“At every moment we are immersed in a field of undifferentiated matter from which our senses gather scraps of information.” Rick Rubin

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We possess information that is older than humanity. Every reaction of the body has genetic roots reaching back billions of years. As soon as we leave the thermoneutral zone, everything revolves around restoring homeostasis. Almost all genetic variants originate in evolutionary events that occurred long before we appeared on the world stage. And this is where epigenetics begins. (Based on David A. Sinclair)

Products of Isolation

We were heading to Inis Oírr (Inisheer), the smallest of the Aran Islands. People there speak Gaelic, and this Atlantic knoll belongs to County Galway. The island is known for its stark limestone landscape, countless dry-stone walls, snow-white sand beaches, and the wreck of the Plassey. The MV Plassey ran aground in 1960 on its way to Limerick. A storm had hurled the freighter onto rocks above the tidal line. The crew was spectacularly rescued by the Irish Coast Guard via helicopter.

Over the years, the wreck became part of the island’s iconography. It achieved worldwide recognition when it appeared in the opening sequence of a TV series.

Flights are operated by Aer Arann Islands. From Connemara Regional Airport (Indreabhán) the journey takes less than ten minutes, though boarding always takes longer.

We reached the short-haul terminal: a low building, whitewashed walls, large glass fronts. The departure area for light aircraft was almost empty. The woman at the counter asked for our passports with such friendliness it felt personal. The security check was a farce. I registered the other passengers: a spry pensioner in tweed with an antique binocular hung around his chest — I took him for a quirky ornithologist — and two teenage sisters locked in a private sibling world.

Everyone carried their own luggage into the storage area — a rack behind the last seat. There were no flight attendants, no announcements. The cockpit was open, and the pilot, a man in his fifties, raised his hand in greeting. That was it. He was flying a Britten-Norman BN-2B Islander, a twin-engine light aircraft built for short hops and rough runways, big enough for nine passengers.

After takeoff, the plane tilted barely perceptibly westward. Under the left window, Connemara spread out — grey-green boglands intersected by waterways. Peat cuttings, traces of agriculture, fading into the terrain. Then came the sea, shifting from brown-green to deep and turquoise blue. I saw sandbanks, pale tongues beneath the surface, dark patches suggesting kelp forests. The Aran Islands emerged: Inis Meáin, then Inis Mór. Inis Oírr appeared last.

There was that feeling that each of us was flying alone, that we were no longer sharing the experience. In recent days, your movements had often seemed hesitant, searching. You had been right. I had left you in the dark. It was unfair. But at that moment, I myself didn’t know what to do. I only felt, ever more strongly, a lustful longing that tied me to Goya — the almost uncontrollable desire for the way he devoted himself to me. I no longer understood why I had preferred another man. Surely, you had been a conscientious lover, but compared to Goya, just a toyboy.

The guesthouse was called Teach na Mara — the House of the Sea. A whitewashed, two-storey building with a grey slate roof and a past as a fisher’s cradle. A strip of gravel led to the front door. Cut-down boat hulls served as planters for fuchsias. Inside, the air smelled of cleaning products, freshly baked cake, and the contradictory aromas of private life. Low ceilings. Exposed timber framing. Stone floors. Maritime décor. Photographs in sepia and black-and-white. Scenes of family life lived under the conditions of a hazardous existence.

Heavy wooden furniture. Decorative cushions and lace doilies everywhere. Our hostess was in her sixties, a remarkably tall, gaunt woman. She spoke to us in English with that West-Irish sing-song cadence. She did not ask for our passports.

Our room was upstairs. Two narrow beds, which we no longer pushed together. On the bedside table, a few flyers: ferry times, bicycle rental, a map of the island.

The bedspread looked like a piece of winter work. Probably hand-woven from island sheep’s wool, in muted shades of ochre, green, and grey. The cable patterns recalled Aran sweaters — knots, ropes, fishing nets. Without doubt, a one-off.