WELCOME to Hare Krishna Island, population: six people who've devoted themselves to a life of worship, a dog (Kali das), a few cats, more than a few peacocks and an undefined number of wild deer and hare.

Access to the 17-acre island in Co Fermanagh is via a pre-arranged ferry, which glides along the peaceful surroundings of Lough Erne before arriving at the shore that's lined with trees, obscuring the temple it hosts.

The call of what I later discover to be the peacocks echoes across the island, joining the clumsy schloop of the water as the only noise to be heard.

Like with many remote locations, there's not a soul to be seen, nor any sign that the economic boom happened. It's no surprise that the tranquil Hare Krishna Island is the religion's spiritual home in Ireland.

Those familiar with its business centre of the three Dublin Govinda restaurants will know the distinctive odour inside the island's manor - Govindadwipa, to give it its proper name. Not quite incense, not quite food, but a mixture of the two. Its strong sensory impression means it's in the firing line - along with their saffron-coloured togas, forehead paint and distinctive hairstyle - as the reasons the religion, in fact an offshoot of Hinduism, is sometimes lumped with the Church Of Scientology and viewed as the four-letter c word (that's 'cult').

And let's face it, the practices don't do any favours for their PR campaign, with their chanting of the Hare Krishna mantra (called the Harinam) in Temple Bar on new year's eve featuring a full band that attracts the maximum amount of attention from the worse-for-wear revellers. Nor on Oxford Street in London two days before Christmas in 2005, when five devotees were arrested for causing an obstruction on the busy shopping streets where they were being given a wide berth.

That said, it's this ability to remain high-profile that inflates the public perception of their membership, aided by celebrity supporters like Russell Brand, Boy George and George Harrison (as well as anybody who goes to Glastonbury and lives on their free food after spending all their money in the first three hours). In fact, the movement has just one million devotees globally; 350 of these are in Ireland, a figure which has remained constant since the religion first came over in the 1970s.

"There was a lot of ignorance in those days, " recalls Isani (pronounced Ish-a-nee), the wife of the temple's president, as she shows me into the monastery. "They thought we just ran around in orange bedsheets with paint on our head. Gradually, people have become more educated, especially in Dublin where they've had to accept plenty more different cultures. We're being taken seriously as a religion now."

After joining the Krishna Consciousness movement in her 20s, Isani soon met Manu (legal name: Martin Davis. Spiritual names are given to devotees by their guru, suffixed with either 'das' or 'desi', meaning 'servant').

Now, they have two teenage children who attend their local, mixed school with a handful of other devotee children.

"I didn't feel it necessary to live in the monastery itself, " he says of his family's decision once he became president in 1992. "The retreat is useful for those who live a renounced life - it's a quiet place with few distractions - while the families can live on the mainland, getting on with raising their families."

"Plus, " he grins, "I wouldn't want to disturb everyone with the arguments that myself and Isani get into all the time."

Instead, they reside on the Hare Krishnaowned part of the mainland, which totals 30 acres. Altogether, the site cost the society �200,000 in the mid-'80s, a figure brought right down because of the Troubles and its position near the border.

Quite fittingly, there's nothing to indicate anything but unadulterated peace. Inside, it's as eerily quiet as it is outside. I've been warned that today is even more subdued than usual. Two of its inhabitants have gone to the hospital (nothing to worry about) and one has recently left Inis Rath Island, as it's known to Ordance surveyors, to go back home.

The late comedian Bill Hicks said Hare Krishnas were "the world's fifth largest army" - and he was right. Rivalling the make-up of the United Nations, residents come from Germany, the UK, India, Bulgaria and Moldova. Not that I could even point the latter out on a map.

"It's in between Russia and the Ukraine, " informs its native, Yashoda, when I find him at the back of the house chopping wood.

Don't get me wrong, he has a wife - and even if he didn't there's a large chance he'd have taken a vow of celibacy - but at 39, the man is a walking, talking advert for how the vegetarian diet and inner peace does wonders for your youthful looks. Not that he would care about such material things.

Formerly a sportsman and then a gym teacher, he converted 16 years ago, he explains in broken English: "I was temple president in Maldova for 14 years. There is a big community there - at festivals, 600 or so devotees come. I move here because I had done all I could for my temple and my astrologist tells me I was from Ireland in my former life."

His wife is busy writing menus for a forthcoming festival, which they expect over 100 people to attend. And eat their food.

On a daily basis, it's Syamamayi devi das who cooks for the island's inhabitants. A mother of two, she spends her days in the temple praying and preparing lunch - a lacto-vegetarian diet of traditional Indian food that she learned how to make by herself.

Then there's Annika Nolke from Germany, who creates the garlands that are draped around the neck of the statues that are worshipped.

Paratmana Hari, meanwhile, comes from the place that Krishna Consciousness was first conceived in 1966: Calcutta in India. But he moved here a year ago. Isani explains that, of the current intake, he's been here the longest. For most, Inis Rath Island is a place to pass through for a period of uniterrupted worship. "There's absolutely nothing else to do here, " she sympathises. "Most people can only stand the seclusion for so long."

Even Paratmana concedes he finds it "boring" compared to Calcutta - especially because of the long days.

"There's a service at 4.30am so, in order to prepare, one person wakes up at 2.30am, and the rest at 4am every single morning, " Manu explains.

The day's work revolves around the statues of Govinda and Rada that reside in the worship room. The deities are treated as if they were real gods: the only heater that's working on this nippy afternoon in early spring is the one next to the statues. You can't, if you can help it, have your back to them, nor can you touch them unless you're freshly bathed. You can't even go into the adjacent room which houses their dozens of outfits without being clean (and for women that involves not having your period). Food that eventually becomes the devotee's meal is offered to the gods to 'eat' first during the service, something which prompted an amusing conversation, between Paratmana's bad English and our photographer's literal interpretation ("They eat the food?" "Yes."

"They eat the food?" "Yes").

It takes at least a couple of hours to see through a service, called an aarti, of which there are seven in a day. The timing is such that once one is complete, it's almost time to start another - though there's no rest for the holy. Whatever they're doing, whether they're walking around the tranquil grounds, tending to the vegetables that they grow organically or in the presence of a conversation lull, they'll mutter prayers under their breath. It's disconcerting, but a constant reminder of how dedicated they are to their beliefs - as if their communal living style didn't give that one away.

That's not to say that such extreme belief as found on the island is common; many Hare Krishnas are integrated in society.

Manu, in fact, is starting up a non-related art gallery as his own business venture, although like a tithe, he gives a proportion of the income to the island's upkeep. Yet, in such a holy and righteous environment, the impression is that such practical issues are almost frowned upon: the philosophy of the religion is geared towards important matters like spiritual well-being and understanding your inner soul, not trying to get a better salary than Brian in accounting because you've been there for longer. But talking to Isani, it transpires that innate human characteristics aren't ignored.

"You can be completely strict about choosing spirituality over superficiality, but even the Lord Krishna is pictured draped with gold, " she's happy to admit.

So, I ask, do you take time out for yourself?

Go to the cinema, for example?

"I don't go to the cinema because that's not really my thing, " she says. "But I go to the gym in Lisnaskea or Cavan; that's what I like doing. I use the sauna and steam room."

But Isani has the benefit of being a 'mainlander'. I wonder about Annike. At just 21, she's day-in and day-out on an island with no one her own age, living a single-issue life, unable to experience the ups and downs of life that build a strong character.

"I am happy with my life, " she assures me in her strong German accent. "When my family moved out of the temple, I did what my friends would do for over a year-and-ahalf. I tried to enjoy my life. I went out, I smoked, everything. But I had the feeling that it was better to go back to my religion. I always knew that I wanted to be a devotee, but not just then. Eventually, one day, I saw about a second of some Hare Krishnas in a film and I felt that to be a sign that I should rejoin."

Once the evening service at 6.30pm is complete, mainlanders are ferried back before it gets dark, while islanders have their evening meal and prepare for bed straight after the 8.30pm service, ready to start their tranquil worship all over again at the (surely ungodly) hour of 4am. And of all the routines and practices I've seen today, that's the one I have the most trouble comprehending.