The lowest level of the cliff is prolonged below its southern sea-façade into a series of great steps the currach-men call An Altóir, the altar; to me, though, the cormorants that stand there wrapping their black wings about them like shawls seem to be playing the role of beggarwomen around the cathedral’s portal rather than of priests before its altar. The field that roofs this rectangular peninsula is fenced on one side by a wall and on three sides by nothing, and it is a fine place from which to marvel at the sublime procession of headlands to the west. However, it is wise to keep clear of the brink, especially in gusty weather; an islander warned me—and I pass on the advice—to beware of “the suckage,” for “A sort of hurricane could pick you up and whirl you over, even if you weighed ten tons!” All the same, I remember that on a day when gales made it impossible to see, speak or think near any of the other clifftops, we found a mysteriously becalmed spot on the very tip of this peninsula.
