so I was surprised to see a pick-up truck drive up a short time later. There were three young men wearing construction attire and I asked them for some guidance. They kindly offered to give me a ride.

Arriving off-season I was one of only a handful of visitors. Destinations were easy to choose. There was the grocery which doubled as the post office, the boutique, and the pub. It was the cherished locale during my all too short stay. The men gathered in the early evening and appeared content to sit side by side with barely a word between them. When they did speak it was a pleasure to hear Irish, their native tongue. A newcomer, she had lived there twenty years, shared some gossip. It was only a matter of time, I suspected, before all secrets were told.

The sea is never more than a short walk away. In an attempt to circumnavigate the island I scrambled over stone fences, the rain fell, the waves swelled along the rocky shore.