Ireland’s Saint Patrick banished snakes from Croagh Patrick, also known locally as The Reek. Tamara Pitelen cycled over to find out more.

Every year, thousands of pilgrims and tourists make the trek to the summit of Croagh Patrick. (Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland)

I am now officially On My Own in a foreign country.

After three weeks spent cycling across Ireland, from Dublin to Galway and up to Westport, I had to put Kate, my cycling partner in crime, on a bus back to Dublin this morning.
To distract myself from this lonely state of affairs, I am climbing Croagh Patrick, a mountain in County Mayo that looms at about 800m (2510ft in old money) and is the mountain from which St Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, apparently banished all snakes and venomous creatures from the land. Legend has it that St. P rang his bell at the top to call all the venomous creatures to him, then they just obligingly flung themselves off the cliff. This black bell is now in the National Museum of Dublin.

Croagh Patrick (aka The Reek) is climbed by thousands of pilgrims throughout the year. Some even do it barefoot and at night. But the big day is the last Sunday of July when about 25,000 pilgrims throng the mountain to attend mass at the summit. Penitential exercises on The Reek date back to St. Patrick’s fast on the mountain for 40 days in 441AD. Anyway, it’s this mountain that I plan to climb and according to signs at the bottom, it takes a “Person of Average Fitness” about two hours to get up and an hour and a half to get down.

The man himself. A sculpture of Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland. (Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland)

I arrived at the bottom at 11.25am this morning and read the information sign for first time climbers. It said: “Avoid climbing alone.” Strike one.

It also said: “Do not climb in rain or fog” just as a crowd of thick, dark, angry and ominous clouds gathered overhead, obscuring the summit.

Finally, the school marm of a sign said: “Tell someone your expected return time.” Strike three. For a moment, I considered going back to the carpark to tell the young girls sat in a caravan selling ice-creams, walking sticks, and ‘I climbed The Reek’ caps, to call police rescue if I wasn’t back by dinner time but, having been a 13-year-old girl myself once, knew that would be as successful as asking my mum’s cat to set the video to record Desperate Housewives.
So off I went, alone, in potentially bad weather, with not a soul knowing where

I was. At least I had cheese sandwiches in my bag.

A sea view of Croagh Patrick. (Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland)

The first two thirds is a challenge, by that I mean it’s steep and it’s easy to lose your footing because the ‘track’ is actually a dry river bed of boulders, rocks, stones, and gravel that cascades down the mountain. After 40 minutes of trudging upwards, the first drops of rain started. Five minutes later it was heavy enough to warrant pulling my raincoat out of my bag but as I did the wind almost whipped it out of my hands and sent it flying off the mountain. I looked around to see how many other idiots, sorry, people, were continuing the climb in the wind and rain. There were a few so I kept going.
The last third is bloody tough. It’s straight up and all loose rocks and vertical drops. The wind was blowing hard and, frankly, I was scared. I had to scramble over rocks on all fours, I was feeling dizzy, my legs were jelly and I was afraid to stand up properly for fear of falling backwards or being blown off the side. So I sat down and debated whether to continue or turn back, even though the vertigo-inducing view down looked just as frightening as the way up.
Just then, an elderly French man came into view on his way down. I know he was French because when I said “hi” he said, “parle pas l’anglais” or something like that but with hand signals he told me to just have a rest then keep going, “eez good!” So I did and at 1.05pm I came over the top. Twenty minutes faster than a Person of Average Fitness. I could’ve sobbed with relief but people were looking.

My first sight on reaching the summit was of a couple hugging each other in front of the church that was built up there (somehow) for all those barefooted pilgrims. They were either lovers overcome with emotion at having made it or were two strangers clinging to each other out of sheer terror at being blown off the side.

After finding a sheltered spot, ie, blowing a gale rather than a hurricane, I ate my cheese sandwiches while admiring the view which took my breath away. I’m sorry to rely on such a tired cliché but it really did. The view was spectacular, magnificent. On one side Ireland stretched out as far as the eye could see like a glittering green jewel, hills sweeping into valley and plains. The other side was the sea, azure blue, dotted with the same islands of rich green that I’d seen on the way up.

It’s a long way to the top when you want to rock and roll. (Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland)

I sat there for about half an hour, wondering if I could just live in the church for the next 50 years, which at that point seemed preferable to climbing down but I got too cold. Hypothermia or death by falling 800m? I tossed a coin. Death by falling won so I started the climb down.
At about two thirds of the way down I passed a portly English couple who were worryingly red in the face and had stopped to have a cigarette.

“Is there much further Love?” The woman asked me between puffs. She had tattoos up and down both her arms, the prison variety as opposed to the attractive Celtic design variety. I didn’t know how to break it to them so I didn’t.
“Well, you’ve still got a bit to go but, hey, if I can do it, anyone can!” I replied, all irritating bonhomie and Girl Guide encouragement.

I jog-shuffled-slipped the rest of the way down and got to the bottom at 3pm, my legs shaking with the effort but as luck – or perhaps design – would have it, there’s a pub called Campbell’s at the bottom so I celebrated with a rum and coke. It’s what St Paddy would have wanted.