The good people of Achill will always ask how you are fixed for a drink, be it a water, a jar of stout, or a whiskey to warm you after a walk in the rain. There’s always a relation or a friend visiting from abroad and the people who live here want to show a good time. We set out from Whitechapel, London (a district best known as the location for the crimes of Jack the Ripper and more recently for the photographs of Don McCullin), in the early hours of Saturday morning and were on the Island in time for lunch.

The flight into Knock airport was a short and calm affair, inconvenienced only by a screaming infant sat two seats back. As we drove through County Mayo and away from the mainland, bound for Oileán Acla, the landscape rolled and unfolded before us tired travelers like a patchwork blanket. For three days we did naught beyond eat, sleep and drink. The food was simple but delicious, meant to fill you up and keep you insulated through the harsher months; fine slabs of roast beef and potatoes; fresh North Atlantic crab claws cooked in their own juices; cloud foamed pints of deliciously bitter Guinness. On Sunday we took a tour of the island and looked out beyond the last plot of European land for the start of the next continent. “Next stop, Nova Scotia,” the locals will joke to you.

Herself says she has never seen so much green in her entire life, and she won’t again until we return later in the year. By that time it will be nearly Autumn, the turf fires will have started burning and the whole island will smell like home. The edge of the middle of nowhere is a very discrete and quiet place to find oneself. It can also show itself to be more wild and unpredictable than you ever could have thought, but if you’re the brave sort and unafraid of a little adventure, then you should fit right in. We took some pictures, although, I must have seen it already a thousand times. Nevertheless, after all this time coming here, the place still leaves me seeing emeralds for weeks. I hope you enjoy.