Love on the Island

When we crossed the small section of ocean between the coast of DIngle, Ireland and the island call ed the Blaskets my heart was pounding with excitement and my head full of stories my grandfather had told. The white foam of the sea crashed against the side of the boat. This was one of the best days the island has ever seen.

We stepped off the boat onto the whate sand of "the strand", which is what they call the beach there. The island was full of beautiful greens and a rich culture. We made our way up the hills to the houses that are no longer inhabited. Our first and most important stop of the trip was that house that my grandfather, seven brothers and sisters, and paretns lived in.

The house turned out to be like nothing I expected. It was made of stones with no insulation and a dirt and straw floor. It had three windows, one room, and a fireplace for warmth and cooking. Ten people lived in this small house.

The island was only three miles long making it a pretty cloe knit community. Besides being close, for the most part you were related to most people there. My grandfather showed us where he used to sheer the sheep and pick potatoes. He also showed us where they played gaelic football and told stories around the fire and danced.

This trip wasn't just about enhancing the knowledge of my culture , I also learned a very important lesson. My family had a much different outlook on life. It wasn't about the car you drove, the name on the clothes you wore, and what's on television this afternoon. It was about family, determination, and hard work just to make it by. They never complained because this was the best they could do. They knew all they needed was the love and strength of family.