The book begins with the narrator – Danny MacDonough – noting that his memories of the Island of Horses are dominated by the impressions from his first actual visit to the island with his friend Pat Conroy. Their first trip to the Island of Horses (and subsequent visits, related to the crime that they discover is associated with the island) make up much of the substance of this bittersweet and nostalgic 1956 young adult novel by Irish writer Eilis Dillon.
Far more than the novel's plot, I lingered with Dillon’s loving descriptions of the people and places of the boys’ fictional Irish island Inishrone, which the narrator asserts exists three miles from the Connemara coast in the Atlantic Ocean. (The [also fictional] Island of Horses is five or so miles away from Inishrone.) Many times while reading I paused to go to my computer and specifically to Google, where I could look up images of the items, places and animals the narrator names: things like pookaun, conger eel (which are surprisingly big), coracle, rockfish, turf, and others (many sea-related) which were foreign to me as a Michigan native who has lived most of her life in the 21st century.
In fact, I felt that for Dillon the plot of The Island of Horses was simply an excuse to delve into the texture and feeling of remote island village life in western Ireland in the middle of the 20th century. One of the book’s central figures, “the grandmother,” an eccentric old woman and Pat’s grandmother, is haunted by memories of her youth and young adulthood living on the Island of Horses, before a catastrophic winter storm forced its inhabitants to emigrate from the island. Both Pat and Danny have listened to the grandmother’s stories of the Island of Horses their entire lives and have since realized that she lives in a state of permanent longing for the island, the emigration from it having arrested her psychological development. It is certainly not for nothing that when Pat and Danny revisit the Island of Horses late in the novel, they find the grandmother and invite her to join them. When they arrive, they (and their friend Luke) are the only ones to witness her find closure among the ruins of the island’s village and her childhood home.
The grandmother isn’t the only character to dwell more in the past than the present. Danny describes the ancient feud between the residents of Inishrone and the Connemara coast, originating in a relatively minor episode from centuries before, when an Irish priest tried to flee to Inishrone from English soldiers. As a result of the incident, the communities – both of them rural – despise one another and frequently trade insults, such as the coastal people’s insult that the island people wear cowskin boots, which they find ridiculous-looking. Dillon relates these details not in a condescending or dismissive way, but again, lovingly, and I felt that she was inviting the reader to experience how it might feel to live in such a rich but tiny social world as Danny and Pat’s.
The last observation I have is related to Dillon’s prose. There are passages embedded in the plot that blaze up with verisimilitude and emotion. It is hard to miss the intense wonder with which Pat and Danny discover the beach on the Island of Horses that the grandmother has told them about so many times before:
“This was Mrs. Conroy’s silver strand, without a doubt. Now we could see that she was right when she said it was the finest strand in the world. It faced directly out toward the west, with nothing between it and America…We knew that it must be sandy for a long way out, because the waves never broke until they were almost ashore. Then they slid back again, with a wonderful, deep-singing roar, like a huge organ playing in an empty church” (30).
The careful and authoritative physical detail that Dillon includes – for example, the boys’ sense of the depth of the water because of the point where the waves break – along with their innocent exaggeration – “nothing between [the beach] and America” – lend the boys’ story a powerful sense of psychological truth. I don’t doubt that Dillon was writing very much from her personal observations of Irish village life over the course of her travels around Ireland, and for some reason I felt reassured thinking about her lifelong commitment to those places and people.