In a rare burst of sunshine, Emily Dunn washes up on the remote islands off County Kerry.

This Irish adventure, like many, begins in a pub. In the tourist town of Waterville, on the famous Irish coastline of the Iveragh peninsula - commonly known as the Ring of Kerry - we are directed to the Lobster Bar to find a man named Michael.

We have driven there to find a bed for the night and book a passage by fishing boat to visit the most remote of County Kerry's attractions, the World Heritage-listed Skellig Islands, famed for their bird population and monastic ruins.

Waterville in the summer is full of holidaymakers and golfers, keen to test themselves on the cliff-side greens. Our hotel proudly displays photographs of the owner arm in arm with Tiger Woods and enthusiastic golfer Catherine Zeta-Jones. In the centre of the village is a statue of Charlie Chaplin, who used to holiday in the town.

We ask for Michael in the saloon-style Lobster Bar. A group of ruddy-faced men in thick woollens swivels to inspect us before one of them rises, swaying slightly, and introduces himself as the tour guide, Michael.

"The Skelligs?" he says in a gravelly lilt. "Aye, that can be done." Pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket, he writes our names and, with a handshake and a "Meet me here in the morn'n'," our seats are reserved.

We wake to a fourth consecutive day of clear skies and sunshine - nothing short of a miracle in Ireland, our convivial boatman says. By car, we follow him to the neighbouring settlement at Ballinskellig Bay. There, a group of entrepreneurial fishermen awaits the catch of the day: tourists from the nearby towns.

"You'd almost do it for nothing in weather like this!" Michael crows to a fellow boatman as we set off.

Most of the time, he tells us, high seas and bad weather prevent boats from leaving the port, let alone letting down passengers on the precarious island landing. This trip is the fourth attempt in as many years for one Japanese passenger on our boat, his previous attempts thwarted by the predictably unpredictable weather.

Approaching from the mainland, it is difficult to imagine the islands were once a place of retreat. The peaks of jagged stone jutting skywards from the Atlantic appear more suited to a prison than a place for spiritual contemplation.

In 588, a dozen or so Christian monks arrived to settle on Great Skellig, the larger of the two islands, also known as Skellig Michael. They built stone beehive huts, known as clochans, on nearly vertical cliff walls more than 200 metres above the sea.

For more than 600 years they eked out an existence on the island, keeping chickens and goats, and planting small crops and herbs used to develop cures and remedies. They survived the rigours of the weather and Viking raids before what was believed to be a particularly hellish storm forced them to abandon the island for the monastery on the mainland.

Apart from occasional pilgrimages and the installation of two lighthouses and a lighthouse keeper in the 19th century, the island has remained uninhabited. Settlements of similar age on the mainland have crumbled yet the remoteness of the Skelligs has been their saviour. Even today, visitor numbers are restricted to no more than 150 and for no more than two hours of the day, to preserve the monastic ruins.

The islands are home to abundant birdlife. Before landing on Great Skellig, our boat takes us first around the smaller island, an outcrop teeming with nearly 30,000 pairs of nesting northern gannets. As they swoop and dive into the ocean, seals bask in the midday sun on the smooth rocks close to the sea. Petrels, razorbills and the occasional falcon are spotted overhead.

"Be back in an hour," Michael says and leaves us on the concrete step of Greater Skellig as he heads off for a spot of fishing.

From the landing, the only way is up, so we follow the ancient stone steps, winding around the cliffs, through the spring wildflowers clinging to the rock, taking pains not to look down. The sense of isolation is broken only by the cacophony of bird calls and a lone puffin.

At the top, we scramble in and out of the huts - most were sleeping quarters; others served as a church, a kitchen and a primitive lavatory - and we pause respectfully at the tiny graveyard.

Later we sit among the wildflowers with our monk's lunch of water and soda bread, the latter swiped from our hotel breakfast buffet. Some members of the group begin to meditate; the rest of us stare at the vast horizon.

Ireland has no shortage of beautiful, remote locations but these islands feel special. They may be just off one of Ireland's most popular driving routes but visiting the Skelligs requires the rarest of Irish coastal experiences: a clear sunny day and a smooth sea.

The strains of a folk tune float up from the fishing boats below where Michael and his chums are casting a line and, we imagine, sleeping off last night's Lobster Bar activities.

A guide points to an exposed flat stone on a turret above. That was the hermit's retreat, he explains. Some monks, it seems, sought even greater solitude than a rocky outcrop in the middle of the ocean.

FAST FACTS

Getting there

Etihad flies from Sydney to Dublin, with a change of aircraft in Abu Dhabi, for $1590; Melbourne passengers need to buy a separate fare to Sydney. Most other carriers will have at least two stops.

Boat operators charge EUR40 ($68) a person to visit the Skelligs and depart from Portmagee village. Tours can be booked from Killarney or from hotels in Portmagee, Waterville or other villages on the Ring of Kerry.

It's a 30-minute drive from Portmagee to Waterville and another two hours to Killarney. The closest airport is at Kerry, a 20-minute drive from Killarney.

Staying there

The four-star Butler Arms Hotel in Waterville was the hotel of choice for the Chaplin family. It looks as if it has seen better days but inside it's luxurious and the Irish breakfast is generous. Sheilin Seafood Restaurant, behind the hotel, specialises in local seafood.