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Great Blasket Island, Ireland. The tiny island in the distance is Skellig Michael.Matt Coté

Ireland, for me, had always evoked an Angela’s Ashes kind of vision – a rainy country plagued by historically tough times. But, nowadays, this couldn’t be more wrong. Catch the trade winds on its popular tourist circuit and you’ll find yourself in overwhelming company on the booming and lively island republic.

The Emerald Isle has undergone an economic and cultural renaissance in recent years, thanks largely to low corporate taxes that have attracted tech giants such as Google, Facebook and Apple. During the summer months, you can barely find a seat in a pub or book a boat ride to Skellig Michael – the UNESCO World Heritage Centre off the west coast that now serves as the set for Luke Skywalker’s secret hideout in the new Star Wars films. But other wondrous islands await.

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The inhabitants of Great Blasket Island left in 1953, when the Irish government relocated them from their fishing community to the mainland, due to the difficulty of delivering supplies when the seas got too angry.Matt Coté.

Suffocating in the swell of visitors jamming cafés from Kinsale to Killarney in late May, under bias-busting blue skies and radiant sunlight, I set out for the quiet draw of the Dingle Peninsula instead. Eschewing the charming town of Dingle itself, I opt for a €35 (about $52) return boat ride to what used to be the country’s western most settlement. The inhabitants of Great Blasket Island left in 1953, when the Irish government relocated them from their fishing community to the mainland, due to the difficulty of delivering supplies when the seas got too angry.

Walking down the steep, blocky, concrete walkway to the pier at Dunquin, the ramp almost feels like a natural feature. This is a place of impressive contrasts: long rolling hills and sharp geometrical bluffs that decimate the encroaching surf. It’s as if the world falls away right where you might try to escape it. Right this moment, most of what I want to escape are 30 tourists huddled around me, floppily gawking at the ocean with binoculars and Tilley hats. This is what the trade route mostly attracts, sightseers who might cross a road to take a picture, but not much else. Even this boat ride is a leap for them. Maybe that’s why the ginger-haired first mate manhandles me into the converted fishing vessel, so I don’t fall.

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This island is one of the only places in Ireland you can 'wild camp,' but there’s no sign of anyone doing that.Matt Coté/Handout

I swallow my manhood, put on a glowing orange life preserver and sit placidly through the two-kilometre crossing. When we land, I ditch the crowd as quick as I do my emasculating orange vest. I march straight past the village ruins while stone beehive huts and the crescent beach absorb all the photo-snappers. Among the old buildings, there’s a refurbished tea house and hostel painted white that shrink below me. This island is also one of the only places in Ireland you can “wild camp,” but there’s no sign of anyone doing that.

In 20 minutes, I’ve huffed and puffed almost 220 vertical metres upslope, and I’m alone. Just me and six kilometres of undisturbed mountain hewn by the broken Atlantic. It’s one of the most calming horizons I’ve ever seen. Beyond the treeless vista, the ocean is dotted with sharp basalt protrusions (including Skellig Michael) erupting from the water like angry arrowheads. The spongy ground on Blasket itself, though, is a soft treat. Ireland was logged clean hundreds of years ago, and is now covered in famous green moss and heather.

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The original inhabitants of Great Blasket spoke Irish.Matt Coté./Handout

As I trudge over the island’s main humpback, the land narrows and narrows over each successive heave. My pace quickens to a steady stride as the ground rebounds every footstep, and soon I’m running. I pass rock formations that look like ancient bones and coves that appear tropical. An hour or so later, the trail fades into a faint spiderweb left by grazing sheep as the slope drops into the sea. I plant myself in the cool heather, and absorb the vast expanse of nothingness.

This might be where land ends, but it’s also where imagination begins. The original inhabitants of Great Blasket spoke Irish. Some of the greatest literary works of that language were written right here. Staring out as though I’m actually staring in, I can see exactly why.

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Some of the greatest literary works of the Irish language were written at Great Blasket Island, Ireland.Matt Coté.

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