Wild side of Emerald Isle
Rugged, rural County Mayo offers picturesque bicycling on Greenway, day hike for pilgrims up holy mountain
Mixing laid-back rural life, sacred hills and Ireland’s longest bike path in County Mayo.
When the sun breaks out in rural Ireland, you can almost believe in fairies.
I was hunkered down on my bicycle against the chill when the sun exploded across the land, and I cackled like a fool let loose on the wind. Just 15 minutes earlier, I’d been abandoned by my wife and two teenage daughters, who refused to join me on our afternoon bike ride when the heavy sky began spitting rain. I was undeterred, because this was my chance to ride along the Great Western Greenway, Ireland’s longest dedicated bike path, which runs 26 miles from the town of Westport to Achill Sound in County Mayo, a.k.a., Ireland’s Wild West.
County Mayo is the kind of place that visitors imagine when they think of rural Ireland: whitewashed stone houses in impossibly green fields dotted with sheep; rolling hills that tumble into the sea or break off in sheer cliffs; narrow winding roads that lead to villages with pubs and fish markets; residents with an admirable patience who are happy to take a moment to chat; small towns with cozy cafes and restaurants serving local fare.
My family and I rented a cottage here for a week in the village of Currane, and we filled our days with walks, scenic drives, rain-dodging and card games by the turf fire. We strolled around Westport, a thriving town with shops that ably serve both the community and visitors, and enjoyed the cafes and tearooms. And mostly because of dumb luck, we climbed Ireland’s holy mountain Croagh Patrick on the annual pilgrimage day when tens of thousands of people make the ascent, some of them barefoot as a way to do penance.
We’d made many visits to County Mayo over the years, and I’d always wanted to climb the mountain but never had. By chance we were staying only a 30-minute drive away on what’s called Reek Sunday, the last Sunday in July, when the pilgrims climb. But you don’t have to be a pilgrim to join the conga line slithering up the holy mountain. All you need is the right spirit, able legs and a good walking stick.
Croagh Patrick reposes like a sleeping giant on the edge of Clew Bay. It dominates the landscape in western Mayo and tempts day hikers of all stripes with its gradual slope rising to a 2,507-foot summit.
A statue of St. Patrick marks the starting point to the climb, but to get there we had to run the gantlet of souvenir stands selling rosaries, candles, portraits of the pope, images of Catholic saints, prayer books and various trinkets. One table proudly offered free Bibles. A welcoming sign read, PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD. Dozens of people milled about apparently contemplating just that while gazing up at the rocky trail sprinkled with confetti-colored specks that turned out to be distant hikers. They wriggled their way up the path, thousands of people moving up the mountain on the journey that was said to take two hours up, 1½ back.
Off we went with the enthusiasm engendered by a shared physical challenge. Strangers called out words of encouragement as stones clattered under our boots and nylon rustled against nylon. Sunshine came and went. A stream gurgled along the trail. A large man unaccustomed to exertion stripped off his T-shirt and mopped his mottled torso.
Within minutes, the view opened up over the pastures and hills; islands dotted the silver sea below. Teams of paramedics relaxed around first-aid tents, ready for the inevitable injuries. Children bounded by, leaving parents and grandparents behind, scrambled up hillsides for better views, shouted to each other. Some climbers wore the Gore-Tex of serious hikers, others seemingly their Sunday best. Some wore stout shoes, others flimsy sneakers. Some, as we’d heard, were barefoot on the loose, sharp stones as part of the ritual.
Depending on the source, this pilgrimage predates St. Patrick by a millennium or more. Some say the annual rite began in the Stone Age 5,000 years ago when people climbed to mark harvest season; others say it started 1,500 years ago. All seem to agree that St. Patrick fasted here for 40 days in 441, and since then the pilgrimage has been made in his honor.
Up and up we went, slower than some, faster than others, and stopped after an hour for a snack on a ridge, preparing for the next hour, which would be a steep climb up unstable scree to the summit. Clouds drifted in and partially obscured the view, but we could see the trail thick with people climbing, descending, passing each other along the way.
A little farther on, we reached Leacht Beanain, a large cairn that marks one of three stations for pilgrims. Here the devout circle the stones seven times as they recite traditional Catholic prayers. The second station is a chapel at the summit, and the third is another cairn down the far side of the mountain that few visit.
On the steep climb, the rocks shifted with every step, and it would be easy to twist an ankle, especially in the crowd. “Mind yourself.” “Careful.” “You’re almost there,” came words of encouragement.
Step by step we made our way up with our many fellow climbers, and before we knew it we were at the top, where groups posed for photos and in the chapel a priest was saying Mass at a window above the throng. A cloud had settled on us, and we waited in the chill, snacking again, congratulating ourselves and others, hoping to get the full summit view. But eventually we gave up and headed down. By the time we reached the ridge, the clouds had lifted.
Back at the St. Patrick statue, we met a weathered woman in a long, heavy skirt who circled the statue repeatedly. She had the thick accent of a Traveler, the itinerant Irish people who in earlier times were called Tinkers. When we asked if she had climbed the mountain, she said no.
“I’m too old for that now. The others are up there. We come every year, but now I just stay here and walk around St. Patrick. It’s hard being old, God bless.” And she continued her walk, around and around. ***
My family bailed out at the bike rental stand when rain began to fall. I had my rain pants, rain jacket and waterproof hiking shoes. I was planning to ride only from Mulranny to Newport and back, about half the path’s length. I was going on faith in the weather forecast that said rain would be light, so off I went. Then 15 minutes later, the sun broke out and I was skimming along the paved path through the pastures with the wild sky above and shimmering Clew Bay below.
Along the way I passed a man who was picking up litter beside the path. I shouted a thankyou and continued on. Later, when I decided I didn’t need to wear my rain pants anymore, I stopped to take them off and shoot a few photos. The same man passed me and then circled back. It turned out that he wasn’t just a random good citizen but the caretaker of the Greenway.
John O’Donnell has to have the best job in County Mayo, cycling the Greenway all day and talking to visitors about what they think of it. We chatted for 20 minutes, and he filled me in.
The Greenway opened in April 2010 through the efforts of the Mayo County Council and the agreement of the landowners whose property the Greenway crosses. Even though the right of way followed the defunct rail line of Midlands Great Western Railway, the county needed their permission. Since it opened, statistics show a peak of about 1,000 people per day using the path, with an overall average of about 250 people per day in the June-August high season. The Greenway has produced some 130 seasonal and 60 off-season jobs, seven bike rental companies, and several cafes and restaurants in Newport, Westport and Mulranny. It’s become a destination in itself. The county has plans to restore a railroad station at the Mulranny Park Hotel, create an interpretive center, improve the pathway surface in some places, and restore old railway cottages as shelters with toilets and refreshments.
Mindful that I had miles to go to Newport, I thanked O’Donnell and cycled on. The path ran through open fields with a few gentle climbs and descents, passed through woodlands and under stone bridges. It meandered along a stream and through sheep-studded pastures, past turnoffs for snacks and refreshments (Nevins Newfield Inn, Yvonne’s Traditional Cottage). Just before Newport, it skirted then crossed an inlet from the sea over the arched stone Burrishoole Bridge, and I coasted downhill in glorious sunshine into town for coffee at the Blue Bicycle Tea Rooms.
I thought of my family puttering around Westport and knew I’d got the better part of the bargain. If the rain held off, I’d have a glorious run back to Mulranny through that lush green landscape. If the rain came, I’d be just another fool let loose on the wind, but I’d dry out in no time by the turf fire in our cottage, a cup of tea in hand and the green pastures and glistening sea outside the window. I’d sit back as the sun set, take it all in, and maybe start believing in fairies.