Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time
The little hermit, no doubt, went out this morning knowing that I might also venture out today. He left the sledge that usually blocks the door laying aside, maybe to welcome me outside, or maybe it is in wait to drag me back up from the edges of these rocks again, as he did that first day.
Outside, I see this little stone hovel is a rounded dome with a thatched roof, that makes the inside space dark, and it also keeps the rain out. It is only the smoke hole that reveals the brilliance of day sky. [Footnote]
But today the sky is blank and pale. The sun doesn’t really shine and there are no shadows or bright glare for my innocent eyes. Darker smudges of weightier clouds shadow the pale firmament threatening rain, but there is no rain. It is the perfectly blank page for my attempt at wandering.
The monasteries I’ve visited in forested places construct their buildings with timber; even as the lands become sparse with trees, the tradition in Francia is for timber. Queried stones only offer an outer Roman likeness to buildings in Francia and Anglia. But here, there are no trees so I suppose there was never a thought of anything but rocks for these dwellings. There are no beams for the thatching, so rock corbels support the thatch. Everything is made from rock or the thatched reeds up from the salt marshes.
Guessing or knowing — I knew I would look off toward the north and see the ocean with a steep grade down, because it was such a climb up here for the little fellow dragging me here that first day. Now I see a pathway with stone steps ascending from the sea. Everything here is a climb or a long slide down. This whole rock world demands more strength than I have just to follow the monk-made paths.
I see several paths from this doorway. One well marked toward the east disappears into the valley then rises up with steps into the shadows of the lifting fog. In that direction, at some distance, stones are stacked for a wall, and maybe other little cloches of rock are on that peak just now hidden in fog.
The drear turns to rain, and I see the little monk coming up from the foot-worn path to southeast and he brings the daily flask of goats’ milk a carrot, and a small sack of oats.
Footnote: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skellig_Michael Retrieved 10-17-25
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 