Innis
by Benjamin Simpson
This story was read aloud at:
It was Saturday afternoon when Patrick and I arrived in the town of Sligo. We didn't really want to be there, but the busses in Ireland don't run on Sundays, so we were stuck. After finding a Youth Hostel, we went to the tourist office.
We looked at the tea towels, and the pint glasses and Patrick picked up some Patrick Cologne, and I looked at the far wall in amazement. There was a large poster advertising "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" by Yeats. The actual island, I didn't know he wrote the poem about an actual island. I thought it was just a metaphor.
"Hey Patrick, it's the lake isle of Inninfree, you know, that poem by Yeats, the one I named my car after."
He didn't seem very interested. So I inquired of the lady behind the counter, and she said yes it was real and not very far away, but the local busses don't run on Sundays.
I was going to go, walking or by thumb if necessary. Patrick didn't like the idea.
So I was on my own the next morning as I stepped out of town. The last of my money spent on water, cheese and crackers and I could tell it was going to be a beautiful June day as the dew on the grass wet my shoes and the sun warmed my face.
The third car picked me up and we chatted about the lake. The lake is like a snake that has just eaten a water buffalo. Wide in the middle but tapering at the ends. The western end tapers into the river through Sligo, and the eastern end is the river feeding the lake. I was traveling along the north shore, and the isle was on the south. My driver informed me that the road looped away from the lake and the quickest and most beautiful route was walking the south shore rather than following the road. My driver dropped me at the beginning of the south shore path.
The path traveled several miles: over the wide shallow white stoned feeder river. Through dark brown high reaching trees. And through open fields with brown grass shifting in the slight breeze
At one point I came across an old stone wall. On the other side was a crumbling church, hundreds of years abandoned. Moss grew on the broken stones and the few remaining walls.
At the front gate was an old Irishman, in brown hat, white button up shirt and vest. He asked if I wanted a tour. Of course! The man told me that this was once a monastery. He pointed out the gardens and the sleeping quarters and the rectory, and I was in heaven. I had just read the Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, and now the book came alive in this tiny Irish Monastery. The dark robes and the evil murders and the life they lead.
When we arrived back at the gate he asked for something for the tour. I felt stupid and embarrassed. I had no money. I apologized profusely, and gave him all that I had, fifty-seven pence.
The day was peaceful and beautiful. There was no one else on the path. The sun warming over the slight breeze, as I walked to where the cricket sings. My mind wandered as I strolled and dreamt of the future and idled over the past.
University had just ended, two weeks before. But I did not have a good time at university. I did not like what I was doing. But did not know what else to do. I spent my time wandering alone, trying to find something of meaning, trying to find something good. I found solitude the only release. Time to be away and think and contemplate. And I had my vehicle for solitude. She was a 1969 MGBGT. She took me away. She took me to the White Cliffs of Dover. She took me to corners of hidden forests. And she saved my sanity when I seemed to have none left.
One day while idly wandering through the Library, randomly pulling books off the shelves, I came across a Yeats book of poetry. It opened to the poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree. He describes an isle of solitude of peace.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
I named my car Innis.
And then there was the night six months ago, with four pints of scrumpy jack, a girl, some rain and lots of police officers and my Innis was gone. I broke her back against a light pole and sold the parts to pay for the drunk driving conviction. But the officers were kind enough to stop and let me purchase cigarettes on the ride home.
With my continued walking I eventually came across the road, and any peace I had was gone. There were cars parked all around, people standing in groups, a small wooden pier lined with rowboats, and a sign declaring you have reached The Lake Isle of Innisfree. I tried to adjust my mind from solitude to people, but they seemed loud and crass. Walking along the pier, the punters tried to sell me a trip to the isle. I declined, not from lack of money, but that it felt wrong to be accompanied to this Isle.
I sat at the end of the pier and looked at the tiny green island just off shore. Within swimming distance. I could understand Yeats finding peace here, one hundred years ago. But now I watched a boat with three ladies chattering excitedly as they went past
Pulling out my cheese and crackers I found that I had a visitor. A black and white collie now sat next to me and stared into my eyes telling me that he had not been fed in weeks. And they beat him as well. I gave him a cracker.
He sat next to me and helped me eat my crackers and stare at the island.
I couldn't sit there any more. This was not the solitude I dreamt of. This was not my Innis. I walked up the road and turned back on the path. Then I cut across a field to a small overlook. In front of me was the lake and the isle. My collie was still with me and she sat quietly next to me as I contemplated peace and quiet.
Later, I would walk back down the path, past the monastery, across the stream, and collect a ride back to Sligo as the sunset.
But sitting here, with my luncheon companion, with the street hidden and no voices abounding. I could almost feel slipping away the destruction of my beautiful car Innis, the drunken arrest, and University. Being replace by a beautiful new view of the future. I understood why Yeats came here for solitude, and maybe a little redemption.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
W.B. Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.