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times the gale blew me over. I sheltered behind a rock, ate half my scone and conducted a serious inquiry as to what I was doing there: the answer was that Páidí Dunleavy had dragged me there and Páidí Dunleavy I was going to find!
    Looking for one particular rock amongst three miles of rock was proving to be a ridiculous task. The bank that Sue had mentioned turned out to be just as elusive. Both the bank and the path that Páidí Dunleavy had trod were well obscured by years of growth.
    I began to follow the coastline westwards, keeping as far back from the edge as possible. Suddenly, I could see the outline of the cliff gathered in under the slopes, like a skirt revealing a sparkling blue petticoat. A hundred and fifty metres below me lay the horseshoe-shaped bay with a lush balcony tucked into the slopes high above the cliffs: I had found Gleann na Péiste. Creeping buttercups and lush ferns thrived in this south-facing garden, a haven of peace and greenery, in contrast to the wind-burnt heather and bracken not far away.
    I dropped my backpack and wandered around as far as I could on the old cart path, looking for the stone. There was none – it was by far the lushest part of the island I had seen yet. When I returned to my bag, two rabbits were having a good snoop. ‘Do you mind?’ Neither of them seemed particularly bothered until I picked up my bag and they lolloped off, eyeing me from a convenient burrow. I peeled a banana and sat back against the warm rock face, relishing the peace and shelter from the wind.
    I thought about Páidí Dunleavy and the hundreds of islanders who had hauled turf along the path in Gleann na Péiste over the years. ‘Life is tough but you get on with it.’ Basking in the sunshine, I watched gulls rise on elevators of air. I sang for myself and my new-found freedom, for the gulls, for the rabbits, for Páidí Dunleavy. I had not found the stone, but I was as contented as if I had. I hauled myself up, scattering my rabbit audience in all directions. As I bent down to retrieve my bag, I suddenly spotted it: ‘Páidí Dunleavy.’
    The name was followed by a carved series of dates ranging from the 1960s to the early 1990s. Although speckled with lichen, the deep cuts in the rock ensured that Páidí’s name remained for posterity. Ironically, as soon as I had given up the search, it was Páidí’s rock I had sat back on. He would have had a good laugh about that. It was a flat wall of rock. Through the orange and black lichen stains, the names of dozens of Blasket Islanders announced themselves. On the bottom right of the rock face was the name of Páidí Dunleavy. After that there was nowhere else to write. It was as if Páidí had finished the page.

The Three Shepherds
    I walked the ridge tiles of the world every day. On my right the island tumbled down into the muffled roar. On my left, the cliffs disappeared into a sea of shimmering Chinese silk, stretching as far as the pyramid-shaped Skelligs on the southern horizon. I followed the spine of the island, up to the fort, down along the saddle, up and over An Cró, then descending the Red Ridge (Drom Rua Chráilí) to the most westerly tip known as Black Head (An Ceann Dubh). There was nothing between there and the next parish of America except three thousand miles of Atlantic Ocean and the uninhabited islands of Inis na Bró, An Téaracht and Inis Mhic Uibhleain.
    I settled down among the crumpled ruins of a beehive hut, out of the rush of the wind, training the binoculars on some passing gannets. The birds’ vast wingspans sliced through the air. Strange that they never landed on the Great Blasket Island. Already they were miles from their huge colony on the Skelligs.
    In the background was Inis Mhic Uibhleain, owned by former Taoiseach Charles Haughey. I had never seen anybody on it until that day. A lone figure walked from the house up to the jagged heights in the centre of the island. Like the monastic ruins in the centre of