Holier Than Thou: Hiking With My Father in Law

Croagh Patrick leaves no prisoners as it throws you into an immediate ascent. At 764m, it barely exceeds the usual Sunday Lofty hike in Adelaide, but this mountain seems far more imposing. Dubbed Ireland’s holiest mountain, it draws tourists and pilgrims alike who come for the unrelenting views and its strong ties to Christianity. Ireland’s patron saint, St Patrick, was believed to have spent 40 days and 40 nights fasting, sheltering in the church at the top of Croagh Patrick before famously banishing the snakes from the land – no watching out for brown snakes on this trail.

In the Emerald Isle, the sun can’t tell if it’s coming or going, making it perilous to the wild weather of the Atlantic seas. But, as my father-in-law says, “If you don’t say, ‘Fuck it, I’ll go,’ then you’ll find yourself glued to the couch watching Netflix all summer long.” So, you take the weather forecast with a pinch of salt and pack for all seasons. The weather lady promised pockets of sunshine on Friday of the bank holiday weekend—that would have to do.

Croagh Patrick is in County Mayo, the next county over from Galway, five minutes from the thriving town of Westport. Without needing to convince him, my father-in-law was eager to lace up his hiking boots and climb thou holy mountain.

As we climbed the so-called stairs to heaven, the universal banter of hiking was in full swing. “Nearly there,” returning walkers joked, offering a false sense of hope. The love of hiking is real, but it’s no walk in the park. You shamelessly return the lame joke with sympathetic laughter—we were, after all, in this happy misery together. Of course, you’d be delivering the same joke on the way down.

We wound our way up the rocky terrain, fully exposed to the elements. The entire ascent showcases Mayo’s rugged beauty, and on a clear day, it leaves no sight unseen. As you climb, storybook sheep greet you with an encouraging “baa,” while tiny waterfalls lend a fairytale-like presence to the scenery. You pass an array of hikers, from young to old, admiring their tenacity—it isn’t exactly an easy stroll up the mountainside. About halfway up, there’s a brief reprieve: the terrain flattens for a few minutes, giving you a chance to catch your breath. Ahead, the tip of Croagh Patrick emerges, but first you must cross the ridge of the adjacent mountain to begin your final ascent.

Not exactly pilgrims, the two of us approached this final hurdle with more fear than reverence. “Fuck me, that’s steep,” I said, as we stood at the bottom of the last leg of the trek. What lay ahead was a genuinely lethal climb, vertical and breathtaking—literally. Hiking it would take our breath away.

We were right to have reservations about those last few hundred metres. We stumbled over a Tetris-like display of stone, careful not to misplace our footing. Perhaps it appeared more fiercely vertical than it actually was, but that’s not to say it wasn’t a challenging climb. I stopped regularly to ease my calves, hoping each incline was the last. You couldn’t see the peak, sparking that internal voice: “Oh, jessssus, we’re not there yet!” The lucky buggers on the descent passed us smiling, and again we heard the standard “nearly there” banter—only this time there was some truth to it. “What time does the pub close at the top?” my father-in-law returned.

As we reached the top, there was no barman waiting to pour us a Guinness. Instead, there was a large white church, making me wonder how on earth they built it. We rested on the steps of the church, drank our hot flask of tea, and took some mandatory photos capturing the view. Initially, we couldn’t see beyond a few metres to our left, but then the cloud shifted, offering up spectacular views of the Atlantic and its many small islands off county Mayo.

The descent down was refreshing.  My father-in-law, ever the wise man, took a more measured pace. But I fell in step with four burly German lads.  We bounded down the slope like mountain goats. “We go fast, ja?” one of them them said cheekily.  

While back at sea level, we rejoined the family—two hard at work, the other two busy playing monster and troll at the local playground. After a strenuous trek up the mountain, we felt we’d earned a pint or two. Back in postcard-perfect Westport, we stopped in at the famous Matt Molloy’s pub. “I don’t drink beer, I drink apple juice,” Méabh said with a grin, settling in for her own tipple. We savoured a Guinness or two before treating ourselves to an indulgent Italian meal at Giovanna’s. Our bellies full and spirits high, we made the 1.5-hour drive back to Galway.