Standing in the cleft of a monolith with the open ocean snarling at my back, looking towards slate slabs of penitence. This is Skellig Michael.

 
      In my last post about this silver and emerald gem nestled in heaving swells of azure velvet, I took you to the top of the first ascent on the hidden world of The Last Jedi. After making the plateau, I saw the path across the island trailing through the valley and up the hillside to the tremendous crease rumpling the edge of the cliffs, and I was drawn to the spot. It called to me even more enticingly than the beehive monastic cells waiting just above... so I scrambled back down and across before advancing upwards once more. We left off the end of that post standing together in the fissure, looking down at the waves crashing below and thinking about a life where the climb to get even this high up would be dull and routine. Standing up in the face of the fierce wind, I turned to look back towards the monastery approach. The lonely stair.

      Even now, knowing how I felt small and battered and joyful and alive in this space, I find it difficult to accurately describe the scale. These photos are taken directly opposite of the ones highlighted in my introduction of the island — the massive treads are each a single sheet of stone so large that laying on my back in the middle of the smooth depression worn in every one would have left me with space on all sides. Before I show you more, here's a photosphere so we can share this moment. Close your eyes, click this link, and then open them again. Whirl around, free from wind or vertigo or jagged rocks or steep, fatal drops.

The green placard visible on the left of the photosphere view marks the start of the handholds I mentioned previously, that lead to the upper monastery where the truly solitary cell still stands. Special permits, applications, and a complete waiver acknowledging imminent death are the least of the requirements to be considered to make this climb.

I didn't realize how heavily Skellig Michael, or Great Skellig, would factor into the Star Wars universe when I visited. I think in many ways, it allowed me to look at the island with unbiased, wonder-filled eyes.

 
      I also have to say, the day that I got blew alternately fair and fierce, but was lucky in that it was not ended before it began by a true wild storm. The isle is constantly hammered by seaborne squalls, and the skies can turn ominous in a heartbeat. (In fact, Ireland was kind to me — I didn't get rained on much at all.) The rain presses down with an oppressive weight and a sullen, constricting presence. To be exposed on the bare rock face, with no shelter but the spartan cell and the lee sides of the rock... it would have been a hard, introspective life. I did a bit of processing with some of the shots to try and pull that feeling into something visual; if you've seen the new movie, without any spoilers, this look about sums it all right up.

Each step, climbed hundreds of thousands of times by monks over the course of centuries, is a perfect jumble of stone chaos, given strength through order.

 

The cloud of white specks around the island in the distance may look like spray, but it's actually flights of Northern Gannets. Incredibly enough, these birds have six foot wingspans, and there are sixty or seventy thousand of them — let that sink in, and the scope of all this vast starts kicking in.

 
      The dusting on the peaks is not snow, but guano. From almost every vantage on Great Skellig, you can see Little Skellig, a wilder, harsher, ever-present twin. If you're interested in all of the birbs, you can get a bit closer with one of my earlier posts, here.

Before crossing the valley and climbing the lonely stair, I looked back over my shoulder at the rocks and foam below.

 
      The birds are always here... there's no stopping them. For a brief flash of a second, I got a bizarre urge to jump. It may be just me, but often in high places or traveling fast or underwater, I get this little voice that says "you could..." and trails off. To be clear, it's not self harm; it's this little invincible spark that tends to run off with my mind and heart a lot. Then my logical side remembers that I have no wings to snap open at the last second, and I am content sprinting down the hill just this side of out of control instead — legs pumping and arms swinging and momentum taking over, more an upright tumble than a run at all. It's not quite the same as coasting on air currents for miles over open water and having access to spaces no other person could ever hope to gain, but the feeling is there. And the stair is waiting.

These photos and words are my own work, inspired by travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️

 

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!steemitworldmap 51.771209 lat -10.539681 long The tall, lonely stair leading to the monastery on Great Skellig, Ireland d3scr