Our little boat was being thrown about on the ocean like a piece of flotsam. We stood at the front getting the soaking of our lives. Despite its size, the ferry negotiated these monstrous waves with considerable ease, and an hour after leaving we were pulling into the half-built pier on the remote and wind-beaten Tory Island. We had both read in a book about a man who lives here who is known to all as the King of Tory, and figured it would be fun to travel to a remote island off the coast of Northern Donegal and meet a king.

My travelling companion this time around was Nika, a very lovely girl from Slovenia who I met while travelling Spain the year before. At the ferry terminal in Magheroarty the lady behind the counter had told us that the King greets visitors at the pier, and kisses the girls. Nika had never been kissed by a king, so she was quite excited at the prospect.

Tory Island is a remote, treeless place lying nine miles off the county’s northern coast. It is three miles long and half a mile wide. Its situation in the Tory Sound, a treacherous section of ocean, makes it extremely vulnerable to bad weather. Overall, it is best described as a bleak and inhospitable place. Nevertheless, it has a population of 170 living in four towns, imaginatively titled East Town, West Town, Middletown and Newtown. The island is noted for its school of painters whose work has been displayed throughout Europe and even in New York. The best known of the painters is Patsy Dan Rodgers, alias the King of Tory.

We made our way to the Radharc Na Mara hostel (Tel. +353-74-65145), which is a simple little house with no signs or anything to indicate that it’s a hostel. The lady who runs the place gave us a room with two beds, sofa, chair and fire for €12 each.

We hiked our way to the eastern side of the island, which is characterised by high cliffs that drop off at frighteningly steep angles. The rough sea pounds the island’s jagged edges far below and a vast array of birdlife inhabits the cliffs, including puffins. An abandoned caravan that had sat alone in the middle of this expanse of wilderness three years ago was now lying in the same spot, flipped over and broken into pieces; an example of the stormy weather this island experiences during the winter.

Back in West Town we ate a cheap meal at the café, accompanied with homemade bread, and then went to the island’s only pub (other than the hotel bar) Club Soisialta (Social Club) for a drink. It was my hope that the King would pop in (after all, he is a very down to earth king and not above drinking with the peasants).

Tory has a long history of having its own king, whose job it is to govern the island. The title is not totally hereditary, and some kings have been elected purely on their skills and personal qualities. When Tory first opened up to tourism the islanders wanted to appoint a representative who could help attract visitors. Patsy Dan was appointed and has worked hard ever since, using exhibitions of his paintings to promote the island.

Tory is steeped in history (it’s been inhabited for 4000 years) and the islanders have fought hard to retain their way of life. Even today the islanders can be cut off for months in the winter. Fishing and farming had long been a way of life, although both have waned over the years. The locals now rely on summer tourism.

One road runs the length of the island at the end of which, I was amused to see, was a small dirt roundabout. The sea around this little isle is littered with ships that have fallen foul of its deadly storms; the most famous of which is the British gunboat, the Wasp, which sank in 1884 while on a mission to collect taxes from the islanders.

Not having seen him all day, we wandered up to join the King at his palace. He came out front and greeted us with his usual warm welcome. He shook my hand, and took a while to recognise me. Nika had been looking forward to her royal kiss so much that when the moment came she reciprocated so enthusiastically that I feared she would give the poor old man a heart attack.

“I was just off to the gallery to put in a couple of new paintings,” he said, putting them down and suddenly realising that he was also carrying the remote control for the television. “Oh, I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and rushed off inside. It seems even Kings suffer from absent-mindedness.

The small gallery houses an impressive display of the islander’s paintings. James Dixon is Tory’s most celebrated painter and died in 1970. Work is underway to build a gallery for his work alone. We chatted to the owner who expressed his concern at the downfall in visitors to the island in recent years.

“Not so long ago the island would be dotted with tents in the summer. Now you don’t see any,” he said. It was a shame. Tourism levels in Ireland have dipped, and Tory has suffered more than most areas.

As we set sail back to the mainland and watched as the King waved enthusiastically until he was just a dot on the pier. I stood at the back as the waves crashed over the edge and the boat rolled from side to side.