{filename} Tory Island, lies 9 miles across a turbulent sound from north western corner of Ireland. A rock, four km long, one wide, on the edge of Europe. The 155 inhabitants have turned their small white houses toward the Donegal coast, but behind them, behind the short grasses and the cliffs, spreads the Atlantic ocean. Patsy Dan Rodgers is the last king of Ireland. And probably one the poorest in the world. Patsy Dan is a king without a crown. Elected by Toryís inhabitants from a sixth century tradition, Patsy is the spokesman of the community, a sort of ambassador who fights for the island. I have worked on the island over period of 7 years including this winter when for days, 140km/h winds and 10 meter waves cut off the island from the rest of the world. More than ever, Tory depends on the mainland. Food comes on the ferry from the mainland. Just like diesel, used for the generator. Only the wind and the Atlantic decide the frequency of deliveries. Even the fish comes from the mainland. Tory fishermen no longer fish. Or almost, lobster isnít as profitable as in the 70s. The curraghs agonize on the grass. A bit further, on a stone wall, a fishing net breathes its last breath. Taken from the sea, covered with grass, it belongs to the landÖ and to the past. It is difficult to retain the youngsters who study on the mainland. Once they have graduated, some come back, others donít.