Walking, Climbing, Falling - Going to the Gap

One of the goals I set for myself in our itinerary for Ireland was going hiking, or hill walking as my friend Nicky McBride calls it.  I selected two rather aggressive hikes, Croagh Patrick and the Purple Tomies Trail in the Gap of Donloe.

We were staying near the Gap in a lovely self catering apartment called Bugler's Cottage.  One morning, two days before my scheduled hike, I woke up early.  So, I thought I would walk up the Gap a little way to take a peek.  My wife was sleeping as I slipped out the door and headed toward the Gap.

Within 100 meters or so I came to an old stone bridge with a gurgling stream flowing beneath it.  I paused a few moments to let the sound flow over me.  It was a such a peaceful morning, with the gurgling stream and the singing birds.  I didn't recognize any of the songs, despite their distinct differences.  They must have been singing in Irish.

Continuing on, I walked pass the famous (also infamous) Kate Kearney's Cottage.  I imagined this was as quiet as it ever gets.  This is the starting point, the hub for everyone who comes to see the Gap.  The parking lot was empty.  The horses and the Jaunting Carts nowhere in sight.  No movement, no lights, no people.  There was just the road, the Gap, the mountains and the clouds.

The peaks on either sight of the Gap were shrouded in a heavy blanket of fog.  I'd rather call them clouds.  But I guess when clouds touch the earth they are technically fog.  I paused for a moment to consider them.  While they seemed to be suspended by strings giving them a weightless appearance,  their thickness, the density of the clouds gave them an apparent weight they did not have.  They looked like they were trying to push the mountains back into the earth from where they came.  But the strength  and the stubbornness of the mountain stood firm, not to be moved.

I'm not sure how long I was standing there, silently considering the clouds and the hills when my ears caught a sound.  It was not the birds or a small stream.  but it was the sound of water, the sound of water falling.  Looking towards the sound, I saw nothing but dense thicket.  Hawthorn, I think.  No water of any kind was visible from the road with no obvious means of getting to the sound.  There was a fence along the side of the road barring my way from seeking the stream.  Finding a place to get through or over of the fence was proving to be a challenge.

Finally, I found where I could get through the fence without disturbing it.  I started walking down the slope toward the sound of rushing waters.  The ground was soggy, with standing water in old animal tracks.  The trees / bushes were close together with branches reaching the ground in many places.  It was hard to determine which was more difficult to maneuver around, the wet turf or pokey branches.

I had been picking my way along, parallel to an ancient stone fence, which ran down the slope as if pointing to my watery quest.  I thought is was worth a try to walk on the top of the stone wall, at least my feet would be dry.  The stones were almost four feet off the ground, a little over a meter.  The top was nearly a meter wide.  At first I thought the stones would be loose and shifty under my feet.  However, the wall was as firm as the road I had walked on earlier.  As I walked along the top of the stone wall I marveled at the sturdiness of the construction that had stood for hundreds of years. Now, all that was left was getting through the branches.

After many minutes, the fence took an abrupt right hand turn.  The sound was louder and dead ahead.  I couldn't see anything due to the interwoven branches of the trees. So, it was time to find my way again, over the boggy ground.  As I made my way down off the wall, I got the eerie feeling I was not alone.  I thought I was being watched.  Was this to be my encounter with ancient fairies?  Was there a leprechaun near by?  There was a mossy primal feel to my surroundings.  Maybe, it was a Hobbit.  I stood as still as I could, listening and looking.  I slowly turned my head as far as I could without moving my body.  I saw nothing.  As I slowly moved my body back to the left, I was startled by the face the peered at me through a small hole in the thick underbrush.  It was the snort that made me jump a little as it came as quickly as the face appeared.  A horse, no two horses, had been watching my progress for who knows how long.

I addressed the horses politely not knowing if they were "attack" or "watch" horses.  As I spoke to them their ears darted forward and back.  They were trying to figure out if they should be upset with this intruder or ignore the idiot bushwhacking through their backyard. They sauntered off in a direction away from the falling water.  The sound was loud now.  I was close.

My first glimpse was the large black boulders appearing as hulking giants.  Smooth and shiny like polished gems they were everywhere, to the right and to the left.  As the water crashed into them, pushing around them and fell off them, its sound harmoniously blended with the water's source.  To my right was a a sheet of water, some 20 feet high falling into the concourse of shiny black rocks.  I stood with my eyes closed for a while listening to all the different water sounds blending into a wondrous symphony.  I wondered, what if I became the conductor for this cascading cantata, as I lead this concert with my waving arms.  I realized this "performance" would continue with or without me.  What a silly man I am, I thought.  Little did I realize then, just how silly I would be in just a few short minutes.

As I looked at the waterfall more intently, it seemed to break over an unusually straight line.  This "line" seemed to be connected to another straight line about 10 meters above the boulders.  On top of this straight line was a square wire fence with metal poles - definitely something man-made going on up there.

My infinite wisdom and lighting quick decision making skills concluded it would be easier to cross the water and the boulders, climb the nearly vertical 10 meter wall of rocks and trees, hop the fence and take whatever the path was there back toward Kate Kearney's Cottage.  Seriously?  Yup!

Finding the place to cross was almost as difficult as finding an opening in the fence up at the road. Each possible traverse point contain injurious and deadly possibilities, to say nothing of a fully clothed bath.  The one track chosen would include certain wetness, slight to moderate potential injury and a generous side dish of discomfort.  In mid-crossing, my mind counted some details that heretofore had been kept from me: 1. My wife has no idea where I am, 2. I have no signal on my cell phone, 3. The horses would be of absolutely no help.  Going back nearly doubled the statistical possibilities for disaster, so I forged ahead.

Completing the crossing with just one damp foot made the crossing an unmitigated success.  Now all I needed to do was scale the 10 meter vertical.  Fortunately, there were significantly sized trees growing out of this rocky wall.  They would provide the necessary equipment needed to scale the "Mt. Everest" before me.  Summoning my inner "Tarzan", I began my tree climbing ascent.

All was going quite well as I got within 3 meters of the fence.  The vertical wall changed into a slight grade with some small shale-like stones mixed in with some football sized rocks. As I stood erect and made my way across this open space my first step revealed that this stony material was very loose, quite unlike the stone wall earlier or boulders 10 meters below. I leaned into the slope slightly so as not to pitch over backward.  As I made my second step, just one meter shy of the goal, the ground under my foot gave way. I went straight to the ground with the ribs on my left side passionately embracing one of the "football" boulders.  In a single instant, I realized I could not breath as I began to slide on my belly, feet first toward the vertical drop off.  Like a cat not willing to take a bath, every appendage worked in overdrive to claw my way to the fence.  If I could just grab the fence, I could then find the oxygen my body was screaming for.  With one last lunge, my fingers caught the bottom wire with a vise-like grip.

Once over the fence, I went to the ground dizzy and gasping for air.  The knife-like pain in my left side kept me from taking the deep breath I needed.  Slowly, the world stopped spinning and air began to seep back into my lungs.  A quick glance at the cell phone confirmed that signal was less available than the oxygen in my chest.  As I worked at trying to stand I looked to remove whatever was embedded in my side.  But further examination revealed nothing protruding.  My eyes were clearing, breathing was moving slowly toward normal but in very small painful doses. I needed to get back to the cottage.

I took some small consolation in being right about what was beyond the fence.  There was a a wide path for some type of vehicle.  It was an easy walk as it paralleled the stream.  Eventually, both were on the same level and a foot bridge was there to cross the stream.  The path lead my into a field right behind Kate Kearney's where my two equine friends greeted me with laughing whinnies.  Well, it was difficult to argue with them.  A quick view of my current state; mud-caked trousers, mud and dirt on the front and back of my jacket, and shoes that looked more like horses hooves than feet.  I imagine I would be laughing too.

But I couldn't; it hurt too much to breathe, let alone laugh.

Final Score:  Gap of Donloe - 1  Mike McGlynn - 0

7 Circles of Hell* - Dante's View of Irish Roundabouts

My biggest concern, my only concern, while planning our trip to Ireland was driving.  Steering from the right hand side of the car while driving on the left hand-side of the road, kept me up a few nights.  I woke up a couple of times in a full body sweat but that may have been more menopause than fear.

As a rule, I avoid traffic circles like the plague.  They just seem to defy logic.  Well at least my logic anyway. In a large metropolitan area near our home, two traffic circles were put into a road we frequently use.  These circles were put in for purely "aesthetic" reasons, not functional ones.  Seriously!  The real dilemma comes when large groups of people try to use them at the same time, who have absolutely zero experience with such an endeavor.

Clearly, this is not the case in Ireland.  Traffic circles or roundabouts have been in use since the early 1500's.  My friend +Neil Jackman , an archaeologist of some repute, has unearthed some early examples of roundabouts.  Specific carbon dating is still pending.  Confirmation is beginning to trickle in from various sources including noted English historian Dr. Monty Python.  Dr. Python states, "Roundabouts are the Holy Grail of the Irish transportation system." Tradition has it that most Irish babies are born in or near roundabouts.  I personally take this as fact, after our trip.  My point is this, every Irish driver has extensive knowledge and experience in the function and use of roundabouts.  I have neither.  I am in trouble!

It really only took me a couple of hours to get comfortable driving.  It took a couple of days to get used to the size of the roads.  It took a couple of Valium with a chaser of Jameson to get to the place of, what I like to call, "roundabout recovery".  For the first week in Ireland, this was an almost daily occurrence.

One of the quaint things about Irish roundabouts is that every one of them is named.  Some farmers do this with their cows or sheep, which seems silly to me as they all look the same.  So too, I found it equally interesting that these circular intersections are named.  The roundabouts are not just "named" by the locals, but actually have a rather significant sign which faces the oncoming traffic (more on Irish road signage another time).  This is excellent for out-of-towners, except the sign is less than a meter off the ground.  This means unless you are the first car at the circle, you don't know which circle it is until you enter it.  This has the undesirable effect of having to make quick decisions and lane selections especially if you are taking the first exit out of the circle.

Our first night in Ireland was going to be spent near Galway.  We landed in Dublin by 8 am local time and were on the road by 10 am.  With a quick stop in Clonmacnoise on the way, we anticipated being in Galway by mid to late afternoon.  A good friend of ours from Dalkey told us it would take a couples of hours to get to Galway and almost that much time to get through Galway due to traffic.  So we were somewhat prepped for traffic difficulty.  But nothing could have prepared us for the Galway Gauntlet.

The Marless House is a lovely B&B in Salthill just west of Galway. Their web site provided excellent verbal and pictorial directions for those who are coming in on the M-6 from Dublin. Once exiting the motorway, we would have to navigate 7 roundabouts to get to our destination.  As my wife read the directions out loud, each named roundabout hit me like a pillowcase filled with rocks.  Though my outer demeanor was stoic and steady, my inner pilot was screaming NOOOOOOOOOOO! Seven?  What is wrong with these people? I steeled myself for the mythological quest which lay before me.  I quickly conjured up the spirit of Jason and his Argonauts to face the 7 sirens that lie ahead in the turbulent roadway waters of Galway roundabouts.  In just two kilometers, the trial would commence.

I entered the Coolough roundabout in the left lane, quite by accident, but was saved by the fact I had to get out at the first exit.  My confidence was artificially buoyed by this "success".  For in short order, I was going to enter the Martin roundabout and would need to take the 3rd exit.  As I entered Martin I got into the inner lane to get to the third exit.  Another car came in alongside me which prevented me from getting to my exit.  Panic flooded my entire being as our revolutions began.  With our third trip around the circle, I thought we had been caught in a swirling vortex like being flushed down a toilet south of the equator.  There was no way out.

It was then that I noticed a group of pedestrians sitting on folding chairs in the grassy center of the roundabout.  I noticed one of the older gentlemen standing up as he pointed in my direction, his finger following my path round the grassy circle.  Others began to rise and look as we circled them yet again.  With each subsequent revolution, I began to feel like I was in a Sartre play as their shouts turned into cheers and applauds. I found out later it is the habit of many of the locals to sit and wait for the appearance of a driver from the States.  When a foreign driver is caught in a roundabout it is an entertainment event which rivals local soccer matches.  It was then that I rolled down the window waved to my adoring fans, turned sharply and made it out the third exit.

Five more roundabouts lie ahead and each requiring that I take the second exit. Skeritt and Joyce were slightly easier to traverse as traffic eased a bit.  Bodkin and Browne had heavy traffic coming from the first and third exits.  My entry would be a death-defying feat requiring NASCAR-like skill, timing, and shear dumb luck.  It would be on this occasion I would hear my wife cry out to a heavenly deity.  With one last roundabout, Deane, I will have completed my journey of the 7 Circles of Hell.  I snugged my seat belt, adjusted my glasses, flex my fingers for a firmer grip on the wheel and prepared for the worst.

It was as if something mystical happened.  As we got to the roundabout, traffic seemed to vanished from sight.  All pedestrians, all cars must have been caught up in some apocalyptic rapture, for they were no more.  The car was suddenly moving in slow motion.  I heard each bead of perspiration as it came out of my pours and clung to my skin.  My breathing slowed and deepened.  My lips pursed to allow the oxygen to escape my lungs in one long slow breath.  It was like a movie dream sequence which is shattered by a violent crash, as the unseen truck to appears and crushes the car to pieces.  My vision started to slowly darken from the outer edges towards the middle until all went black.

I remember my wife calling my name as light began to stream back into my eyes.  My first sight was my hands still clinging to the wheel.  As I became more conscious of my wife's words, She kept saying we're here.  We made it. Come on let's get out of the car.  As I looked around, we were safely in the parking area of the Marless House.  My hands released the wheel and my arms fell limp to the sides of my legs.  My head drooped forward as my shoulders slumped.  It was then that I issued a silent thank you.

I had been baptized by fire.  I had been christened by adversity.  I had gotten past the Sirens. I had made it through the 7 circles.  I had conquered the Gauntlet.  I was Lord of the Roundabout!

*To all you Dante aficionados, I know it was actually 9 circles of hell but 7 has better numeric symbolism and it fit the story better as there were 7 roundabouts.  My deepest apologies, Mr. Dante.

Waiting and Mulling: Godot and The Book of Kells

One of the top five things on our list to see in Ireland was the Book of Kells at Trinity College in Dublin.  We sauntered over about 10:30 on a Monday morning.  The line (or queue) was wrapped three quarters the way around the grassy quad which is in front of the Old Library.  Nope, not standing in line 2+ hours.  We needed a plan.  Two days later at 9 am, we were first in line with a mere thirty minute wait for the doors to open.  At 9:30 when the doors opened, the queue was almost half way around the quad.

Once inside, we found ourselves passing through a corner of the gift/book store into the "outer room".  This room contained large photographs of various pages of the books, as well as numerous explanations of the origin and history of the books which make up the "Kells".  The displays were beautiful and informative.  This room also serves as a "holding" room until the group is of sufficient size to go into the actual book viewing room.

When we entered the viewing room, there was a large table case over to the right hand side of the room.  It was glass covered and slightly illuminated.  In the case were some of the books which make up the "Kell collection".  They were carefully held open to various pages.  The books were a range of sizes.  The smaller the book, the smaller the calligraphy or printing on the page.  How could anyone do that without an ink-jet printer, let alone a quill, ink and sheep-skin?!? Only my bifocals allowed me to be impressed by the beautiful precision of these tiny letters.

But, overall, I have to admit I was slightly underwhelmed.  With apologies to all my history-loving-pals and my new Ireland friends, I am so glad I didn't wait two plus hours to see them.  I was more astonished by the stone carvings of Loughcrew and Newgrange.  I was awestruck by the clerical robes at the Waterford Museum of Treasures.  However, my feelings do not in any way diminish the significance of the Kells.  Their preservation and place in history is significant.  I guess I really didn't know what to expect.  All I know is my reaction was not what I thought it would be. I was more jazzed by the 1953 prompt copy of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot in the Long Room upstairs.

In a review of the 1956 New York production of Waiting for Godot, Brooks Atkinson writes,

"Since 'Waiting for Godot' is an allegory written in a heartless modern tone, a theatre-goer naturally rummages through the performance in search of a meaning. It seems fairly certain that Godot stands for God. Those who are loitering by the withered tree are waiting for salvation, which never comes.The rest of the symbolism is more elusive. But it is not a pose. For Mr. Beckett's drama adumbrates--rather than expresses--an attitude toward man's experience on earth; the pathos, cruelty, comradeship, hope, corruption, filthiness and wonder of human existence. Faith in God has almost vanished. But there is still an illusion of faith flickering around the edges of the drama. It is as though Mr. Beckett sees very little reason for clutching at faith, but is unable to relinquish it entirely."

While I gazed upon the copy of Waiting for Godot... waiting... I started to think of something I saw in the outer room of the Kells display. Over in the corner, not is a very prominent place, and not in a way that would draw attention to itself, was a picture display of a small book the Gospels.  It was very small, that in and of itself is a wonder, easily carried in one hand.  But it was the title that captured my eye.  A quick glance might lead someone to think it was a recipe book for mixing wine and spices.  But the full title cleared that up quickly, "The Mulling Book - A pocket version of the Gospels".

Maybe the monks had it right.  Just maybe, these ancient texts are for mulling.  Mulling is a process in which one slowly heats up wine or cider and slowly adds spices or sweetener to the heated liquid to create something new and different.  One can see how the word for this process became a figurative term in literature meaning to think deeply and at length about a matter.  If these sacred books were "mulled", is it possible they might take on a sweeter taste?  Is it possible if we "mull" these texts that the "spices" might make for a more diverse, interesting, and savory flavors?

The difficulty is not the text itself but what we bring to the mulling of the text.  I'm afraid that the Gospels have become just books of doctrine, or just books of law or just books of pseudo-sacred-science.  Are they prescriptive or descriptive?  Or maybe the better question is, as individuals, which do we need them to be?  They seem to have become the object of scientific deliberation and less about faith stimulating consideration.  And is not faith the very spice the Gospels seek to mix into the life of the reader?  The science of hermeneutics becomes a chief end rather than any "culinary" considerations of life flavoring, a dash of St. Mark, a cup of St. John.  There are too many examples in recent memory in which sacred writings have become a  more like a egg whip or potato masher to be used on those you do not comply to the "truths" contained; rather than, a simmering pan of delicious aromas filling the entire house.

Is it possible that like in Beckett's play, the Gospels have become the barren / withered tree which has no fruit for the hungry?  Has faith been pushed to the edges of life because the tree has been effectively denuded by making dogmatic what was made to be considered and re-considered, mulled if you will with the spices of each ensuing generation?  Like Atkinson observed of Beckett, somehow it doesn't seem right to let faith escape the scene altogether, but the forces that seem to be pushing it to the edges have lost the wonderment of the text that the monks sought to preserve.

Maybe we should mull that over a little bit more.  Could someone pass the wine?

The Sacred and the Scared - Part 3

Two very different places, Croagh Patrick and Kylemore Abbey Cathedral.  Two very different experiences, minutes of quiet peace and hours of torturous danger.  Two different words, sacred and scared.  How do these things related to each other?  Do they have anything in common?  Are they nothing more than two places, two thoughts and two words arbitrarily thrown together by a raving cathedral-visiting-hill-climbing-lunatic?  We'll see. You can decide.

In my recent trip to Ireland, I was struck by the deep spirituality which is an integral part of Irish history and culture.  When visiting places like Loughcrew, Knowth, or Newgrange, one cannot help but see indicators of  some type of neolithic belief in life after death.  The Hill of Tara gives evidence of a strong connection between the invisible and visible worlds.  St. Patrick comes onto the scene with his Roman view of spirituality which impacts both secular and religious spheres, while Clonmacnoise reveals the further formalization of a  systematic understanding of things eternal.

A small caveat here: when I use the term "spiritual" I am speaking about things eternal and super-natural.  By super-natural, I mean, outside or "above" the natural order of things, what we see, hear, taste, smell, and touch.  I guess "metaphysical" fits here but it is a $10.00 word. I am much more comfortable with most words under $5.00.  They fit my budget better.  When I use the term "religious" or "religion", I am referring to humanity's systematization (thought) and rituals (practice) of trying to understand or interact with the spiritual realm or metaphysical plane.

What does this have to do with two very popular tourist sites?  I think these sites represent people's approach to connecting with what some might call the "divine" or "spiritual".

Sometimes it seems more "natural" for some to seek the spiritual in a place like cathedral.  This seems to be the normal response to a "Religiously" trained mind, which says this is the place to seek what is "other" or "eternal".  Like the Jews of ancient time, the "temple" is the "dwelling place of the Name".  This concept  of "temple-dwelling-deity" has carried over figuratively, and in some cases literally, into other religions.

While others believe it is more "natural" to seek the spiritual in nature.  Thus making places like Croagh Patrick the focus of pilgrimage no matter how daunting or difficult.  In some cases, the more difficult it is the more "holy" or sacred it seems to become.  This connection with nature has caused some to espouse the notion "nature is my religion".  This is a  quote I discovered while hiking on an a remote island in the Great Lakes area of the States.  If I am reading the ancient texts of Christianity correctly, this idea is affirmed by the Apostle Paul when he declares what may be known about the character and qualities of God is apparent and obvious from nature.

Irish philosopher and writer, John O'Donohue says, "The Celtic mind was neither discursive nor systematic.  Yet in their lyrical speculation, the Celts brought the sublime unity of life and experience to expression.  The Celtic mind was not burdened by dualism.  It did not separate what belongs together.  The Celtic imagination articulates the inner friendship that embraces Nature, divinity, underworld, and human world as one. The dualism that separates the visible from invisible, time from eternity, the human from the divine was totally alien to them.  Their sense of ontological friendship yielded a world of experience imbued with a rich texture of otherness, ambivalence, symbolism, and imagination.  For our sore and tormented separation, the possibility of this imaginative and unifying friendship is the Celtic gift."                                 From, Anam Cara - A Book of Celtic Wisdom

I believe that the sacred and the scared, the Kylemore and the Croagh, the cathedral and the mountain must be struck as two different sides of the same coin.  There may seem to be a tension between these apparently polar opposites.  However, a more holistic, fuller life may be lived by joining together the very things our modern mind and culture have labored to separated.

The raw unfiltered demands of scaling a mountain seems appropriate to experience the divine.  The roaring wind and pounding hail, endless rocks and bone-wearying exertion seem to fit a Moses-like experience of an audience with the Eternal Other.  The herculean effort makes sense to achieve entrance into another plane of experience.  However, there are no barriers.  There are no controls.  There are no safety zones.  There is no shelter.  This is what makes one scared.  One must deal with one's fears on the mountain.  It is that fear that keeps us away from the mountain.  It is that fear that makes it "Other".  It is what it is.  You must take it as it is.  You must take it as it comes.  The only thing between you and the divine, in this scenario, is your clothing.  Very clearly, you are not in-charge here.

To enter the cathedral one merely opens the door.  Be the door large or small, the effort is virtually the same.  The effort to enter the presence of the divine in this venue is a walk, a twist, and a push.  So simple, so easy, a child could do it.  No special training or preparation is required.  All of the effort came centuries before in the chiseling and the carrying, in the measuring and the mortaring,  in the sweat and the blood.  It was other's efforts that made this approach so easy.  We enter this human made sanctuary which provides the shelter from nature's upheavals and extremes.  It holds back the hail and the rain.  It stops the cold of the wind and the heat of the sun.  It pushes back the pain, for it is a house deigned and built by love.  And love makes an audience with the eternal easier and more palatable for the masses.  Some might say, it was a better marketing strategy than the mountain.  For love clothes the eternal in a beauty that reverberates in our souls.

The barriers are in place.  The safety zone wide. Security is at a premium here. And yet to enter this sacred place, to step into this type of quiet is, in fact, disquieting to our souls.  The fear on the mountain has been replace by discomfort.  One is unsettled first before one comes to peace.  The beauty and dignity of this human construction seems appropriate somehow to clothe the presence of the Other.  It seems when everything is held at bay, one's soul is exposed.  When the distractions are stripped away, the nakedness of our soul, and possibly the poverty of our spirits, seem evident to the world as well as to us.  As if we were an Emperor, whose wondrous fashions have been declared null and void by a small child.

Both places, both extremes, help us, maybe even compel us towards the starting line of understanding.  The search for the eternal, the divine must begin somewhere.  The soul is the great resonator of all things super-natural, for the soul itself is eternal. The soul also helps us to see what is behind or "under" the natural as well.  Rightly held together, we discover a much larger world in which to live.  It is this fuller, richer life that Celtic Wisdom understood long ago.

So I would encourage us, me really, to climb the mountain (done that), enter the cathedral (done that), and discover the unfathomable riches that all of life, both natural and super-natural has for us (working on that).

The Sacred and the Scared - Part 2

Croagh Patrick

As I pulled into the parking lot, there were no other cars.  Is it possible?  Do I have Croagh Patrick to myself?  Is it just me and the mountain?  Wow!

I got my backpack and walking stick out of the car and made my way to the beginning of the trail behind the Welcome Center.  Little did I realize, the parking lot was the last patch of level ground I would see until the summit. (Note: parking lot has slight slope toward the road, so even that is up hill.)  The weather was grey and overcast with small openings in the canopy.  At least the clouds were high enough today so I could see the summit.

St. Patrick in front of his mountain

There are 4 distinct stages to get to the top of Croagh Patrick, the field, the approach, the pass, and the ascent.  After passing the statue of St. Patrick, you enter the field portion of the trail.  You must make sure to close the gate behind you so the sheep don't get out.  The trail follows a picturesque stream on the right hand side of the trail.  It is beautiful, if you stop to look.  One cannot readily look about as one walks, surety of step is important to staying upright on the trail.  The view ahead is daunting, it just keeps going up and up and up...

As one enters the approach, you get a taste, just a taste, of what is to come.  Rocks of every size and shape imaginable.  There are little glimpses of "trail-like" spaces here and there.  However, the the trail's upward angle ranges from 30 to 45 degrees at various points.  It was on the "approach" that I caught a glimpse of a person coming down the upper section.  First disappointment, I was not alone. I was not the first today.

Looking down the approach

It was at that moment I looked back towards Clew Bay and noticed some menacing clouds coming fast.  I was on the steep part of the approach when the wind hit. There was no place to take cover.  I thought at times the wind would tear my clothes off as it grew in intensity.  Then, the hail came.  Small flecks at first which melted quickly on my pants and coat. Larger hail, the size of BBs soon followed.  The back of my legs and hands stung with each pellet as it landed, like thousands of bees attacking at once.  It felt as thought the wind was driving the hail through the layers of my clothes and penetrating the skin beneath.  The melting hail on my pants became a small stream of water running down my legs into my boots where is slowly began to collect. There was no choice but to continue, for there was no shelter from the assault.

Hail on the mountain

As I reached the pass, the hail began to subsided.  However, the deep crevasse to my right between the two peaks acted as a funnel, gathering the wind and focusing its might at the low point of the pass.  The wind had been at my back.  But, turning to right to cross the pass put me perpendicular to it.  With one gust, my feet started to slide as the wind pushed me across the trail.  The only thing to do was to drop down and reduce my sail area.  Keeping low, I made my way behind a large outcropping of rock.  This was my first respite from the wind.

At this point, the conversation in my head went something like this... "Are you out of your mind??  What are doing up here??  As beautiful as the valley is behind the peak, I would rather not land in it after being blown off the mountain."  As I looked at the ascent, this was decision time.  Do I go on?  Can I go on?  I have to.  I must complete this journey. The wind was easing a bit, so I set out for the ascent. It's ironic that as you cross the pass you actually go down a bit in order to go up the ascent.  It is almost like a cruel joke.

The ascent is a trail of rocks; rocks upon rocks  It is as if a monstrous dump truck of gravel emptied its load from the summit on what was a trail. However, the gravel is generally the size of your head or fist.  It is very difficult to find a flat or even level place for your feet.  Couple the layers of rocks with the angle of incline (40 to 50 degrees) and you have a torturous climb.  The one plus of the ascent is a raised ridge which creates a wind block.

St. Patrick's Bed

As you crest onto the summit, there are various make shift shelters to your left.  The chapel is straight ahead. Patrick's sleeping place to your right.  As well as various memorial cairns to the far right.  The sun was beginning to break through the clouds, but the wind was still formidable.  At one point, albeit momentarily, the summit was completely encased in cloud. This vaporous shroud lifted more slowly than it came.

Eastern end of Clew Bay

I sought shelter from the wind on the back side of the chapel.  I was able to remove my backpack and coat and sit on a flat surface while I ate my lunch. The view from the summit is quite spectacular.  Clew bay with its 365 islands lays at your feet like beautiful Persian rug.  Each island meticulously, stitched into the azure blue background.  Behind me, on the leeward side of the summit, was an inviting valley.  It's patchwork of luscious green fields illuminated by growing areas of sunshine gave it more varieties of green than Crayola has yet to imagine for their crayons.  Houses and barns are sprinkled about, but it is the ever changing patterns of small white dots on the green background which captures one's attention.  Like miniature Rorschach tests, arrangements ebb and flow one into the next as the different flocks of sheep move about.

My original goal was to spend one minute for every day St. Patrick spent on the summit.  Tradition has it, he spent 40 days and 40 nights at the peak.  I was there about an hour, a much needed recovery time.  It was then I had the mountain to myself.

People headed for the ascent

Climbing up Croagh Patrick is a challenge.  Climbing down is even more demanding.  My biggest problem going up was oxygen.  More specifically the lack of oxygen required by out of shape, over-weight, 57 year old males.  Climbing down required less oxygen as gravity is working with you. Nevertheless, the fear of falling forward down the mountain requires more of your legs and less of your lungs.  Half way down the ascent, I noticed the uncontrollable shaking of my legs.  This required frequent stops and the massaging of my leg spasms. This would be a oft repeated ritual all the way down the mountain.

As I reached the parking lot, I sat for what seemed to be an hour and stared at the mountain.  Never before in my life have I attempted something as physically demanding and mentally challenging.  It is something I will remember forever.