What better preparation for walking the Camino de Santiago could there be than a hike up our own holy mountain, Croagh Patrick, on Reek Sunday, asks PETER MURTAGH
WE BEGIN the ascent at 3.35am. In the dark. And the mist. And the drizzle, the almost always present Mayo drizzle.
This is the way we want it. Do Croagh Patrick in the night and aim to be at the summit for the sun rise.
Reek Sunday, July 25th – St James’s Day. The big day in Santiago de Compostela. A convenient symmetry with the Galician city, destination of all Camino pilgrims; a couple of countries and just two flights away. And because of that symmetry, Natasha, my 18-year-old daughter, and I have decided to begin our Camino by scaling the reek, Ireland’s holy mountain.
It seemed like a good idea, one that is challenged at 2.45am when the alarm goes off telling us to get up and out of bed in the pitch dark. My brother Nigel and sister Jane have agreed to come with us; so has neighbour Austin O’Malley, a veteran of the reek and many other hill walks in and around Louisburgh.
Just before we leave our house in the dark, word comes that our immediate neighbours, Gerard and Margaret O’Malley, are also up for it. In fact, they have been up for the entire night: first, a Daniel O’Donnell concert in Castlebar, which gave way to a wedding in Westport and dancing into the small hours. Sure why bother with bed at all? It’s great to be young.
The reek looks bleak, inasmuch as what we can see of the reek at 3.35am. But after a while, it’s surprising just how much your eye can detect in the dark. The rocky, gravelly, slippery and, in places, very steep path is quite passable, even in the half light.
The key is to pace yourself: don’t rush it, it’s not a race, but it is a test of endurance and stamina. Last year, 28,000 people scaled the 764-meter Croagh Patrick on Reek Sunday, the final and most important of the summer pilgrimage days on the mountain.
When we begin our ascent in the early hours of Sunday morning, the pilgrims are numbered in dozens. It is a motley collection that includes young people out for a laugh, all cans of beer and mobile phones, early birds of one persuasion or another, and the devout, who, despite the hour, pause at each of the stations and observe their religious duties.
Austin, who was 70 in March, loves the climb. “I’m addicted to it,” he says. “I’m all the time thinking about the next time I’ll do it. I love it. I love the walk and the people you’ll meet on the way.”
He should definitely do the Camino.
The mist isn’t too bad lower down. But as we reach Tochar Phádraig, the ancient pilgrimage route from Ballintubber Abbey via Aughagower that joins the path up from Murrisk on the shoulder of the reek, it gets thicker.
And with it, the amount of airborne water increases and the wind starts to drive it through almost anything you are wearing. It’s getting lighter now, the dawn looming, and you start to see the daft get-up of some climbers. Most are suitably attired with sturdy footwear and rainwear. But some are in T-shirts and flimsy sports leggings; some wear wellington boots, and many have fleece hoodies that just soak up the rain. One soul has set out wearing Crocs.
Just before the summit at about 5.30am, the sun rises – not that you could see it for the swirling, driving mist. The final stretch of the climb, the awful, hideously steep scree slope, is taken foot by careful foot, the wind getting ever stronger.
The summit opens up, a high vista whipped by the wind and the driving, dripping mist. Visibility can’t be more than 100 feet. So much for witnessing the sunrise. The place seems godforsaken; how St Patrick stayed here for 40 days and 40 nights, and sorted out the demon blackbirds, not to mention those snakes and poisonous reptiles, I’ll never know.
People are huddled in the lee of the tiny chapel, sipping hot tea sold from tarpaulin- covered stalls. Some suck on cigarettes, others slug beer. Everyone shivers; it’s bitterly cold. The faithful walk devoutly around the church the required number of times.
And then, just for an instant, an envelope clears in the mist and the sun breaks through. For one glimpse, it is a blurred haze, then shining bright, then a strange slice of yellow across the centre of the orb, then swallowed up again in the mist. But it’s the sun, on the summit, on Reek Sunday, on St James’s Day – just as planned.
The descent comes easy; the flow of pilgrims has now grown from dozens to hundreds, a steady stream of men and women and children, many of them country folk from all parts of Ireland, that will have grown to thousands by sunset. And none will be deterred by the weather. Friends passing on the path greet others and pause for a chat. “See you next year.”
And we are home again. Home for a feed of bacon and eggs, sausages, boxty, toast, jam and coffee, and warmth and chat with wonderful neighbours.
And Gerard and Margaret finally get to bed.
Peter and Natasha Murtagh have started walking the Camino de Santiago and are writing a book on the way
