A flight to the Aran isles: next parish Boston, Mass.

 " On some island I long to be a rocky promontary, looking on the coiling surface of the sea"

St Columba on his journey through the west of Ireland to Iona

Inishmaan is a flat limestone rock at the very western edge of Europe, a small island just off Galway Bay, with a short runway (546m), cow pats, sheep and angular dry-stone walls which encompass tiny pastures hewn out of solid rock. 

It is, like much of western Ireland, a place of legends and myth. Republican stronghold and inspiration to artists it attracts the famous, the footloose and the incurably romantic, seeking a quiet haven close to nature.

Mary Robinson, who holidays here, once invited the whole island to the White House in Dublin when she was President of Ireland. Here also is set the dark comedy by Martin MacDonagh, the Cripple of Inis Meain recently starring Daniel Radcliffe of Harry Potter fame on Broadway.

The cliffs of Mohar

When John and I arrived in our Cirrus SR20, G-ZZDG, a young French film crew were making a documentary about Inis Meain (the middle island) and its two sister Inis Mor and Inis Oirr. The locals are fond of saying that the next parish along is Boston, Mass.  

In the winter, savage Atlantic gales blow in from the west strong enough to topple its dry-stone walls (or a man); in the mild summer months you take your chance. We were fortunate. A High pressure system had been inching its way up from the Atlantic and the day was virtually windless, a few clouds spotting a pale blue sky which filled the sea with a silvery light, small ferries leaving a white foamy trail in their wake.

The coastline with Inis Mor in the distance. 

 We flew from North Weald, near Stansted
(EGSX) to Inis  Meain (EIMN) in one 2.7 hour hop (421 miles or 385 nm) thanks to a favourable tailwind coasting out at St David's Head then across Ireland's emerald centre from Wexford Bay to the soaring, monolythic cliffs of Moher in County Clare, making a slow descent for an easy left base entry into the circuit for runway 15 just ahead of a microlight and the scheduled Aer Arann go-anywhere Brittan Norman Islander. This takes island folk across to their shopping in Conemarra in just 9 minutes. Conemarra! How can you resist a name oozing such romance?

The runway is a bit tight for a Cirrus ( but longer than both the "big" island Inis Mor and Inis Oir, the tiddler); provided you aim for the small wall just ahead of the numbers and peg your speed at 75kts, full flaps and a 3 per cent descent rate you should be fine. I'm pleased to say we were spared the embarrassment of having to go around under the watchful eye of friendly local farmers who double up as airport staff and no doubt shake their heads over a pint of the velvet nectar at the islands friendly pub at those who do, muttering "amateurs". Mind you people have been known to pay with their lives for missing those numbers or coming in too fast. Or too slow. Don't go in fully loaded. And certainly don't fly out fully loaded unless you have a proper STOL aircraft.

Climbing out of North Weald on Runway 02 with a left turn, staying below 1500 ft until we were clear of the Stansted zone we climbed to 2,300ft heading pretty much due west. Traversing the Brize military Zone was a bit of nightmare: low cloud and haze and a busy day meant some aircraft were a bit close for comfort. Alpha Charlie, my beloved Archer III, had traffic collision avoidance and I miss it. Brize were good enough to provide us with a traffic service (both ways) which helped but got a bit testing when you were receiving advice about converging aircraft every two minutes or so.

But once approaching the Brecon Beacons you're home free. We opted to climb to 6000ft which took us above the frothy tops for our crossing over the Irish sea with the assistance, first from a very friendly Cardiff ATC, followed by the impeccably professional London Information to the FIR boundary at Slaney dividing the two countries, and then Shannon radar, juggling heavies coming in and out of the Atlantic route or Ryan Air at Knock and tiddlers like us, pretty much all the way to the islands.

Milk bar

We stayed at the Tig Congaile guest house on Inis Meain run by the incomparable Vilma who brings a Venezuelan charm laced with a wicked sense of humour. She served up delicious sea food chowder and fresh lobster and a brown sugar meringue to die for. No, not that kind of brown sugar. Her basic but comfortable and airy guest house is populated by Americans, Canadians, Spaniards and French, an easy 20-minute hike from the airfield unless you're lucky enough to hitch a lift from a passing islander in a tractor. Landing fee is Euros 10. Rooms are Euros 40-50.

The next day we flew due north to Sligo. We slalomed around the high peaks and valleys and the Burragh, a lunar landscape of vast, sheer limestone sheets, skimming as close as we dared to Ireland holiest mountain, Croagh Patrick, where the blessed Saint is said to have cast out the snakes from the emerald isle. Thousands climb it every year to the tiny church at the summit, some barefoot, coming from all over the world. The coast from Tralee up and beyond Sligo, renamed The Wild Atlantic Way by the Irish government trying to revive its economic fortunes, is breathtakingly, unexpectedly beautiful especially if you're lucky enough to have decent weather which, it must be said, is not often. Pillars of light fall through broken cloud illuminating crofts and fish farms along they way as one inlet gives way to another in a landscape at once bleak and sparkling.

Sligo is a charming town, crowded with visitors and fiddlers and harpists and bookshops in July and August when the the Yeats summer school is on. (Sheryl Crow will be singing there this October). It has an Italian quarter. Our taxi driver had a Castillian accent.

WB Yeats by Augustus John

Sligo is where my mum's favourite poet WB Yeats spent his summers (as did my co-pilot John messing about in rowboats) mingling with the Anglo-Irish gentry including two beautiful sisters, Eva and Constance Gore-Booth and who lived (and loved) at the magnificent Lissadell House in County Sligo. They are immortalised in his poem "Two girls in silk kimonos, both/ beautiful one a gazelle". Both later become involved with the Irish Republican movement. 

Strandhill, a few miles up the coast is a surfer's paradise dotted with seafood pubs and funky burgers bars serving chilled Guinness and milk shakes. When low pressure comes in from the Atlantic the waves can reach 30 metres. Hard-core surfers worldwide are alerted by weather-watchers and text each other. They then hop onto a plane from all four of the earth to catch the monsters.

Riding "bombs" at Strandhill, Co. Sligo

We left the west of Ireland with a a heavy heart. Short take-off. Feet on the breaks, full power and, with luck and not too much weight, G-DG was off in about 400 metres, the stall warner chirping. The BN Islanders are airborne pretty much after they've started their take-off roll.

Planning our return flight the night before we noticed the NOTAMS had a blanket restriction against flying through south Wales. Inis Meain is blissfully out of touch. No TV. No papers. Puzzled, John rang the number given. A woman with a cut-glass accent picked up within 2 seconds. " We're flying from the west of Ireland back to North Weald and we wondered if we could transit the restricted zone" he enquired politely. There was a pause at the other end before she replied in a measured tone" "Actually sir we rather you didn't".

Understatement of the century. An iron curtain had fallen across Wales. Newport was hosting the biggest ever NATO summit since the end of the Cold war: 60 heads of state including Obama, Merkel, Cameron, 70 foreign and defence ministers 10,000 staff, the SAS, close-fighter protection for Air Force One. The lot. Enough said.

Still we were allowed to refuel a Haverford West on the western tip of south Wales as we were short of fuel having picked up a bit of headwind. Lovely airfield. Two cross-runways and a decent little cafe which does a mean frozen latte plus a self-service fuel pump which is handy provided you don't mess up the alpha numeric keyboard. Two elegant blonde women, one trailing a long pink scarf, took off in a sleak Cirrus SR22 as I munched a bacon gap.

A wonderful trip. Magical. A revelation. Shame about the Leprichauns. That should be the Ministry of Tourism's next project.

St Patrick's Holy mountain at sunrise

 John McGwyne Flying Services
 Www.jmflying.com