George is too old to fish now. His frail body aches and buckles with the most simple of tasks, to expect him to push his boat out every morning and endure another back-breaking day of hauling in half-empty nets is too much.

He reaches his breaking point. It's not the just the physical aspect of it; he could put up with that if there was any benefit to it, but lately, there's been so much effort with such little reward. He fishes to put food on the table and to pay the bills, but it's not meeting either requirement.

So Lysander is summoned from the city. He's another mouth the feed and the cost of travel only burdens them further, but there's nothing else that can be done. The welcome home is warm but there's work to be done and Lysander goes out to sea his first morning back. And he does every morning for weeks on end, each day catching fewer and fewer fish.

One Saturday morning he heads out at daybreak, rowing his boat out further than he ever has before, only stopping when the ache in his arms gets too much, in hopes something will be biting out at this distance. He lowers his net and relishes the opportunity to lie back with his thoughts and to let his body rest.

He lets his mind wander and he mentally composes letters to friends in the city. Conversations with them often featured stories of his hometown's natural beauty, but now that he's spending all his days with the rugged landscape of the west laid out in front of him, words seem to come to mind instantaneously.

Lysander lies down in his boat, humming a song that's been stuck in his head, something his Mother sings when she does the laundry and falls asleep. He sleeps softly, dreaming of his family as well as the friends he has in the city, his two separate lives that only intersect in his mind.

When he awakes, he gauges the length of his nap by the movement of the sun and estimates he's been out for about two hours or so. Thinking enough time has passed, he hauls the net in over the edge of the currach. Immediately he can tell the catch has been poor by the weight of the net, he ought to be exerting himself trying to pull this in, but he isn't and when he finally gets a look at what he's caught he's proved right.

There's not much there, mostly pollock and hardly any cod. It's barely enough to feed the household, never mind have enough to sell and pay their way in life. But he doesn't spend much time thinking about it, he needs more than this, he has to row out further in hopes he'll have better luck out there.

So he rows on out, further into the choppy Atlantic, not knowing when he'll stop. His arms ache again and the muscles in his neck burn and sting from overuse but he persists. He returned home to help his parents and he refuses to return to them empty-handed.

He can't tell how long he's been rowing, his desperation and impatience cloud his judgement, but he finally gives up when he comes upon a cloud of mist and the waves seem too fierce to pass through. He lowers his net again and braces himself.

He can't relax. He should be using this time to unwind and let his muscles rest but his mind won't quieten and he continues to worry. His family relies on the income from fishing, and the land out here in the west is too rocky and barren to farm. Without this, they'll struggle. Sure, the community will look out for them if worst comes to worst, but with the fishing being so poor lately, everyone is in the same boat.

Hours pass. He leaves the net down longer than last time to give himself the best chance of gathering a plentiful haul, but the wait is agonising. The sun gradually lowers in the sky and he has no choice but to pull in his catch before he ends up rowing home through the darkness.

Again, he knows by weight that there's not much caught up in his net. He pulls it over the side of the boat with ease and lets out an anguished cry when he sees his catch. It's even smaller than before. There's no cod this time, only pollock, the less expensive fish of the two which won't fetch much at market.

With an entire day wasted without anything to show for it, he slinks down in his currach, wondering what he'll say to his parents. What a disappointment this has been, he would have been better off staying in the city and sending whatever little money he could back home. He begins weighing his options, not that he has many, and figures immigrating might be his best bet to earn a decent income for his family.

After some reflection, he ready's himself to sail back home and sits back up in the boat. As he does, he sees the mist up ahead dissipating as are the waves.

As the mist begins to clear, something can be seen in the distance. It looks like a landmass, sort of like a coastline, but it can't be. He's in the east of the Atlantic; there shouldn't be any land in the west until you reach the Americas. There should be no islands near here either. Unless he's gone far off course.

Like a flash, a memory comes to him. Childhood stories of myths and legends play through his mind, stopping and lingering on one tale in particular. Hy-Brasil.

A legend of an island, shrouded in mist, that only appears once every seven years. Explorers and treasure hunters have sought it out to no avail, spending their life savings and risking life and limb to find it, yet seemingly here it is in front of him.

He rows further ahead, his tiredness giving way to simple curiosity. Pure adrenaline fuels him, all the while hoping this isn't an illusion, his tired mind playing tricks on him. As he does the mist clears all the more and he can now say for certain it is an island all the way out here. He quickens his pace.

When he reaches the island his legs feel like jelly and he can barely climb ashore. But the wondrous beauty of the island rejuvenates him. Lush greenery, flowers of all colours and sizes and so many kinds he's never seen before. It's beautiful, fertile land, so unlike the rocky soil of home. He's found paradise.

A river runs through the small island, splitting it down the middle. The water is clear and pristine, unspoiled by man or animal. If the fountain of youth exists, it is surely here in front of him.

In the distance in the island's hills, there is a single building. A small beehive-shaped stone hut stands alone, surrounded on all sides by wildflowers.

He makes his way up the slight hill, and eagerly approaches the building. Aster and bindweed speckle the verdant green hills with dots of lilac and baby pink; if not for his curiosity he'd stop to admire them. He soon reaches the open doorway and peers inside.

To his great surprise, there's a figure inside. An old man, older than any person he's ever seen, wearing long gilded robes that appear totally foreign to him. The room is modestly sized and sparsely furnished, but the furniture boasts some of the finest craftsmanship he's ever seen and the rug on the floor is made of a strange and intricately designed fabric.

Lysander steps inside towards the man but is too mystified to speak. Too many questions run through his head and he can settle on just one.

The man seems to sense his nervousness and speaks first. "Welcome."

Lysander recovers his composure and finds his voice. His eagerness has him rudely forget the pleasantries. "Is this Hy-Brasil?"

The old man nods. "I believe that's what your people call it, yes."

Lysander feels lightheaded. Is this reality or is he dreaming? Did he die out there on the water and this is his heaven?

"I never thought the legend could be true."

"Many adventurers have searched for this land and failed, you have succeeded yet you seem surprised. Are you not a treasure hunter?"

Lysander shakes his head, almost laughing at how surreal the situation feels. "No, I'm not. I was fishing and I saw the island. It drew me in."

The old man nods. "It has that effect on people." The man pauses. "You're familiar with the legend. This land is hidden by mist, invisible to all but for one day every seven years. You should make haste to return home before the mist returns."

Lysander's eyes go wide and his heart quickens its pace. "Could I get stuck here?"

"Temporarily, yes." The man says, much to Lysander's panic.

"There's no need to leave just yet, young man." The old man pulls out a leather pouch from under his robes and hands it to Lysander. "A treasure hunter you are not, but I shall reward your discovery all the same.

Lysander's breath hitches as he feels the heft of the bag and hears it jingle. He pulls it open and sees it full of gold and silver coins. "Are you sure? This is an extraordinary gift"

The old man nods. "I have no need for riches. I'm the only one left here."

Lysander clutches the pouch to his chest, shaking, and bows his head in respect. "Thank you, thank you so much. This will change my family's life."

The old man smiles, not responding, he's been through this routine before. Over the centuries, not much has changed; the weary traveller is always appreciative of the gift. The island only appears for those who need it and needs it's riches for their life back in a world where riches matter.

When Lysander has given the appropriate thanks, he turns and leaves for his boat, taking in one last view of the island's splendour. He thinks of picking one of the more unusual flowers as a memento of his time here, but they all seem to perfect to disturb so he decides against it.

Still holding the pouch tight to his chest, he reaches his boat. He climbs aboard, placing the pouch in front of him, not letting it out of his sight, and sailing on. His encounter is too incredible for words. Who was that man? Perhaps a god? One of Tuath Dé Danann?

If not for the tangible object sitting in front of him, who'd believe what happened today? He scarcely believes it himself. He begins rowing himself home, and after a short while, he turns around to give the island one last look and sees the mist beginning to return and the island fading from view. It'll be seven years before anyone has a chance of finding it again.

His rowing is slow. He's exhausted at this stage of the day and the sky gradually darkens over the course of his journey. By the time he reaches home, its pitch black.

When he comes ashore with his haul and his riches, he finds the beach inexplicably busy. Fisherman and their boats are preparing for launch at this late hour. Before he can begin to question why, his mother captures him in a hug. "We thought something awful happened to you out there."

His father sends the fisherman home and offers them thanks for their help. Confused, but mostly relieved for Lysander's safe return, they take their leave.

His father lays a hand on his shoulder. "We were about to send a search party out for you. You gave us an awful fright."

His mother pulls out of the hug and looks at him with concern. "Explain."

"It's a long story," Lysander begins, opening the pouch to reveal glistening coins of silver and gold. "You'd hardly believe me if not for this."

His parents are incredulous and his mother claps her hands tight over her mouth to stifle a gasp. His poor haul goes unnoticed, what matters now is that their financial woes are finally over.

Hy Brasil – A mythical island that is said to exist in the waters off the west coast of Ireland. Shrouded in mist, it appears only once every seven years.

Currach – A type of small wooden boat used in Ireland

Beehive stone hut – A Clochán, a type of dwelling found on islands on Ireland's west coast.

Tuath Dé Danann - A tribe of Gods in Irish mythology