A ‘refugee’ I brought home

IN THE 1960s, Inisheer’s only roads were narrow dirt tracks, the traffic consisted entirely of donkeys, water was drawn from wells, clothes were homespun, everyone spoke Irish — and there, two of my books were written by candlelight.

It seemed to me that a Tibetan would find himself at ease on Inisheer, an intuition soon confirmed by Lobsang.

Our two-and-a-half-hour steamer journey from Galway, on a cloudless August morning, was Lobsang’s longest sea voyage. When we anchored, a fleet of currachs — frail little craft of wood-lathe and tarred canvas — surrounded us, to ferry passengers and goods ashore. Boat days were an event for the 280 or so islanders, and inevitably Lobsang’s arrival provoked uninhibited curiosity.