We took the fast boat to Great Blasket Island from Dingle harbor, Kim and I, the day we met.
We didn't talk much, skipping over the waves under high cliffs of the Irish mainland, rolling hills atop the sheer stone; farms, farmhouses and livestock in small irregular fields, way up there.
At Blasket a small rubber dingy ferries passengers in a couple of trips from the boat just offshore to the harbor, a rough-cut ramp in the limestone. (The families of the former residents have lobbied against the establishment of the construction of any regular pier for the landing of tourists.)
The Blasket Islanders, one of the last remnants of ancient Gaelic culture, were a people who lived a subsistence lifestyle for centuries, whose number was about 160 at peak, the last of whom emigrated in 1953.
We decided to hike the trail to the top of the hill. It was a beautiful day, warm and calm. A butterfly followed us for several minutes on the way up. We sat on the mossy hillside for a while. We talked, took photos of each other, and cried a bit without knowing why. I told her that I had a set of return tickets on Bus Éireann back through Tralee and Killarney to Kilkenny.
I asked her if she would like to come with me that evening to Killarney, and we agreed we would do that.