We were going walking on Inishbofin, after a brief boat trip around its smaller southwest neighbour Inishark. As we waited in the sunshine at Cleggan pier, and looked out to the crocodile-shaped western tip of Bofin, the banter of the boatmen floated past. And then other things began to float past; a broken chair, tatty cardboard boxes, plastic bags and sweet wrappers, and a filthy lump of rag, diffusing a greasy sheen over what had been, seconds earlier, a pristine shade of blue-green. The spell broken, we turned to see its source - an impervious individual slinging flotsam and jetsam over the side of his boat. Later that morning, as we phutted across Cleggan Bay to see a Court Tomb, the boat was gently accosted by some of these bobbing waste products, and I wondered if they'd haunt me all day long.

The Atlantic's calmness didn't last long, as the boat ploughed towards the eerie, empty village on Inishark, the sky darkened and before long we were being pummelled by heavy rainfall. Despite our coats, boots and gloves, we seemed less ready for this downpour than the dozens of seals who basked lazily on the rocks. The tide wasn't with us, and we were unable to land at the tiny harbour, so we continued on, through the turbulent waters of Ship Sound. We stopped briefly to pay our respects to Buachaill, a towering seastack which young men from the island once climbed to show their prowess. Countless seabirds circled above the snow white water - the residue of the battering waves – that cascaded down the jagged buttresses of the dark, imposing rock.

Cormorant guards of honour saluted us from the rocks near the beautiful, deceptive waters around Trá Gheal, before we turned into the calm of Bofin Harbour, the ruins of Cromwell's Barracks gliding quietly past to our right. A badly-timed hail shower soaked us once again as we clambered into a currach that deposited us to slip and slide across the seaweed-draped rocks to sanctuary and a hot drink in Day's.

The next few hours were spent tramping over the island, being regaled with tales of its history and mythology. The fertile land overlooking the harbour gave way to the boggy terrain of the MiddleQuarter, and views north beyond Croagh Patrick to the cliffs of western Achill. We learned of field systems and turbary rights, Bronze Age settlements and Neolithic tombs. We carried on to the view over the Stags, marked now by a cross erected by the families of two students from Kansas, who drowned in the waters here in 1976.

Our anti-clockwise route then took us uphill to the site of Dún Mór, the promontory fort; behind us was the open ocean, and below I could make out the cormorants that welcomed us earlier, still keeping a wary eye on Inishark's empty village. We pushed on to the top of Cnoc Mór, the island's highest point, where we dodged the coming squall behind a cairn while soaking up the incredible panorama of the coastline of Connemara and Mayo. Then we descended past the children's burial ground – where infants who had not been baptised were once buried. The contrast between this sombre place and the Spring-born lambs noisily bleating on the lane was hard to avoid.

Soon we were once again on the boat, heading home, tired and elated, as only you can be after a day in the open air. And, despite the inauspicious start to the day, the waters all around our small vessel looked none the worse for the thoughtlessness of one individual. With that positive thought in my head I happily welcomed the sun on my back, and looked forward to the next time I visited the Island of the White Cow. (21/4)

(Thanks to Michael Gibbons…)

For a fascinating look at life on the island, check out 'Inishbofin: Through Time and Tide' (Inishbofin Development Association)

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