The only thing to do was to flee Skibbereen, so the next morning we took a taxi down to Baltimore (a fishing village whose claim to fame is that a few centuries ago its entire population was abducted by Barbary pirates). There was a ferry coming in as we arrived, so we hopped on it and only then asked where it was going. Cape Clear, it turned out, a good sized little island that once was heavily populated but not since the famine.
We went for a walk up the island’s hills and through its bogs and along the cliffs. On one of the latter there was a path leading down to a knoll over the sea, and some of the most beautiful wildflowers we had ever seen. About two-thirds of of the way through was a farmhouse from where we got a scone each and a cup of tea for lunch, and chatted with the young fellow at the shop who had grown up on this island where the only school has a total of nine pupils. He, like every other Irish person we spoke to, was aghast and bemused by Brexit, much as I am myself, and said (comparing the Brexit advisory vote to the recent Irish abortion referendum) that of course in England sovereignty lies with the queen, while in Ireland it lies with the people. It was an interesting little speck of nationalist self-definition. Generally, I was surprised at how much resentment there is of the English, far more than in other ex-colonies.
The sun was intense, every Irish person was full of amazement so that the Gentleman Friend got quite burnt and my nose turned (I think) strangely brown.
On returning to the mainland we found ourselves a cold seafood platter each. My appetite has started to return, though the cough persists.