The Salvage Instinct
By Peggy Hernon
If you come to live on Inis Mór, you’ll know you’ve become an islander when you can’t throw anything in the bin without deliberation. An islander looks at a decrepit bicycle or a broken motor and he doesn’t see junk; he sees the good parts remaining that just might keep some other thing working in a pinch. Instead of the bin, it goes to the shed to join the other bits and bobs that might come in handy. The salvage instinct is a fundamental response to being surrounded by sea and separated from mainland supply. Hoarding was a necessary island practise of countless generations for long centuries when bringing goods from the mainland out to Aran was a struggle at best, and usually took ages. When something important broke down, until the time it could be replaced, it was fixed by Aran ingenuity and something from the bits and bobs in the shed. Just this past Christmas, the VHF radio in the airport bus broke down and the bus driver got it working again with parts from an old radio he had in his store room. Word got around and islanders felt good about their bulging sheds. It didn’t matter that most of them now contact the bus driver on his mobile phone and vice versa. Old habits die hard.
These days it’s easy to get things to the island. Today, one of my passengers left Inis Mór on Aer Arann Islands first flight at 8.45am and returned on the 11.30am flight from Inverin with a stainless steel milk dispenser for his restaurant. A five-foot long exhaust assembly for a car arrived on the 10.00am flight. Baby chicks chirped from a cardboard box on the table behind me and amused outbound passengers until the chicks’ owner claimed them. The school called. They ordered computer parts this morning that they expect to come in on the 4.00pm flight. Can I watch out for them and have the airport bus drop them off at the school? Yes.
You would think in this age that Aran islanders would bin their junk with the speed of modern minimalists in pursuit of empty sheds. No. When the last aircraft of the day has departed, the island dweller is still surrounded by that same vast sea. If you come to live on Inis Mór, awareness of it will seep into your subconscious until one day, heading for the bin with some wreck in your hands, you’ll notice that the fancy brass hardware is still shiny. Instead of putting it into the bin, you’ll put it aside to think about later. It doesn’t matter that you can get a new one, plus ten pounds of fancy brass hardware, in on the plane tomorrow afternoon, the salvage instinct has kicked in and you’ve become an islander. Welcome!
At lunch time I headed out the door. There is a new baby nearby and this is a good time to make a social call. The rest of the crew are cleaning out the airport store room. Along with stocks of new spares for vehicles and field lights are some useful salvage like the rubber bicycle tyres that hang on the wall like snake skins. They make good bumpers that cushion the sharp edges of the baggage trolleys. However, there are also a good number of dubious things that the crew put aside to think about later. Later was now.
Its low tide but the tang of seaweed is overlain by the fresh scent of new growth. Where the road bends at Arkin’s Castle, two friends passed me on the run; “ Marathon” puffed one, the other just puffed. Every April, Aer Arann hosts a half-marathon for runners and walkers on Inis Mór that raises money for sick children. Participants from all over arrive by plane for marathon weekend and are joined by islanders for a good run and a great time. Take a look for yourself at WWW.AERARANNISLANDS.IE. The upcoming marathon is the reason the crew are cleaning out the store room, part of an overall tidy to have the airport looking good when the runners arrive.
I picked my way down a narrow boreen and stopped at a field where clumps of yellow furze hugged the stone walls. The new baby I’ve come to see is a donkey foal. He’s a perfect miniature of his mother, fuzzy grey with soft eyes, and short sturdy legs. He looked at me solemnly and edged closer to the mare who stopped grazing to watch me warily. The foal turned around to settle for a nap and I got a glimpse of its little rump with a tail the size of a biro. I got fond of donkeys three years ago when we boarded our neighbour’s donkey, Ned, for the summer. Ned was a family pet, but that year the neighbour’s children had a garden, a “Young Farmer” project that Ned would have regarded as his personal salad bowl. We have gates for our two retrievers, so Ned came across the road to live in our field. He looked around at our overgrown grass and started grazing as if that was his summer project. When I get home from the airport I always give the dogs a treat and they’ve learned to line up at the back door for their dog biscuits. One evening shortly after Ned’s arrival, I opened the door and behind the dogs stood Ned who whickered politely for a treat. Delighted, I ran for the carrots. He was at the door every evening afterwards patiently waiting his turn, a dignified backdrop for two frantically wagging tails.
Back at the airport, the rest of the crew were sweating in the thin sunshine, either from exertion or from the anguish of decision, it was hard to tell. Probably both. Two full trash bags sat at the side of the garage, and they had put up the new wind sock on the far pole at the side of the runway. The storeroom looked great. I remembered coming in here at the end of a hot, busy August day and saw, to my indignation, that both cases of toilet rolls were open at the same time, a flagrant violation of my one-at-a-time rule. I marched out to the fire truck and barked at the crew “Has everyone lost their minds?” It hit me as I spoke that I was the only one about to lose mine, over toilet rolls no less, and on a day that we handled 28 flights without missing a beat. The one-at-a-time rule met the bin that minute with no further deliberation.
I returned phone calls and made bookings until two Eircom workers arrived to transfer to Inis Oirr, my only passengers departing at 2.45pm. The later flights will be full. The interior of Yankee (EI-AYN) smelled delicious; the load going to Inis Oirr included bay laurel shrubs and flats of potted rosemary and lemon thyme. A group headed for the hotel arrived on the 4.00pm flight from Inverin and boarded the bus; the padded bag for the school went on the front seat for delivery, and a sack of hamster food came into the office for pick-up.
I was on the lookout for two passengers departing on the 5.45pm flight; they are farriers from The Donkey Sanctuary in County Cork, who arrived on the first flight at 8.30am this morning and disappeared immediately into a Jeep. The farriers were here for the day to trim the hooves of the island donkeys, whose population is now 11 and growing. When they checked in, I told them about the foal I’d seen earlier and how I’d love to own a donkey but I now have a garden of my own. They told me that for next-to-nothing I could sponsor a donkey for a year, like Jacinta or Lorraine that live permanently at the sanctuary near Mallow, and the sanctuary would send me a photo of the donkey I sponsored.
When we were closing for the day I looked at the big bulletin board behind the desk and saw that it too needed tidying up. Once cleared of outdated flyers and old notices there would be room down in the corner for a photograph. I liked the sound of “Jacinta”.
If you come to live on Inis Mór, you’ll know you’ve become an islander when you can’t throw anything in the bin without deliberation. An islander looks at a decrepit bicycle or a broken motor and he doesn’t see junk; he sees the good parts remaining that just might keep some other thing working in a pinch. Instead of the bin, it goes to the shed to join the other bits and bobs that might come in handy. The salvage instinct is a fundamental response to being surrounded by sea and separated from mainland supply. Hoarding was a necessary island practise of countless generations for long centuries when bringing goods from the mainland out to Aran was a struggle at best, and usually took ages. When something important broke down, until the time it could be replaced, it was fixed by Aran ingenuity and something from the bits and bobs in the shed. Just this past Christmas, the VHF radio in the airport bus broke down and the bus driver got it working again with parts from an old radio he had in his store room. Word got around and islanders felt good about their bulging sheds. It didn’t matter that most of them now contact the bus driver on his mobile phone and vice versa. Old habits die hard.
These days it’s easy to get things to the island. Today, one of my passengers left Inis Mór on Aer Arann Islands first flight at 8.45am and returned on the 11.30am flight from Inverin with a stainless steel milk dispenser for his restaurant. A five-foot long exhaust assembly for a car arrived on the 10.00am flight. Baby chicks chirped from a cardboard box on the table behind me and amused outbound passengers until the chicks’ owner claimed them. The school called. They ordered computer parts this morning that they expect to come in on the 4.00pm flight. Can I watch out for them and have the airport bus drop them off at the school? Yes.
You would think in this age that Aran islanders would bin their junk with the speed of modern minimalists in pursuit of empty sheds. No. When the last aircraft of the day has departed, the island dweller is still surrounded by that same vast sea. If you come to live on Inis Mór, awareness of it will seep into your subconscious until one day, heading for the bin with some wreck in your hands, you’ll notice that the fancy brass hardware is still shiny. Instead of putting it into the bin, you’ll put it aside to think about later. It doesn’t matter that you can get a new one, plus ten pounds of fancy brass hardware, in on the plane tomorrow afternoon, the salvage instinct has kicked in and you’ve become an islander. Welcome!
At lunch time I headed out the door. There is a new baby nearby and this is a good time to make a social call. The rest of the crew are cleaning out the airport store room. Along with stocks of new spares for vehicles and field lights are some useful salvage like the rubber bicycle tyres that hang on the wall like snake skins. They make good bumpers that cushion the sharp edges of the baggage trolleys. However, there are also a good number of dubious things that the crew put aside to think about later. Later was now.
Its low tide but the tang of seaweed is overlain by the fresh scent of new growth. Where the road bends at Arkin’s Castle, two friends passed me on the run; “ Marathon” puffed one, the other just puffed. Every April, Aer Arann hosts a half-marathon for runners and walkers on Inis Mór that raises money for sick children. Participants from all over arrive by plane for marathon weekend and are joined by islanders for a good run and a great time. Take a look for yourself at WWW.AERARANNISLANDS.IE. The upcoming marathon is the reason the crew are cleaning out the store room, part of an overall tidy to have the airport looking good when the runners arrive.
I picked my way down a narrow boreen and stopped at a field where clumps of yellow furze hugged the stone walls. The new baby I’ve come to see is a donkey foal. He’s a perfect miniature of his mother, fuzzy grey with soft eyes, and short sturdy legs. He looked at me solemnly and edged closer to the mare who stopped grazing to watch me warily. The foal turned around to settle for a nap and I got a glimpse of its little rump with a tail the size of a biro. I got fond of donkeys three years ago when we boarded our neighbour’s donkey, Ned, for the summer. Ned was a family pet, but that year the neighbour’s children had a garden, a “Young Farmer” project that Ned would have regarded as his personal salad bowl. We have gates for our two retrievers, so Ned came across the road to live in our field. He looked around at our overgrown grass and started grazing as if that was his summer project. When I get home from the airport I always give the dogs a treat and they’ve learned to line up at the back door for their dog biscuits. One evening shortly after Ned’s arrival, I opened the door and behind the dogs stood Ned who whickered politely for a treat. Delighted, I ran for the carrots. He was at the door every evening afterwards patiently waiting his turn, a dignified backdrop for two frantically wagging tails.
Back at the airport, the rest of the crew were sweating in the thin sunshine, either from exertion or from the anguish of decision, it was hard to tell. Probably both. Two full trash bags sat at the side of the garage, and they had put up the new wind sock on the far pole at the side of the runway. The storeroom looked great. I remembered coming in here at the end of a hot, busy August day and saw, to my indignation, that both cases of toilet rolls were open at the same time, a flagrant violation of my one-at-a-time rule. I marched out to the fire truck and barked at the crew “Has everyone lost their minds?” It hit me as I spoke that I was the only one about to lose mine, over toilet rolls no less, and on a day that we handled 28 flights without missing a beat. The one-at-a-time rule met the bin that minute with no further deliberation.
I returned phone calls and made bookings until two Eircom workers arrived to transfer to Inis Oirr, my only passengers departing at 2.45pm. The later flights will be full. The interior of Yankee (EI-AYN) smelled delicious; the load going to Inis Oirr included bay laurel shrubs and flats of potted rosemary and lemon thyme. A group headed for the hotel arrived on the 4.00pm flight from Inverin and boarded the bus; the padded bag for the school went on the front seat for delivery, and a sack of hamster food came into the office for pick-up.
I was on the lookout for two passengers departing on the 5.45pm flight; they are farriers from The Donkey Sanctuary in County Cork, who arrived on the first flight at 8.30am this morning and disappeared immediately into a Jeep. The farriers were here for the day to trim the hooves of the island donkeys, whose population is now 11 and growing. When they checked in, I told them about the foal I’d seen earlier and how I’d love to own a donkey but I now have a garden of my own. They told me that for next-to-nothing I could sponsor a donkey for a year, like Jacinta or Lorraine that live permanently at the sanctuary near Mallow, and the sanctuary would send me a photo of the donkey I sponsored.
When we were closing for the day I looked at the big bulletin board behind the desk and saw that it too needed tidying up. Once cleared of outdated flyers and old notices there would be room down in the corner for a photograph. I liked the sound of “Jacinta”.
