Round Ireland in Low Gear (29 page)

Here, I was treated to a fine technical discourse from the barman on the subject of comparative Irish and English whisky prices:
‘And wat you get over dere, two English nips, at 75p English a nip, each nip’s a sixth of a gill, dat’s a third of a gill at £1.50, and wat’s more it comes outta litre bartle sploiced wid watter so dat de feller workin’ de tap and fillin’ it up is gettin’ 68 nips fram a battle. Whereas, over here in Westport you’re gettin’ two Oirish tots, dat’s quarter a gill each, at £1 Oirish a tot, dat’s £2 Oirish half a gill, but we’re not sploicing it.’

Like the morning’s storm this rumbled on and on until I was thoroughly mixed up with English nips and Oirish tots and gills and Oirish pounds, and like the storm it, too, gave me a headache.

The next day was beautiful, everything rain-washed and crystal clear, and having ascertained from the proprietress after a good breakfast that it was four miles to Murrisk at the foot of Croagh Patrick, the Holy Mountain; from the waitress that it was eight miles; and from a man cleaning up in the bar that it was between seven and nine miles, I measured it and found that it was six. Westport was nice, a very civilized place with an almost continental air to it. A little river enclosed by low walls, and shaded by lime trees, runs down the middle of the Mall and from it through the demesne of Westport House.

Down at Westport Quay was a port that reached the height of its importance in the transatlantic trade, and was killed off by the Famine and the introduction of the railways. Even on such a morning as this its tall, deserted warehouses and quays contrived to have an air of almost unbearable Irish melancholy, which the arcadian demesne of the great house behind it, with its groves and waterfalls and pretty church, did their best to dispel. Built by Richard Castle with additions by James Wyatt, it will become yet another Irish ruin if the present heirs fail in their valiant attempt to keep it going.

Every pilgrim who ascends the mountain on St Patrick’s Day, or within the octave, or any time during the months of June, July, August and September, and PRAYS IN OR NEAR THE CHAPEL for the intentions of our Holy Father the Pope may gain a plenary Indulgence on condition of going to Confession and Holy Communion on the Summit or within the week.

From the Notice to Pilgrims at the foot of Croagh Patrick
At Murrisk, on the coast road from Westport to Louisburg, I left my bike behind Campbell’s pub, above which, at present invisible in mist, the quartzite cone of Ireland’s most holy mountain, otherwise known as ‘The Reek’, rises from sea level in Clew Bay to 2150 feet in a horizontal mile and three quarters. Here, I bought a supply of fruit and nut chocolate, filled one of the bottles off the bike with water and bought a pamphlet from old Mrs Campbell, entitled
Croagh Patrick, The Mount Sinai of Ireland
, by F. P. Carey, an irresistible title if ever there was one, which cost 20p Irish. Published by the
Irish Messenger
, it contained powerful endorsements: A
Nihil Obstat
(No Objection) from Gulielmus Dargan, S. J. Censor Theol. Deput., and an
Imprimi Potest
(You Can Print It) from Joannes Carolus, Archiep. Dublinem, Hiberniae Primas, which put the book on pretty sound ground, theologically speaking.

The last time I had climbed Croagh Patrick had been in 1966, the year we had gone to the Aran Islands. Then, two of us had done it in an hour; but to do this meant reaching the saddle at the foot of the summit cone in thirty minutes. For it is at the far western end of this saddle, at the foot of the cone, that the pilgrim’s troubles really begin.

I was by now in fairly good condition after all this biking and I decided to try for the top in an hour again, something Wanda would have forbidden, had she been present.

I left at eleven in brilliant sunshine under a cloudless sky. Only the summit had a wig of white vapour firmly clamped on it, against which the gleaming white statue of St Patrick, where the climb begins, loomed dramatically. From here to the saddle the track through the heather was channelled and eroded by rain and the feet of innumerable pilgrims, and full of stones. To the right was the deep, dark combe known as Log na nDeamhan which runs up to the precipitous north-east face of the mountain, into which a horde of demons who were bothering the Saint were cast by divine intervention. Soon after I set off I overtook a very fragile, elderly man who looked as if he was taking his first steps after a long illness, accompanied by what appeared to be his wife and daughter. Supporting himself with two sticks, he was climbing the mountain barefoot with infinite slowness; he had obviously spurned the help of his companions.

On this section, the last part of which is pretty steep, I passed six more people, including a woman with two children of about six and eight. All of us, with the exception of the barefooted man, whom the Almighty appeared to spare this further discomfort, were assailed by a sort of yellowish green horsefly which flourished here in large numbers.

I got to the eastern end of the saddle five minutes late, at 11.35. This is the place where Tochar Phadraig, Patrick’s Causeway, the original route to the summit, joins the modern route from Murrisk. It was this causeway that the Saint used when he climbed the mountain on Quinquagesima Sunday 441, the Sunday preceding Ash Wednesday, to begin his forty days of
fasting.
⁴⁵
He started from The Church of Aghagower, which he himself founded, some five miles to the east of the mountain. In fact the Causeway is much longer; it has been traced at least as far as the Abbey of Ballintober, north of Lough Mask some fourteen miles from the mountain, which, together with Aghagower formed the last link in a chain of religious houses which catered for pilgrims from distant parts of Ireland in the same way as eastern caravanserais.

From the saddle the mountain fell away northwards, the direction from which I had climbed it, to the innermost part of Clew Bay which is filled with innumerable grassy islets. To the south it fell away to a lonely lough beyond which what looked like a rough sea of hills and mountains – an area called The Murrisk – extended as far as the eye could see, down towards the border of Counties Mayo and Galway. Westwards now the track stretched away up the length of the saddle for just over a mile, an easy walk, to the foot of the summit cone, before climbing steeply towards the top around its south face. The mist had now dispersed completely. This part of the route had a number of small, roofless shelters along it, occupied on the nights and days of pilgrimage by sellers of refreshments, and I remembered on my first visit the track glittering in the sunshine with the glass of innumerable broken bottles, rather as the open spaces in Russian cities used to shine, but more dully, with the metal caps of equally innumerable vodka bottles. Now, there was very little glass to be seen at all.

Then, after passing a couple of sets of official loos, I reached
the first of the penitential stations: Leacht Mhionnain, the Memorial of St Benignus, a heap of stones on the track near the head of Log na nDeamhan, into which the demons were consigned. Benignus, otherwise Benen, Patrick’s very youthful companion on his missionary travels, acted as his driver and servant. Later he became his psalm singer in charge of music for religious services, was ordained and eventually became second Bishop of Armagh. Of him, the most impetuous of Patrick’s native born bishops, it was said, ‘Restrain him not, that youth shall yet be heir to my kingdom.’ There is a legend that Benen remained at this spot, being too tired to continue to the summit, and that when Patrick came down from it he found that Benen had been killed by the retreating demons; it was Patrick who caused the monument to be raised in his memory. Here, the pilgrims making their
tura
, or journey, recite seven ‘Paternosters’, seven ‘Ave Marias’ and make seven circuits of the station, and the ground had been worn smooth by their constant passage. At one time these rounds, and the rounds at all the other stations on the mountain, were performed on the knees, often bare knees.

The next part up from the monument to the summit on what is called Casan Phadraig, Patrick’s Path, over steep, loose scree which here pours down the slopes in torrents, is really tough for almost anyone. It is certainly difficult to imagine how anyone who is in any way infirm, and some of the pilgrims who make the climb are literally on their last legs, can reach the top, even with assistance. On this final section the terrible flies were still out in force and there were a few sheep chewing away at the sparse vegetation. Here, I caught up with a young Dutch couple who had left a few minutes earlier than I had. Inspired by this competition the girl went away with a very strong finish to beat me to the top. It was 12.10 when I reached it; I was ten minutes slower than I had been twenty years before. I was unlikely to be doing
it in 2006, even with the aid of sticks. As a prize I gave her one of my fruit and nut bars.

The summit is not in fact the point of a cone. The cone is truncated; the summit a flat, stony area covering about half an acre. On it stands an oratory, built in 1905 to replace an earlier building with the help of subscriptions from all over the world, and constructed with great difficulty in such a remote place. The first Mass, on 30 July that year, was attended by a thousand pilgrims (the figure is now around sixty thousand) and it was the Archbishop of Tuam, Dr Healy, who served it, who was chiefly responsible for saving the pilgrimage from extinction. Unfortunately, it is not a very attractive building.

Here on the summit, kneeling pilgrims, having overcome the agonies of the ascent in darkness and often pouring rain, saying the rosary on the way, say seven more ‘Paters’, seven ‘Aves’ and the Creed at Leaba Phadraig, The Bed of Patrick, a bit like the mouth of a well to the north-east of the modern oratory, and make seven walking circuits of it.
⁴⁶

Then at the altar of Teampall Phadraig, Patrick’s Church, the vestigial remains of an earlier oratory, fifteen ‘Paters’, fifteen ‘Aves’ and the Creed are said, also kneeling, and the pilgrims make fifteen circuits of the entire summit, praying all the while. After this, back to Leaba Phadraig for seven more ‘Paters’, seven ‘Aves’ and the Creed, and seven rounds before repairing to An Garrai Mor, The Great Garden or Enclosure, some way down the side of the mountain in which there are three mounds of stones. There, they recite a final seven ‘Paters’, seven ‘Aves’ and the Creed, and walk seven
times round each of the three mounds and seven times round the perimeter of the Enclosure. This brings to an end this remarkable pilgrimage and penance, although some conclude by making further rounds at a holy well at Kilgeever, on a hill at the foot of the mountain to the west.

On a day such as this, from the top of Croagh Patrick you could see almost for ever: north-west across Clew Bay to Achill Island and out across the wastes of County Mayo to Slieve League, the high cliffs on the north side of Donegal Bay; westwards to Clare Island and south-west to the Twelve Bens in Connemara. Looking out across the screes seawards it was not difficult to believe that it was supposed to be possible from a certain point to see the streets of New York.

St Patrick spent forty days and forty nights on the mountain, fasting, and keeping the discipline of Moses and Elias and Christ. The first account of his sojourn was in the
Breviarium
of Tirechan, who lived in the second half of the seventh century. The account was subsequently enlarged upon in the
Vita Tripartita
, the Tripartite Life, written at the end of the ninth century. During his sojourn the Saint was visited by demons in the guise of hideous black birds who subjected him to awful temptations and who were so numerous that they blacked out the sky and rendered the sea invisible as they swooped around him, attempting to savage him with their beaks and beat him with their wings. Meanwhile, the Saint-to-be chanted psalms, prayed to the Lord for assistance, and rang a bell given to him by St Brigid, all without success, until finally his prayers were answered and he threw the bell after the demons, breaking a piece off it as they fled down Log na nDeamhan, to sink into the sea beyond Achill Island. There they remained for seven years, seven months and seven days and nights, after which they surfaced once more on the north-west coast to make life a misery for its inhabitants, until they were finally driven
out by St Colmcille. Patrick was then visited by an angel who arrived with a flock of white birds, representing in material form the souls he was to save in the future.

Local folklore, not the
Tripartite Life
, goes on to say that after sending the demons helter-skelter down the combe he had to face an even more formidable enemy in the shape of the Devil’s mother, the Corra. He succeeded in driving her down into the lonely lough below the saddle on the south side, now known as Lough na Corra, from which she subsequently escaped to perish later in Lough Derg.

There is a much less arduous route to the summit from the saddle near the station of St Benignus, as I discovered when I came to make the descent. It runs along the edge of the precipice above the demons’ combe and is mostly over heather. It was at this moment being used by a band of, like me,
nicht so jung
Germans who were plodding doggedly upwards. A further mockery of human effort was made by the arrival overhead of a helicopter with a sack suspended below it loaded with a ton of sand and cement and planks for the repair of the Oratory. During my descent, which if anything is more tiresome than going up, it made several journeys at a cost to the Church of £3000. By the time I got to the eastern end of the saddle the barefooted man with the two sticks had just reached it. The two women with him looked completely exhausted by the emotion of watching him. I always wonder if he made the summit.