The Worm Hole

 

The Worm Hole

In dripping red paint, the arrow pointed towards the windward side of the stone wall, with the words “The Worm Hole” scrawled beneath it. Sam and I rolled our bikes into a little thicket behind the stone wall and set off down the scraggly path with a stiff breeze in our faces. To the west, the Atlantic Ocean stretched into eternity, rippling with whitecaps from the incoming weather.

        We were on the western shores of Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands, about an hour's boat ride off the west coast of Ireland. Remnants of mountains from an ancient time, the Aran Islands were windswept crags of stone battered from millenia of fending off the waves of the North Atlantic. Huge cliffs lined the west side of the island, while much of the leeward eastern shore was rocky beaches and small coves. Settled by sheepherders centuries ago, the islands were forlorn of trees; everything was built of stone, including the endless stone walls. Over centuries, the settlers had gathered seaweed from the beaches and cultivated fertilizer and soil to grow meager crops and sheep in the shelter of their stone walls. Now the islands are infamous for their wool sweaters, the boutique product that keeps the remote outpost from drifting into further obscurity. But most of the sweater sales take place on the mainland, so only a fraction of the tourists who visit Ireland make the boat journey across the Galway Bay. 

So of course, this was a place Sam and I wanted to go. We booked a couple beds in the only hostel on the island and rented a couple bicycles from the shack at the ferry dock. Off we went up the rolling hills to see what we could find. 

Gaelic forts over 3000 years old still stand formidable atop the gigantic cliffs that line the outer edge of the island. Dry stacked stone, hundreds of feet in length and dozens of feet tall create semi circles with an open back. Putting your back to the precipice of the North Atlantic meant nothing and no one could sneak up on you, or so the logic went for the early residents. While impressive feats of stone stacking in sheer quantity, the forts could only occupy our imaginations so long. Off we went, straining the pedals on the rusty bicycles over one hill and then another. We were just starting to scheme turning around when we spotted the ominous “Worm Hole” sign. 

The red arrows led us on a winding path down onto the tidal shelf, worn smooth by the relentless ocean. About thirty feet wide and pocked with little tidal pools, the shelf ran for a half mile before vanishing into the sea. The western cliffs towered above us now. The tide was out, allowing access around a giant crag, where we spotted the Worm Hole. 

Almost perfectly rectangular and about the size of an Olympic swimming pool, it was as if the gods had carved themselves a bathtub in the stone. As we walked to the edge, we looked down about twenty feet into a frothing boil of frigid water. The shape was uncanny. Rectangles do not often appear in nature, but this was clearly natural. The walls were smooth stone and the Worm Hole nestled up against the cliffs like it was part of a giant estate. Clearly there was a passage for the water beneath the tidal shelf into the pool and the water heaved with each crashing swell on the island's edge thirty yards away. Behind the pool, a cave had been excavated by the ocean and dripped with moisture and mystery. I clambered in as far as I dared but without a light, the black limestone was treacherous. 

We snapped a few pictures with this geologic marvel and set off back to the bicycles. All this frothing had made us thirsty, and this being Ireland, there was always a pub close by, even on a remote island of stone. 

PS. It was in the pub that we found out that the Red Bull Cliff Diving Championships happened every year in the WormHole. Find it on Youtube, pretty epic.