We had jounced across Galway bay in a 45 minute ferry ride, boarded a pony trap for an hour's ride in a two-wheeled carriage, upholstered with leather and duct tape and driven by an ancient Irishman named Tom Flaherty, whose first language was Gaelic. He deposited us at the Atlantic side of the island at a tiny museum for break. My husband opted for the hike to the headland to view a crumbling 20th century fort, while I browsed the museum. It was there that I spied a poster for "Man of Aran" - only 2.50 Euros per person. It sounded vaguely interesting, a way to pass time til the pony trap driver returned to take us bouncing back to the ferry boat landing.
We climbed the steep stairs and were seated in a room overlooking the centuries old stone walls that crawl haphazardly over the rugged terrain. A large high definition television sat before us, and we waited for the lady at the downstairs desk to come turn it on. We were joined by four more people, the blinds were drawn and the warbly, scratchy sound track and grainy black and white documentary began. We were gripped immediately by the story - part adventure, part documentary, part drama. It was easy to believe the severe conditions, the arduous, back breaking work of gathering kelp, fishing in the heaving surf, rocky, slippery shores, having just witnessed them in person. A few of the scenes are a little fakey, but we're talking 1934 here, and if you'd ever seen that pounding surf at the foot of that towering cliff, you'd know why they perhaps went Hollywood in the shark hunting scene. If you can't see it in its place of origin, by all means make the effort to find a print. This is a classic. By the way, our driver, Tom Flaherty, would have been 12 years old when the film was made but the director/producer Flaherty was an American from Hollywood, and much distrusted by the natives. He had one heck of a time making the movie, so the brochure at the desk informed us. In typical local resident style, our driver had never seen the movie and did not claim to be related to the director. He dropped us at the ferry and, speaking endearing terms in Gaelic to Brownie, his faithful cart horse, urged her back up the path to the pub for his daily pint of Guinness.
