St. Patrick’s Day in New York doesn’t exactly feel like a “holy day.” If anything, the day after feels holy, but maybe that’s because I’m usually on my hands and knees praying for deliverance from the hangover from hell.
I always loved St. Patrick’s Day growing up, mostly because it was a holiday from school, and a break from Lent. I also loved the story of St. Patrick, a story of stranger-danger, child slavery, cold lonely mountains, voices in the sky, a dangerous escape, a triumphant return, bad guys, good guys, and a happy ending. Add in sheep, snakes, and a bunch of shamrocks, and you have a nail biter of a tale.
English teachers countrywide recite the story of the Patron Saint of Ireland yearly with great drama and flair. I remember walking out of Mr. Leamy’s class as a kid, heart in my mouth, feeling that Moses, and even Jesus, couldn’t hold a candle to our hero Patrick.
St. Patrick’s Day was never a day of excess or drunken revelry as it often is today. In fact, while the American parade and fanfare has caught on somewhat in Ireland (mostly to encourage tourism), many people choose to celebrate the holy day of St. Patrick by climbing Croagh Patrick—a mountain where St. Patrick reputedly retreated to for Lent before driving the snakes and pagan rituals out of Ireland.
Just ten kilometers from Westport in Co. Mayo, Mt. Croagh Patrick is the most important Catholic pilgrimage destination in Ireland. Nearly one million visitors, most of them pilgrims, some of them just out to stretch the legs, climb to the top every year. St. Patrick’s Day (March 17) and the last Sunday in July, known as “Reek Sunday,” are the most popular days.
For most Catholics who visit Mt. Croagh Patrick, the pilgrimage to the top of the sacred mountain is an act of penance. The committed ones get there at the crack of dawn and undertake the journey barefoot or even on their knees. I went with my friend Sile and her family when I was a young teenager, and we walked in our bare feet. I remember thinking that it looked like a gently sloping hill from the bottom, and a good part of the hike is indeed gentle, but then the last 400 or so meters is steep, rocky, and slippery. Add in the unfortunate fact that there is no roof on Ireland, and there’s a good chance you’re walking under a soft and steady drizzle—and an even better chance you’re being pelted with a cold hard rain. The committed (or perhaps those who need to be committed) feel this makes for an even better pilgrimage.
