There is a thing near Westport they call the “Rolling Sun”. Which has been the ruin of many a poor, newly published author. And God, I know I’m one.
Okay, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration. My inaugural visit to the Rolling Sun Book Festival last weekend was in fact very pleasant. Apart from a couple of late-ish nights, it was not at all ruinous. Westport itself was lovely. So was the House of the Rolling Sun, aka Clew Bay Hotel, the festival headquarters.
As for the late nights, one of those was in Matt Molloy’s pub, where the great man himself held court on flute amid a session at the back.
And after a wet start to the weekend, even the weather was unusually benign for the Atlantic coast. On a side trip to Achill Island, the sun rolled along with us all the way to Keem Bay, which, as I was reminded, is even more spectacular in person than it looked in The Banshees of Inisherin.
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Back in Westport, meanwhile, I also had to be reminded of what the solar phenomenon referred to in the book festival’s name involves. As I now again know, the “rolling sun”, a biannual event these parts whereby, viewed from a certain angle in spring and late summer, the sun appears to rest briefly on top of nearby Croagh Patrick before rolling gently down the side.
So on Monday evening, as the book festival set for another year, a friend and I went in search of the place from which the phenomenon is best witnessed.
[ Lips Sealed - Frank McNally on a mysterious facial feature, the philtrumOpens in new window ]
Not that we would be witnessing it. It was too late for that, the year’s second and final sun roll having been on August 24th.
But the vantage point – a few kilometres south of Westport on the Leenaun Road – is marked by something called the Bohea stone, itself more than worthy of a visit.
A natural monolith covered with ancient carvings, some thought to be 6,000 years old, the stone aligns with a perfect view of the solar phenomenon, suggesting that Croagh Patrick and its relationship with the sun was an object of pilgrimage long before Christianity.
You would think that such an important landmark would be well signposted. But, like me, you would be wrong. The sun, perversely, did not help much either. By the time we left Westport on Monday evening, it had disappeared behind thick low cloud. Steady drizzle added to the gloom.
A sign eventually told us to turn left for “Bohea”, which we did, dubiously, because it didn’t mention any stone. From there we were on a narrower road that narrowed even further as we went until it seemed to turn into a lane.
Yes, there was a brown heritage sign at one point, but that seemed to be pointing into the garden of an abandoned bungalow and referred to a “trail” rather than a destination.
Luckily the car’s GPS had known exactly how to get to the stone. Unluckily, it didn’t know when we arrived. At that point, stricken by doubt, it recalibrated, suggesting a new route that doubled back on to itself, and then regularly changing its mind.
After a torturous circuit of unfeasibly narrow lanes that felt private except there were so many houses and cars on them, we ended up back at the abandoned bungalow.
So this time, we took a closer look. Sure enough, beside the heritage sign, there was a second sign mentioning the stone. Except that it was horizontal: placed flat on the top of a wall, as if to keep its intelligence from falling into the hands of passersby.
And lo! The great neolithic monument with its ancient carvings turned out to be in the back garden of the bungalow: a 1960s or 1970s construction but long derelict and now being reclaimed by nature. As I’ve since learned, the house and garden were bought by Mayo County Council some years ago with plans to protect and develop the site. Nothing appears to have happened since.
An Office of Public Works sign confirms there are more than 260 designs carved into the great rock, similar to those at Newgrange, Knowth and Dowth. Some people believe the spirals depict constellations no longer visible in Irish skies.
Either way the stone’s alignment with the rolling sun phenomenon, along with the dates of that event – mid-April and late August – suggest this was the scene of annual ceremonies coinciding with the sowing and reaping of harvests.
But it was hard to imagine any of that on Monday. In the gloom of a damp October evening, the monument and its neighbouring bungalow presented a sad and forlorn spectacle.
Rolling or otherwise, the sun had set invisibly behind charcoal clouds. Rain and night were closing in. And the great holy mountain, a few miles away to our northwest, was for the moment only a rumour.
