On even the best of days the waters between western Ireland and its offshore islands can be temperamental, but on this particular windy spring afternoon my ferry ride to Inishmore was the equivalent of spending a couple of hours on an old-fashioned wooden roller coaster.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be more than worth it,” the boat captain assures me as I lay my head back, wishing I hadn’t had that extra Guinness the night before. It didn’t take very long once we hit land to realize that he was spot on.

Far removed from the east coast hustle and bustle of Dublin and the political problems that have plagued Northern Ireland, the Aran Islands are peaceful retreats characterized by treeless horizons, towering cliffs and an assortment of archaeological wonders. They also appear to be in no rush to catch up to the modern world. After all, there aren’t too many places left where a horse and carriage is still the main form of transportation.

Towering cliffs characterize the Aran Islands.

The boat disembarked at the small town of Kilronan. I had often read that Kilronan had sold its soul to the devil and given in to the wickedness of tourism. If you call a small tourist office, a few guys clambering to take you on island tours and a bank with no ATM as “selling-out,” then I’d hate to see what these authors would say about Niagara Falls.

Tourists are not able to take cars to the Aran Islands, which means getting around is limited to four options: a small tour van — no thanks, too quick; horse-and-cart — I’d rather not spend a day looking at a horse’s backside; foot — at 10 miles long, not the best option to see everything Inishmore has to offer; or bike — bingo!

On a sunny day, Inishmore is awash in a sea of cycling tourists taking in the ancient island at a pace that suits its demeanor. And with one main road running the length of the island, navigation is a cinch. As I pedal my way west under a cloudless sky, I quietly wonder whether a bunch of clumsy foreign cyclists such as yours truly drive the residents mad as they attempt to get around and perform their daily duties.

But just then, I come across a local driver who stops to help a fallen rider, after which he hands her a bottle of water and an apple. Would that happen on the streets of downtown L.A.?

Isolation permitted the residents to maintain a time-honored lifestyle well into the 20th century. The rugged islanders, immortalized in John Millington Synge’s play Riders to the Sea and Robert Flaherty’s film Man of Aran, maintain their hardscrabble life.

Even today, most of the island’s 900 or so inhabitants live in stone houses and speak Irish among themselves, politely breaking into English to make their guests feel welcome. Pastoral settings with grazing horses and sheep, and warm-hearted locals are a respite from the fast-paced modern world.

Almost immediately after I leave Kilronan, the landscape is dominated by stone walls and boulders enclosing hundreds of small fields like frames around artwork. And in true Irish fashion, these meadows are at least 40 different shades of green.

Thatch-roofed stone cottages strung along the road provide a great example of Celtic and early Christian heritage, and give me the impression that I’ve traveled back in time. That is until a guy whizzes by me on his bike wearing loafers and bellowing into his cell phone.

While Inishmore is bursting at the seams with archaeological ruins, giving your neck a serious workout as you ride along, the biggest jaw-dropper of all is Dún Aengus, a semicircular stone-walled space that ends dramatically at a cliff some 300 feet (100 m) above the tumultuous Atlantic surf.