Achill Island, Beyond the Map: One Walk, Many Worlds

They say words carry stories, but few words carry stories as ironic and layered as "boycott." Imagine that — an entire action derived from the name of one man, Charles Boycott, who once called Achill Island home.

Charles Boycott was an English land agent in 19th century Ireland, tasked with collecting rents from tenant farmers during the agricultural crisis and economic depression of the time. When the British landowners increased rents and refused to lower them despite repeated crop failures and poverty, the tenants united in protest. They refused to pay and shunned Boycott entirely—no one would work for him, trade with him, or even speak to him. This act of collective ostracism was so impactful that his name became synonymous with such protest.

That morning, I woke up ravenous—ready to carry out a full-scale “boycott” on hunger itself. After a solid night’s sleep, my appetite had returned in full force.

Anne, my gracious host, enquired about my sleep. I nodded, assuring her it was restful. She then offered me a choice of breakfast options. I smiled and said lightly, “I’ll take everything except mushrooms.”  It wasn’t that I don’t eat them, but I just haven’t quite gotten used to having mushrooms for breakfast yet.

Soon, my plate arrived with sausages, bacon, black and white pudding, and two perfectly poached eggs. Then there was the homemade bread — a staple I noticed at every B&B I visited during my travels across Ireland. This bread was dense and grainy, almost more like a bread cake than the usual toast I’m used to. I found joy in spreading butter and jam on it — a small indulgence in texture and taste.

When it came to black pudding which is a type of blood sausage, my thoughts drifted back to my roots. It reminded me of Rakti — a dish commonly found in Nepali households. Rakti is made by cooking fresh goat's blood (instead of pork or beef) with spices and herbs, often stir-fried and enjoyed as a delicacy. It may sound intense, but it connects cultures across continents in the way food often does — by turning the same ingredient into something so meaningful.

After breakfast, while I was filling my water bottle, Anne approached and pointed out the window with a warm, almost proud smile. “You can also fill your bottle from there.”

I leaned and looked out the window, confused. My eyes went to a man filling what looked like a ten-liter drum from a spout at the corner of the street. Near him, few others waited for their turn with different sizes of water containers. Anne explained that it was spring water, the source of which was in the hill above Keel village, and something the villagers have been drinking for generations.

Later, after a long day of walking, I would try the spring water. It was cold and refreshing, and while I didn’t notice much difference in taste compared to bottled water, it felt good to experience something so pure and connected to the land.

For me, places like Achill Island unfold their magic only on foot. Cars and cyclists passed by, but I hadn’t seen another walker in hours. Instead, I moved through the quiet with only the whisper of streams and the crunch of gravel underfoot. Instead, I was accompanied by the gentle symphony of nature: the soothing sound of the water flowing underneath the many stone bridges and the occasional chirping of birds — a gentle soundtrack to my journey.

My first stop was Dooagh village, nestled between Keel and Keem. I reached a fork where two cars were parked, took the left path, and walked in. It was there that the waves met the stones, crashing in a rhythm that I’ve grown to love — like nature’s heartbeat. I sat for a while, just listening.

As I continued my walk, to my right rose the mighty Croaghaun mountain, its peak hidden beneath a veil of white clouds. Croaghaun boasted some of Europe’s highest sea cliffs. It reminded me of Kodaikanal, the hill station in India sitting at an elevation of more than 2000 meters, often wrapped in clouds like a soft blanket, which I visited with friends during my engineering days. I didn’t summit Croaghaun, but its presence was like a silent and familiar companion.

Just then, my phone rang — the daily family WhatsApp call. My sister joined from Edinburgh, my parents from Assam, India, and I from the farthest corners of Ireland connected by invisible threads of love. Life feels fragile when you're this far from family, so I make it a point to talk to them every day. I wanted to at least see them, say hello and quickly share what I saw with them, so I turned the camera toward Keem Bay, revealing the horseshoe-shaped bay with its white sands and shimmering blue waters. In 2025, Keem Bay was recognized as the 48th best beach in the world by ‘The World’s 50 Best Beaches.’

My mom’s voice cut through the awe: “What are those plants by the side of the road?” My mom — always more interested in the plants than any breathtaking view.

I lowered my phone and switched the camera to focus on the ancient and resilient of plants — ferns. Evolved on earth over 360 million years ago, long before the dinosaurs roamed, this humble plant has been part of my life growing up. Dhekia or Niguro as it is called in Assamese and Nepalese respectively, is the edible fiddle head variety of the fern. They play a significant part in the local cuisine of north-east India. They are often stir-fried with garlic and onion. But they’re best when baby potatoes are added to them — a simple dish prepared almost in every household back home.

Mom and I couldn’t find any fiddle heads growing here in Ireland. But who knows? Someone reading this in the future might be inspired to go fern-hunting across the Emerald Isle.

The wind along the bay was getting stronger, tugging at my voice as I tried to continue the call. I could barely hold my phone against its push. I waved my hand, smiled and said a quick goodbye before I ended the call and continued toward the beach. Since I was on foot, I veered off the main road and followed a sandy footpath — weaving through soft white sand, pebbled slopes, and finally arriving at the water’s edge.

The Atlantic spread out before me in hues of steel-blue, constantly shifting in color and temperament. The sand, pale and soft, pressed lightly underfoot, and the cliffs stood like ancient guardians on either side. The place was alive — scattered with families, groups of friends, couples lounging, and the occasional solo wanderer like me.

One family caught my attention. A man — perhaps the father — was helping his young son learn to surf. The boy, no more than seven or eight, kept tumbling off the board, falling into the waves again and again. But each time, the father would pull him back up, steadying him patiently. Nearby, a woman — perhaps the mother —watched with a proud yet nervous smile, holding a kid’s hand. The little girl clutched a toy shovel in her other hand, and both stood beside a sandcastle she had clearly taken great care to build. Their area was neatly staked out — blue cloth stretched between two short poles —for shade and a patterned mat spread beneath them. Maybe the mother was cheering inside or was quietly afraid, but you could tell she was watching every movement — every wipeout, every retry — with a heart full.

I had never tried surfing, and I don’t think I will try anytime soon. Natural water bodies — the sea, rivers, lakes — have always been something I admire from a respectful distance. An incident many years ago left a quiet fear in me of getting into the water of these natural bodies. But wherever I go, I do make it a point to touch the water— to feel the temperature, the pulse of the place, and to acknowledge it without needing to conquer it.

That was Keem Bay— my first 'Blue Flag' beach. (A Blue Flag beach is a recognition awarded to beaches that meet high environmental and quality standards, including cleanliness, safety, and accessibility). Ireland currently boasts over 80 such beaches, while India, despite being 47 times larger in land area, has only 12. There’s still a long way to go for India.

The return to Keel was another 7 km walk. But I wasn’t tired yet. The shadows of clouds floated over Croaghaun’s slopes, keeping me company. I walked in silence, breathing in the expanse of the Atlantic, the sun warming my face, and a quiet gratitude for everything I’d just seen that day.

By the time I reached Joyce’s B&B again, my legs had surrendered. I collapsed onto the bed, still wearing my shoes, dreading at the thought of moving again. I thought in silence if or when I’d ever return to Achill. But with a few hours left of daylight, I summoned the strength for one more walk.

But first — I needed to eat. And more importantly, I needed to do something I’d been lowkey dreading: try oysters.

A friend at the gym had once said, “If you go to Achill, have oysters with a pint of Guinness.” So off I went, into "The Amethyst Bar & Restaurant." A quick search on YouTube while I waited, helped me prepare. Push them off the shell, slurp them, chew a bit. And when they arrived? Plan executed to perfection.

I swapped Guinness for Coke — still haven’t acquired the taste for it — but the oysters? Well, I’d need a few more trials before passing judgment.

With oysters and fish & chips fuelling me, I walked to Slievemore Deserted Village. Once home to over a hundred stone cottages, only their skeletal remains stand. The village was gradually abandoned during the Great Famine and later emigration waves. These ruins stood quietly beneath the shadow of Slievemore Mountain.

Beside the ruins was a cemetery. Prior to coming to Ireland, I’d never paid much attention to gravestones in cemeteries. But something shifted during my long walk from Malin Head to Carndonagh, through County Donegal. Near the Five Finger Strand, I had stopped at Malin Presbyterian Church Cemetery. And for the first time, I read them – the epitaphs. The names, the dates, the loss. They had moved me.

So I stopped at this cemetery too. I stood before the weathered stones, reading names I’d never know, feeling things, I couldn’t explain. The had moved me in Malin and they moved me here.

I lingered a little longer near the old stones before walking back to Joyce’s. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting a golden hush across the hills. It felt as though Achill itself was preparing to say goodbye— to a traveler from far away. Tomorrow, I’d catch the 450 bus back to Westport, then board a train to Dublin. The journey would pull me back into routine. But that evening still belonged to the island.

As I walked, the air was quiet, the wind teasing the tall grass, and Slievemore Mountain in the distance, watching over me gently, as if whispering, “remember the quiet beauty of these mountains — and keep it safe within you.”

 I thought of Grace O’Malley’s gaze in Westport, of drinking spring water in Keel, the boy learning to surf in Keem, Morgane tracing her late sister’s name Ana across ‘Blathana’, and the silence of names carved in tombstones. These weren’t just memories; they had found their place within me.