A PECULIARLY IRISH
PHENOMENON.
By Anthony Toole.
The practice of self-flagellation did not die out with the
Middle Ages. In an updated form, it survives in the west of Ireland,
manifesting itself in the collective lunacy of what is the biggest
mountaineering event, certainly in the British Isles, and probably in Europe.
Annually, on Reek Sunday, the last in July, upwards of 30,000 people make the
tortuous ascent of the 2,500-foot Croagh Patrick mountain in County Mayo.
According to the legend, it was from the summit of the mountain, or reek, that
St Patrick banished the snakes from Ireland.
Even as I arrived, amid wind and rain, at 1.3Oam, torchlights
were flashing from high on the hillside. There were about two dozen cars in the
car park, and much activity as small groups of people prepared for their
ascents. I ignored all this without a twinge of conscience, and curled up in a
sleeping bag in the back of the car. I have always regarded mountain climbing
as a pleasure rather than a penance.
St Patrick clearly had reservations about my attitude, for the
battering of rain on the roof of the car increased to a ferocity which
precluded any possibility of sleep. At six o’ clock I looked out onto an
amazing scene. The car park had filled beyond capacity, and was disgorging an
enormous number of people onto the hill. I hurriedly ate a cold breakfast,
washed down with tea from a flask, pulled on boots and waterproofs, and stepped
out to join the hordes.
I easily avoided the first
temptations of this pilgrims’ progress: the ice-cream and hot-dog vans which
blocked the way to the track. Next came the sellers of staffs. In more than 30
years of mountain climbing, I have never seen people carrying five-foot wooden
staffs to help them climb. The occasional walking stick, perhaps, or an ice axe
in winter, but a staff? Never. Here, virtually everyone carried one. Perhaps
someone had seen a picture, in a history book, of a medieval pilgrim and
assumed that a staff was an essential piece of equipment. Whatever the reason,
several local entrepreneurs must have devastated the woods of North Mayo during
the previous week.
From the statue of St
Patrick, which guarded the start, a multitude of pilgrims wound up the track
and across the shoulder, to be swallowed by the cloud that hid the upper slopes
of the mountain. The bright colours of clothing contrasted
sharply with the drab brown and grey of the hillsides and the
peat stain of the river that rushed down beside the track. At no point in the
procession could I see a gap of more than two or three yards between any groups
of walkers.
All ages were represented,
from infants to pensioners. One four-year-old was making her third ascent, the
previous two having been on her father’s back. A great bull of a man, with the
florid look of a farmer, walked slowly upward, eyes downcast in meditation,
lips silently muttering the Hail Marys he counted on the rosary beads hanging
from his fingers. A group of teenagers were a bit more boisterous, and carried
with them a party rather than a penitential atmosphere. Some waved football
flags and remarked on the chances of Mayo winning the Connaught final, which
was to be played later in the day.
Footwear was varied. Some wore boots, though most were in
trainers or even less adequate attire, which slid dangerously over the black
mud and loose stones of the track. The real flagellants, however, continued the
ancient tradition of the pilgrimage by hobbling shoeless. The teams of ambulance
volunteers, posted at points along the track, would be kept busy for the day,
as would the purveyors of drinks, whose makeshift shelters stood every few
hundred yards.
Along the shoulder of the
mountain, the gradient eased for half a mile. For a short time, the weather
also looked as though it might relent. Sun shone briefly over the mountains to
the south, while in the north, the many islands that studded Clew Bay could,
with patience, have been counted. The cloud and drizzle, however, clung resolutely
to the upper slopes of Croagh Patrick. This, in a way, was perhaps fortunate,
for the last few hundred feet, consisting of steep, loose, clattering scree,
present a problem of the type serious mountaineers would make a long detour to
avoid. Here, however, the pilgrims simply accepted it as part of the ordeal.
The scene at the summit
almost defied description. A small church occupied the very highest point.
Inside a glass porch at the front of this, a priest intoned the prayers of the
Mass into a microphone, while hundreds of the faithful huddled around,
listening in the mist. Many had not even removed their caps. Others gossiped
and smoked cigarettes as though they were at a village fair. One seemingly
endless queue slowly passed through a tunnel marked ‘Confession’, to the left
of the porch, while a similar queue was consumed by another tunnel to the
right, marked ‘Holy Communion. Throughout the entire day, from 5am to 3pm, Mass
would be said every half hour.
At the same time, a second
large group was performing the completely independent ritual of circling the
church 15 times, reciting a fixed number of players during each revolution. A
smaller, equally independent group carried out a similar manoeuvre around a
vestigial shrine at the top of the scree slope, while about ten yards from the
church, the soft drinks stall continued doing a roaring trade.
Such is the everyday nature of religion among the people of
rural Ireland, that nobody appeared to notice the absurd incongruity of it all.
And yet I am convinced that something genuinely religious was shining through
the absurdities. In spite of the cold and discomfort, these people were really
enjoying themselves, many perhaps achieving something they did not think
themselves capable of. Is not this what religion is, or should be, all about?
As I made my descent, after
the Mass had ended, the numbers I passed on their way up the mountain were, if
anything, slightly greater than they had been earlier. Back in the car park,
the entrepreneurs were still at it. “You’ve climbed the mountain,” shouted a
T-shirt seller, “now you can wear it.”
When I reached my car, a boy
ran up and asked if I was leaving. His father was eagerly awaiting the
appearance of a parking space. I spent several minutes finding a way out of the
maze, then drove a mile-and-a-half along the road before I could find space to
stop for a cup of tea. It occurred to me that, over the next year, probably no
more than a few dozen people would climb Croagh Patrick. Perhaps one or two of
these, at most, would be Irish. The rest would be from across the sea.
A small group of youths
walked past on their way to Westport. One was admiring his football flag, and
remarking how the rain on the mountain had washed it cleaner than any
detergent. In the afternoon, he would be convinced of4he effectiveness of
prayer. Mayo won the match.