June 13 In St.Patrick’s footsteps
On Thursday, I climbed one of Ireland’s most famous mountains: Croagh Patrick, near Westport in County Mayo, known familiarly as “The Reek”. On its summit, Ireland’s patron saint spent 40 days fasting, praying and throwing the country’s entire population of snakes to their deaths, back in the year 441. It is a proper mountain, with a peak shaped like a rocket’s nose-cone, but at only 2,500 feet, I wasn’t expecting it to be too much of a challenge.
On Thursday, I climbed one of Ireland’s most famous mountains: Croagh Patrick, near Westport in County Mayo, known familiarly as “The Reek”. On its summit, Ireland’s patron saint spent 40 days fasting, praying and throwing the country’s entire population of snakes to their deaths, back in the year 441. It is a proper mountain, with a peak shaped like a rocket’s nose-cone, but at only 2,500 feet, I wasn’t expecting it to be too much of a challenge.
The Reek -an exhausting climb.......
How wrong can you be? It turned out to be by far the most exhausting climb I’ve ever made – far more difficult than Mount Brandon, Ireland’s second highest mountain, down in Dingle. The way up consists of a broad, deeply rutted, boulder-strewn avenue of scree, which becomes almost vertical on the final ascent to the summit. It was hard to say which was the more painful: the going up or the coming down. I’ve got two dodgy knees, and by the time I reached the bottom – with, Oh, such a heartfelt sigh of relief – I didn’t know which leg to limp on.
Yet this is a mountain climbed by hundreds of people every day, and by over 20,000 in a single day when Mass is celebrated on the summit, on the last Sunday in July. It must be the cause of more voluntarily embraced suffering than any other place in the British Isles. And for why? Because most of those who climb it aren’t merely tourists, they are pilgrims. This is a holy mountain, which attracts devout Catholics not just from all over Ireland, but from all over the world. I met one lady who was doing it barefoot, in honour of the Saint. She had painted the soles of her feet with tar, but even so, it must have been excruciating.
There is an Oratory on the summit. I reached it just as the clouds rolled in, blotting out what I’m sure would have been a spectacular view of Clew Bay and the mountains beyond. I’m afraid I didn’t walk around the chapel three times, saying my Hail Marys. My grandfather, a fiercely anti-Papist Baptist Minister, would never have forgiven me. But I did take myself off to a respectful distance before opening the can of Inch’s cider that I’d thoughtfully brought with me to celebrate the moment.
How wrong can you be? It turned out to be by far the most exhausting climb I’ve ever made – far more difficult than Mount Brandon, Ireland’s second highest mountain, down in Dingle. The way up consists of a broad, deeply rutted, boulder-strewn avenue of scree, which becomes almost vertical on the final ascent to the summit. It was hard to say which was the more painful: the going up or the coming down. I’ve got two dodgy knees, and by the time I reached the bottom – with, Oh, such a heartfelt sigh of relief – I didn’t know which leg to limp on.
Yet this is a mountain climbed by hundreds of people every day, and by over 20,000 in a single day when Mass is celebrated on the summit, on the last Sunday in July. It must be the cause of more voluntarily embraced suffering than any other place in the British Isles. And for why? Because most of those who climb it aren’t merely tourists, they are pilgrims. This is a holy mountain, which attracts devout Catholics not just from all over Ireland, but from all over the world. I met one lady who was doing it barefoot, in honour of the Saint. She had painted the soles of her feet with tar, but even so, it must have been excruciating.
There is an Oratory on the summit. I reached it just as the clouds rolled in, blotting out what I’m sure would have been a spectacular view of Clew Bay and the mountains beyond. I’m afraid I didn’t walk around the chapel three times, saying my Hail Marys. My grandfather, a fiercely anti-Papist Baptist Minister, would never have forgiven me. But I did take myself off to a respectful distance before opening the can of Inch’s cider that I’d thoughtfully brought with me to celebrate the moment.
....with its due reward!
Then it was off through the mountains and lakes of Connemara to the Renvyle Peninsula. The landscape was strongly reminiscent of Scotland, but it somehow lacks the majesty - the grandeur - of the lochs and bens. The west of Ireland is rough, ragged, hairy-arsed country – a bit like the people who inhabit it. The village of Tully, where I stayed last night, has the most beautiful setting that could be imagined. It also has two of the most downright unpleasant “pubs” it has ever been my misfortune to visit. Both were populated by drunken, swearing locals. I don’t much like the F word in any circumstances, but it sounds particularly nasty and brutish, when delivered frequently and indiscriminately, almost as a punctuation mark, in a thick Irish accent.
That said, if there is one campsite that I would recommend to any reader planning a camping holiday in the West of Ireland, it is Renvyle Camping. The site leads directly onto a beautiful beach and offers the most wonderful panorama of mountains, from Slievemore, on Achill, through the Nephin Begg range in Mayo, past my old friend The Reek, to the Twelve Bens of Connemara, which were so forbidding that even St. Patrick gave them his blessing and passed on his way.
Now I have reached Doolin in County Clare, with the remarkable limestone pavement of The Burren behind me and the Cliffs of Moher in front. Clare is undoubtedly the place to be, with my wife Claire due to arrive from Shannon airport any minute. “Keep Clare Clean”, demanded a billboard as I crossed the county boundary. I shall do my best!
In the meantime, and reverting to the religious theme, I will leave you with a house in Doolin, which I guess must be owned by an ex-Catholic, who has seen the non- conformist light. It is called “Dunroman”!
PS – see previous comments on likely outcome and significance of referendums
Then it was off through the mountains and lakes of Connemara to the Renvyle Peninsula. The landscape was strongly reminiscent of Scotland, but it somehow lacks the majesty - the grandeur - of the lochs and bens. The west of Ireland is rough, ragged, hairy-arsed country – a bit like the people who inhabit it. The village of Tully, where I stayed last night, has the most beautiful setting that could be imagined. It also has two of the most downright unpleasant “pubs” it has ever been my misfortune to visit. Both were populated by drunken, swearing locals. I don’t much like the F word in any circumstances, but it sounds particularly nasty and brutish, when delivered frequently and indiscriminately, almost as a punctuation mark, in a thick Irish accent.
That said, if there is one campsite that I would recommend to any reader planning a camping holiday in the West of Ireland, it is Renvyle Camping. The site leads directly onto a beautiful beach and offers the most wonderful panorama of mountains, from Slievemore, on Achill, through the Nephin Begg range in Mayo, past my old friend The Reek, to the Twelve Bens of Connemara, which were so forbidding that even St. Patrick gave them his blessing and passed on his way.
Now I have reached Doolin in County Clare, with the remarkable limestone pavement of The Burren behind me and the Cliffs of Moher in front. Clare is undoubtedly the place to be, with my wife Claire due to arrive from Shannon airport any minute. “Keep Clare Clean”, demanded a billboard as I crossed the county boundary. I shall do my best!
In the meantime, and reverting to the religious theme, I will leave you with a house in Doolin, which I guess must be owned by an ex-Catholic, who has seen the non- conformist light. It is called “Dunroman”!
PS – see previous comments on likely outcome and significance of referendums
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