 I visited Skellig Michael in 2022 during my vacation in Ireland with my then-partner. During that visit, I explored various places and cities in this beautiful country, and truth be told, what drove me on that adventure was the opportunity to see this island, which I never imagined I'd ever visit. It all began after watching the first two films in the Star Wars sequel trilogy, specifically at the end of Episode VII, when the film ends on a mysterious planet called Ahch-To, where the protagonist Ray manages to find Luke Skywalker. That episode concluded with aerial shots of a beautiful and mysterious island with rocks sloping perpendicularly into the sea, but which had nothing earthly about them. To be honest, after seeing that ending, I thought the island-planet had been digitally recreated, both because of the extreme slopes and because it was so dark. Despite this, I sensed that the next film would feature scenes on that island, and driven by curiosity, I almost immediately watched Episode VIII because I wanted to see how that place had been recreated. In the second film of the sequel, there were many scenes set on that location, and I realized that some must have been filmed somewhere real, especially those where the extreme perpendicular rocks were clearly visible. At the end of the film, I did some research online, taking advantage of one of the few advantages this world-obliterating technology still had to offer. To my surprise, I discovered that the scenes set on Ahch-To had been filmed on the island of Skellig Michael, a place I was unfamiliar with and had never heard of. I immediately went to Google Maps, and after a few simulations with the distances between the island, the coast, and the nearest town, I realized it was a place that, given my personality, was impossible to reach. The island was preserved, and for this very reason, tourist visits were conducted in small groups and had to be booked well in advance. But that wasn't all. Skellig Michael could be reached from Portmagee, a small village four and a half hours' drive from Dublin. Furthermore, the two places weren't connected by rail or direct bus service. Considering that I mostly travel alone these days, no one would ever want to come with me to visit the island, so I'd have to make the trip alone and by car. Even though I consider myself an explorer, that type of journey was too complex and time-consuming, so I quickly abandoned the idea, replacing it with fantasy. With my imagination, I traveled the island, mixing things I'd seen in the movie, photos from the internet, and my own creations. Years later, when I met my ex, who had a house in Ireland and was due to return for personal reasons, I asked if she'd ever been to Skellig Michael. When she said no, I suggested we could visit, asking if she thought it was possible to reach that remote place; her response was immediate and affirmative. Personally, until I see something with my own eyes, I don't believe it's real, and despite my ex's positive response, I hadn't fully realized I'd see the island. It wasn't until the morning we left Dublin for Galway and then Portmagee that I saw my desire to see Skellig Michael come true. In fact, until the night before, some disagreements with my ex were leading me to abandon her that very night. As I mentioned in my post about Galway, I don't have any precise memories of the route from Dublin to Galway. We set off again for Portmagee after 4 PM, and the journey took about four hours. In this case, I remember the final stretches, when the road began to run along the sea, and then the final stretch. The hilly landscapes at sunset, with the calm sea and endless green fields, were unique; the pristine nature of those places made them even more beautiful and unbelievable. In some stretches, in fact, you could see two or three houses next to each other overlooking the sea, and then only fields for dozens of kilometers. I remember passing one of those houses and thinking how wonderful it would be to isolate yourself there and indulge your creativity. I immediately imagined that one of those houses would be perfect for a mental retreat and, for example, to try writing a novel. The road continued, and I let my imagination run wild until we reached our B&B, which, to my immense surprise, was just like the houses I'd seen at the end of the trip. It was a light blue house with a darker sloping roof, and from the outside, it looked like only the ground floor was habitable. When the owner arrived and began to explain a bit about the house, she opened a small door on a corner and led us upstairs. To my surprise, beyond the door was a beautiful wooden staircase, straight with only the last step curving to the right. The house was in perfect condition, even the doors and some details were made of wood. The floor was carpeted, and looking from the inside, the sloping parts were much higher than they appeared from the outside, suggesting a spacious and comfortable living space. The house had two bathrooms, two bedrooms and a kitchen/living room, and was uniquely welcoming. I loved that apartment the moment I set foot in, and the fact that all that space was barely noticeable from the outside and the small entrance gave it the feel of a secret home. I immediately felt at ease inside and having everything I needed; it would have been wonderful to cook and enjoy the home, preparing a delicious dinner. But the surprises didn't end there, and the next day, looking out the bedroom windows, I had a beautiful view of the sea and the coastline ahead. I have to give my ex credit for finding a place that was simply perfect and poetic, as well as objectively beautiful and functional. The Skellig Michael tour had been booked by my ex, and I didn't know the timing. However, Portmagee was about a ten-minute drive from our B&B, so we woke up early that morning and were already in the center of the small village by 8 AM. This tiny center was beautiful in its simplicity; it overlooked the sea and had a fairly close coastline opposite, connected by a bridge. The village was very colorful, both because of the houses and the plants and flowers that were everywhere. We had a hearty breakfast in a very nice cafeteria with a view of the marina at the back. This too was basic, with a pier that reached out into the water about fifty meters and several boats moored. Almost all the boats there there were small, designed for fishing, with seats added on the outside. We left at around 9 AM, and there may have been about ten of us on the small boat, whose cockpit took up more than half the vessel. Before leaving, we were told the trip would take about an hour, so it wasn't a particularly comfortable one. The view leaving the marina was very pretty, as we could see both coasts, which helped us see where the village of Portmagee was. Unfortunately, the sea wasn't flat that day, though it wasn't particularly rough either. There were occasional waves that made the boat sway, but nothing to worry about. The most annoying thing was the wind and the cold it made it feel: even though it was mid-September, the sky was covered with clouds, and the weather wasn't the best. The sailing was fairly smooth, without any major maneuvers, and in fact we only saw rough seas until we reached the coast of Little Skellig, the smaller island located ten minutes' sail from Skellig Michael. This island appeared to us as if in a dream, surreal and with a white chrome that amazed everyone. As we got closer, the secrets of the color became clearer: Little Skellig was literally overrun with seagulls, and the white was due to them and their droppings, which literally covered one side of the island. It was a sight I had never seen before, because there were literally thousands of seagulls everywhere, not only perched on the island but also in flight. The skipper approached and circumnavigated the island, showing us the part where the rocks were perpendicular and therefore free of seagulls. While one side of the island was unique for the large number of birds, the opposite side was a rock formation that had nothing to do with nature. The rocks were perpendicular but had clean, perfect cuts, which were tens of meters long. The shadowy geologists, sold to the establishment and the elite, could claim whatever they wanted, but my logic and wisdom were enough to make me understand that natural elements like water and wind could never in the world create perfect geometric shapes! On one side, Little Skellig had at least two clean cuts that reached from the summit to the sea, and they looked like they were made with a laser. Furthermore, the rock itself was shaped like straight lines, as if the natural element had such properties in its original state. The rock was marble-like, yet there were several straight, perpendicular cuts, as if it had been quarried with machinery in recent times. I don't believe this ever happened, but if the origin of those cuts was even older, it would demonstrate that centuries ago, advanced technologies existed that allowed such things to be done. Anyone who wants to believe that this shape is the result of "centuries" of erosion is free to do so, but my common sense and instinct see something artificial in those cuts.   The B&B  Portmagee   Little Skellig  Little Skellig It took us about ten minutes to reach Skellig Michael after leaving Little Skellig, and the spectacle of the geometric rocks continued on the larger island. On Skellig Michael, there was even a section that, beyond its square shapes, looked as if it had fallen from the sky and stuck into the water. This was because the geometric shapes were positioned transversally. A whole section of rock followed a regular structural design but was positioned diagonally, as if pointing downward. Also on that side, there were two rocks that were completely flat, but as if they had been cut; apparently, the "natural" elements in those areas had decided to create platforms with completely flat and smooth surfaces. I practically continuously photographed those strange shapes until the boat entered a cove that led to a cave. They disembarked us on a pier built of reinforced concrete, and after gathering us, a person who was on the island invited us to follow him. Taking a safe and protected path, we reached a higher and more panoramic section, where there were several shelters and refuges. The guide pointed out bathrooms for anyone who wanted to use them, giving us about ten minutes to gather again near the starting point for exploration. Once we were all together, he gave us directions and advice; given the steepness of the trail, his main recommendation was to climb independently, even if you were in a pair. He went on to say that everyone has different paces, so it was best to climb at your own pace without influencing each other. His final recommendation was for photographers and videographers who love taking selfies: it was inappropriate to stop suddenly on such a steep incline to show off how cool you look in such a place. There was a risk of falling and taking the others down with you, so it was absolutely to be avoided. The trail, made of stone steps, was almost entirely visible even from the starting point. Although challenging, it wasn't as extreme as the one I'd done while climbing the Stromboli volcano. That had been the most difficult undertaking of all, as the elevation gain was so extreme that you could only ascend those steps and couldn't descend. Back then, I had hiking boots and more appropriate clothing, while on Skellig Michael I was very casual, wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a tight-fitting leather jacket, and a pair of leather shoes designed for driving. Personally, I felt more comfortable dressed like that than in climbing gear, and looking at the trail, I realized it would be decidedly easier than the one on Stromboli. We began the climb around 10:20 AM, and as I often do in these situations, I preferred to stay at the back of the group, so I could stop and take photos with complete freedom. That day, however, people were decidedly slow, and even though I stopped to take photos, I was always very close to the others. When we reached a wider vantage point, I decided to stay a little longer, falling even further behind the group. I knew that whenever I wanted to speed up, even in that context, I could catch up with them in no time. The rocky landscape of the island was decidedly unique, with individual rocks miraculously remaining upright and other large slabs that seemed to have been embedded in the ground, falling from the sky. Alongside these seemingly extraordinary effects, there were other forms of smaller, flattened rocks, all positioned close together, forming veritable supports or slabs. I had the impression, confirmed later, that those small slabs had been placed there by whoever of our species first set foot on the island. Looking at those slabs, I immediately had the feeling of something artificial. My climb continued alone and very calmly, photographing that scene that the more I looked at it, the more it gave me the impression that the island had once been a living being, struck by stone flakes that had embedded themselves in its body in an irregular pattern. The flight of stone steps curved at a couple of points, and the final section, though steep, consisted of fairly large steps and ended at the top on a large plateau. I must say I reached that point without any difficulty; as I mentioned before, although challenging, climbing Skellig Michael was child's play compared to Stromboli. This plateau was more of a green valley and was the largest part of the island; about half of it was enclosed by a low fence. One half climbed up towards a very strange and irregular rock formation; from a distance, it resembled a giant fish fin. It had probably been closed to prevent anyone from taking that path and climbing the rock, risking, in the worst-case scenario, falling into the sea after several tumbles onto the rocks below. The fence also enclosed the front section that could be seen approaching from the steps. The plateau was essentially enclosed in a sort of L shape, but while on one side it blocked access to the rock, on the other it protected from the overhang. I must say I really liked that part because it was flat, full of greenery, but not easily accessible. For a moment, I thought about what it would be like to create a refuge there, staying there like Luke Skywalker, but in my case to rest, meditate, and write, all in total solitude. The journey from there continued up another stone staircase opposite the large rock, leading to the other side of the island where the shelters were located. From the top of the staircase, there was an incredible view of the flat part and the fin-shaped rock, which from up there appeared small. From that point on, the trail ran along the side of the mountain, which was sheer and unprotected. This section was about fifty meters long and ended inside the sheltered section, the other flat part where protective walls and stone shelters had been built. This was the part where, at some point in the past, there had been some sort of human settlement, the logic of which, however, I can't explain. What was certainly unusual was the construction method, both of the large walls and the shelters. Everything was built using stone slabs that, when placed one on top of the other, created the structures. How these slabs were held together and how they had been shaped that way was a mystery to me. I seriously doubt the slabs were in that state, unless their particular composition automatically created those shapes in an attempt to break them. The point is that there were too many of them, and of considerable diameter; it was an incredible job shaping them, even with tools, and then using them as building blocks. It goes without saying that those particular slabs were the protagonists of that part of the island; there was a veritable village built with those elements, where the shelters were all circular with domed roofs. During our visit, there were quite a few people there, though it didn't feel crowded. This didn't help me imagine the place as solitary, but that spot, even better than the flat valley, was certainly a magnificent place, built on an external, extreme slope overlooking the sea. I won't deny that while exploring the small village, I searched in every way for a secluded corner, trying to live the experience by pretending to be alone. Perhaps I succeeded for a few minutes, but that place needed to be experienced differently. I don't remember how long we stayed up there, but I had a sense of time, so it felt like the visit had lasted a long time.  Approaching Skellig Michael   View with Little Skellig on the background     The plateau           On the way back to the flatter section, I paused on one side before descending the steps into the valley. That spot was certainly one of the most spectacular, where I could capture the essence of the island at a glance: that giant fin-shaped rock, the grass-covered plain, and the sheer drop to the left leading down. Being one of the highest points on the island and objectively evocative, I stopped for a while to experience and treasure that particular moment, believing it would be the most spiritual. With this conviction in mind, I then headed down the steep stone steps to the plateau. I tried to enjoy the plateau as much as possible, because it was one of my favorite parts, and then I turned left to begin the descent. Just as I reached the top of the steps, with the sheer drop below, I realized how extreme the drop was; the descent was certainly more impressive than the ascent, because I was facing the void. Before descending, gazing at that view, rather than feeling threatened, I had a tremendous sense of freedom. From the top of the steps, gazing out to sea, I had the paradoxical sensation of flying but, at the same time, of being firmly anchored to something. In reality, standing at that point was dangerous and unstable; it would have taken very little to lose my balance and fall, yet for some strange reason I felt protected. For moments, I felt as if the island itself was holding me, as if it were a living being holding me with a strange form of magnetism. It was a beautiful and unique sensation, of flight yet protected, like that seen in some films where prehistoric flying animals carry the protagonist on their backs. The more time passes, the more I become convinced that it was more than a sensation; it was a true connection with that part of living nature, which in that moment gave me a special balance I had never experienced before. I must say I began to descend with regret, because deep down I wanted to stay and see where that evocative connection would take me. The nostalgia for those moments gradually subsided during the descent, which, with my perspective facing the sea, allowed me to see the unique features of the rocks in a different light. It was indeed singular how the same point of the island had two different aspects between the ascent and the descent and above all I was able to notice and photograph better a particular rock that protruded towards the outside which was a real platform that remained suspended by who knows what miracle. When I got down there were already many people waiting, but our boat hadn't arrived yet. After reuniting with my ex, we spent a rare moment together around a large, strange, boot-shaped rock, another formation I hadn't noticed upon arrival and whose beauty and singularity I only appreciated before setting off again. After boarding, we left Skellig Michael in the opposite direction from where we'd arrived, thus enjoying a different view of the island in its entirety. The long journey to Portmagee and the excessive noise of the boat's engine gave that journey a sudden jolt, like a noise waking us from a dream. Skellig Michael often comes to mind like this, as if it were a dream, not real, where the most mysterious and beautiful thing is always the feeling of freedom I felt while standing at the top of the stairs. Studying the island on maps before writing this post, I had another strange sensation: looking at the satellite map from above. From there, Skellig Michael truly looked like a prehistoric animal, and that's because, paradoxically, from that perspective, the island appeared symmetrical. Despite all those strange rock formations arranged transversally, along with those that seemed glued together, from the satellite I saw more of the figure of an animal or giant being from an ancient and mysterious era. Looking at it on the maps and turning it to face west, there's the figure of something that appears to have a spine, a tail, and two front legs, the left one transfigured. Studying the island from that new perspective, I began to let my imagination run wild and I thought that perhaps the island had actually been something living that had then petrified. Perhaps these were the reasons for my sensation; perhaps there was still an echo of that being's past life, exerting a sort of magnetism toward me. Who knows, perhaps I have too much imagination, or perhaps the dream of seeing Skellig Michael came true in such a daring way that it gave me visions. In the end, the line between reality and dream is very thin, and perhaps understanding the differences is much more difficult than we think and believe. Perhaps my sensation at the top of the stairs was merely a hunch, or perhaps not; ultimately, no one who has lived only in this reality can say.    My epic place    The cave  The boot rock  The goodbye to Skellig Michael A.M.
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