Our Burke-Flynn family came from Co Mayo, but they fled Ireland at the time of the Famine, many of them ending up in Perth, Scotland. For a long time, we knew only that they came from Co Mayo, but now we know they came from the very rural townland of Derrycraff, in the parish of Aghagower. My cousin Maggie is the one who has done most to establish where exactly they were based: Derrycraff these days is a townland with barely even any ruins remaining to show where the inhabitants used to live and farm.
Aghagower is well known as a village on the pilgrimage route from Ballintubber Abbey to Croagh Patrick, and it has a famous round tower near the ruins of a medieval church. Mark Carney, the Prime Minister of Canada, visited the parish a few months ago, as he had paternal descent from here, but his family were from a different townland. I wonder, did our ancestors have a regular view of Croagh Patrick from their cottages?
Both Maggie and I have climbed Croagh Patrick. My climb was just over 20 years ago on 8 August 2006, and Maggie climbed it last year. Earlier this month, Maggie celebrated her birthday, and her cake was in the shape of the holy mountain, Croagh Patrick.
I went to County Mayo in 2006 simply because I knew that I had ancestors from there, even though I didn’t know a specific family location at the time. My trip around Ireland was a fairly haphazard affair that involved buses and hostels, and I stayed in Westport because there was a youth hostel there. Westport was in fact a beautiful town and I soon realised I was really close to Croagh Patrick, and thought that maybe I should climb it. I’d heard about Reek Sunday, but had no real knowledge about the mountain being considered a holy place.
It wasn’t easy to get there. I tried to find out if I could take a bus to the starting point, but there wasn’t one until later in the day when it would be a bit late to start climbing. So I decided to hitch. I wasn’t waiting very long before a lovely older man came along, assuming I was a holy pilgrim, and took me to where you can begin. Soon I was off walking up the mountain. There were big signs about not walking if it was raining, but when I started it was just a bit cloudy and not at all windy. On the initial climb it’s quite rocky on the path, and you gradually wind uphill until you reach a flatter saddle area. That’s where the devout do various prayers and walk around in circles. I had no intention of doing that kind of holy Irish stuff.
After that you begin the steeper part of the climb, and I was soon walking up scoria, five steps up, three back again. Someone coming down at that point gave me his stick and told me I’d need it. Definitely I needed it: it was very like climbing to the top of Taranaki Maunga, quite a steep slope covered with loose scoria. It got steadily cloudier as I climbed, until there was no view at all. Quite quickly conditions weren’t very pleasant, but suddenly, I reached the top, and stumbled to the end of a building where there were a lot of people sheltering eating lunch. I had to ask them if I was at the top yet, because I couldn’t see anything much at all.
It turned out there’s only one building on the top and it’s an oratory and we were sheltering on the side away from the entrance. After a break I actually did try and go around to the church, fighting a wind that had become quite strong, and there was a Mass on. I’d climbed the holy mountain, but it didn’t seem right for me to walk in to the chapel.
Coming down was a bit of an adventure on the scoria. As I got to the bottom of that top cone, I saw someone coming up without a stick, so I handed ‘mine’ over to them. In fact, I probably should’ve kept it myself because by then it been raining a lot and the rest of the descent was quite slippery. However, I managed okay, until suddenly I slipped and was rolled around on the ground by the wind. You wouldn’t think wind could have rolled me like that but it did, and I was a bit worried that I was going to be blown off an edge. It gave me a fright, and I sort of stayed on the ground briefly, and some people higher up were running down to check on me. But I was okay and knew I needed to continue.
When I reached the car park, I was absolutely saturated, wet and cold. I couldn’t hang around in that state. I needed to hitch back to town and the hostel, but I was dubious that anyone would pick me up in my saturated state. However, it seemed like I was hardly by the roadside for more than a minute when somebody picked me up. He was a local man who worked near my hostel, and he could tell that I’d walked the holy mountain. He gave me a lift back to town, no problem at all, and wasn’t worried about me being saturated in his car. Back in town I was soon showered, warm and dry again.
In so many ways, climbing a holy mountain was an odd thing for me to do- being someone who is catholic by upbringing, but not catholic by practice or belief. It still amazes me when I think that I’ve climbed Croagh Patrick, one of the most important pilgrim walks in Ireland. For my ancestors, it was perhaps even more important, as it was in their very back yard.
In my pepeha, perhaps I should use Croagh Patrick for my maunga.
An earlier account of my climb, blogged in 2006 is here:
https://kiwinomad06.blogspot.com/2006/08/croagh-patrick.html




































