Not all penance and prayer – An Irishwoman’s Diary on the secret life of Croagh Patrick

As thousands of pilgrims prepare to make the annual Reek Sunday pilgrimage on Sunday, this diarist would like to reveal that climbing Croagh Patrick wasn’t all about penance and prayer for our patron saint back in 441AD. Turns out St Patrick was a bit of a beer swiller, had his own personal brewer, called Mescan, who conveniently doubled as his confessor. So the Slemish shepherd was not only saving the souls of the heathens of Co Mayo while busy banishing the evil black birds with his famous clog dubh. Hmm!

It seems that famous 40 days of fasting and prayer may well have included the odd drop of the craythur. Well, have you ever tried sleeping on top of that pyramidal peak? Walking up in your bare feet should be penance enough for any sinner, no matter what the transgression.

Even on a pet summer’s day that belligerent old coot and Celtic god Mannanán Mac Lir can rustle-up rolling mists and walls of rain that smother the mountain. From way over the horizon he can hurtle howling winds up Clew Bay past Inishturk and the Mweelans, Caher and Clare Island and in through the village of Murrisk.

But back to the moonshine-maker, Mescan. According to a passage in local author Kevin Martin's recently published book on the history of the Irish pub, Have Ye No Homes To Go To?, St Patrick's beer was reputed to have been "very sweet, having hints of bog myrtle and heather, with a low alcohol content" and a special infusion of gentian.

Fifteen hundred and seventy five years later, or so, there is a microbrewery situated in the foothills of the holy mountain named after the expert herbalist. Although I don’t think the makers of Mescan beer tread the lower pathway with the flocks of evangelists who travel from northern Ireland each year on Reek Sunday to try to save the souls of the pilgrims by offering tea or cordial and a sermon on the Bible.

“The path to redemption is not found by climbing a mountain,” they say.

True, St Patrick might turn in his grave if he came back and witnessed some of the indulgences pursued by many of the climbers who embrace the challenge these days. Indeed, if he timed his resurrection for Reek Sunday he could travel incognito blending in with many of the St Patrick lookalikes who are part of the colourful caravan snaking up the 764m mountain.

Seasonal rituals

In recent years, the holy mountain – an amphitheatre for seasonal rituals for a pantheon of gods since neolithic times – has attracted all sorts of secular shenanigans all year round.

With running the new religion, its craggy pathway has now become an altar for the worship of fresh Atlantic air and fitness. Instead of reciting rosaries these pilgrims are saying novenas to their personal trainers. For some, salvation of the soul is more about heart-rate and body mass index than the traditional novenas recited at the stations of Leacht Benáin and Roilig Mhuire.

Back in 2008, thousands of bras were linked together on the upper slopes in a bid to create a world record for the highest bra chain and raise money for breast cancer. A few years later, there was a plan to transform the mountain into an open-air dating site with the inaugural “Meet on the Reek” weekend. Sorry for the cynicism but I bet some of the cosmic courters took vows of celibacy after reading the online questionnaire. One of them read: “Reek, Geek or Eek, how would you describe your personality?” Then, there was another: “Where do you live and where would you like to live?” Clearly not on the Reek, since the event seems to have disappeared into a black hole or was washed away in some deluge.

Back in Celtic times, according to lore, the festival of Lughnasa was celebrated over nine days at Cruachán Aigle, as the mountain was called in pre-Christian times. Thousands of people would travel along the ancient chariot route, the Tóchar Phádraig, to give thanks for the harvest to the pantheon of gods (including Lugh, the sun god). The elders of this pagan society would oversee this harvest féile, with the druids, filí, brehons, kings and craftmakers co-ordinating this colourful religious ritual, which included aonachs, chariot racing, hurling and storytelling.

Bet you there was a bit of boozing too. Plus ça change. Sure don't the modern-day brehons – well, district court judges – facilitate poor pilgrims needing a hair of the dog. Judge Mary Devins has been known to grant an area exemption for hostelries in Murrisk to facilitate early opening on Reek Sunday.

“I’m not sure St Patrick would endorse the application,” she quipped on one occasion.

Well, we know now that if he was around these days he may well have been the first to inhabit a high-stool in Campbell’s or The Tavern.

Well, banishing snakes is thirsty work.