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 sett