Pagan on The Reek
This blog was originally shared as newsletter exclusive Tale from the Trail.
Tuesday, March 17, 2026
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! 🍀
🌈 Can confirm: There is in fact a pot at the end of the rainbow and it’s currently simmering away, chock-full of corned beef and cabbage for tonight’s mini feast before Toby and I have to run off to our respective rehearsals. (Macbeth for me, Pump Boys and Dinettesfor him.)
Wherever you are, I hope you’re lucky enough to be celebrating a few traditions of your own today, be it leprechaun hunts, sipping green beer, or baking soda bread.
I wonder what Saint Patrick would make of all the Guinness and green and gold glitter to celebrate his Feast Day (...technically the day of his death 😬).
ℹ️ For those who may not know: Saint Patrick, a Christian missionary and bishop from the 5th century, is widely considered to be the Patron Saint of Ireland 🇮🇪 (and Nigeria, apparently 🇳🇬 ).
And while there are two other patron saints of Ireland – quick shout out to my girl, Brigid of Kildare (feast day: February 1st) and Columba (patron saint of poets heyo! feast day: June 9th) – Saint Patrick is the figure that has become unavoidably ubiquitous across the Emerald Isle. 💚
The country is riddled with holy sites associated with events from his life and ministry… not the least of which is Croagh Patrick 🏔
Croagh Patrick, locally known as “The Reek” derived from the word "rick" or "stack," referring to the mountain's steep, conical, stack-like shape.
A pyramidal, scree-covered peak in County Mayo, Croagh Patrick (or Cruach Phádraig meaning “Patrick's stack") is believed to be the site where Saint Patrick fasted for 40 days during Lent back in the year 441 AD. It was here that Saint Patrick says God spoke to him, commanding him to banish all the snakes (i.e. pagans) from Ireland. 🐍
👣 Every year, thousands of pilgrims follow in his footsteps (often barefoot as an act of penance). There’s even a chapel at the summit that was built in 1905 (along with remnants of previous chapels dating back to the 5th century).
But, this peak was regarded as a holy site long before Saint Patrick ever ascended it.
“Croagh Patrick has been considered a holy mountain since pagan times, when people would gather at the summit to celebrate the beginning of the harvest season (known as Lughnasa), on or around 1st August.
More recently, archaeologists have found evidence of Neolithic art here, suggesting that it has been a sacred site for thousands of years.”
(Perhaps as early as 3000 BC.)
As someone who has always been inexplicably drawn to peaks and summits…I totally get it.
And on May 1st, 2024, I found myself on a busload of fellow pilgrims headed to the base of this very mountain.
My mom, the Very Reverend Dr. Nancy Dilliplane (or as I like to call her, Father Mom) had invited me to join her during her sabbatical for a month-long Celtic Christian Pilgrimage to England, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland, and Scotland.
Twist my arm, right?
Each day of this pilgrimage I felt a deepening connection to my motherland (and to my mother).
At the same time I experienced an unexpected bloom of spirituality that, uncomfortably, was growing more and more discordant with the itinerary of the trip, which was skewing much more Christian than Celtic.
By this point we had seen a lot of cathedrals, shrines, and abbeys, but I found myself more drawn to the landscapes than the structures built atop them.
I think It’s no coincidence that places as scenic as Lindisfarne, Iona, and the Welsh coastline inspired miracles deserving of monuments. I can’t say I heard God speak to me in these places, but there was definitely something whispering in the wind. And every time our itinerary insisted we move on to yet another church, my wild heart begged to linger on the heath.
While I marveled at the artistry of the intricate altars carved from native stones or the ornamental ceilings hewn from local trees…it seemed to stop their singing.
However, all the other pilgrims – a group of about 30 New Zealanders with a median age of 65 – seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves every step of the way, so I kept my newly found pagan proclivities to myself until safely cloistered in our lodging each night where mom and I could carry out clandestine conversations like crush-crazed girls at a sleepover.
The day we arrived at Croagh Patrick happened to be Beltane, a pagan holiday marking the beginning of summer and return of life to the world. The irony was palpable.
The day ahead rippled with an unknowable importance…but when I reviewed our itinerary packet, I saw our trip guides had only allotted an hour and a half to hike a trail that requires a recommended minimum of 3 hours to climb.
Something deep inside me howled.
I had come all this way.
No certainty of ever returning.
I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to make it to the top.
The next church could wait. But would the bus?
One of our chaperones, sensing my disappointment, made a small concession. She told me to hike for an hour, but after that, however far I made it, I should turn around.
Conspiratorially, my mom winked and told me to “Go for it!” If the bus left without us…so be it. There were worse places to be stranded.
The bus came to a stop. The double doors hissed open. And I was out like a shot!
I crossed the parking lot, ascended a few flights of stone steps, and came upon a white statue of Saint Patrick standing sentinel to the trailhead of his mountain.
Statue of Saint Patrick at the base of Croagh Patrick. His left hand holds a bishop’s crozier. His right hand extends in a gesture of blessing (or to say “Halt! Who goes there?”)
I paused a moment before passing him as though he might detect me as a pagan imposter among his more deserving pilgrims. A snake sneaking back onto his holy land.
But his empty gaze stayed fixed on Clew Bay behind me. And fixing my gaze on the peak behind him, I pressed on.
The fine pebbles of the trail crunched beneath my Blundstones. Imagine doing this barefoot, I thought to myself as my rubber soles struggled to find purchase on the path. Despite my longer than usual stride, the sandy texture slowed my progress until eventually the trail leveled out. Now, with hard packed dirt under me, I broke into a trot and felt my calves burn.
To my left I could see the other side of County Mayo stretching out like a patchwork quilt of farmland and lochs that reflected the rolling clouds above. Views of Clew Bay behind me would have to wait until my all-too-soon descent.
In no time at all, I found myself at the base of a meandering staircase carefully constructed from the piles of shale that seemed to litter the mountaintop like books in a professor’s study. A controlled chaos winding through a dragon’s hoard of steely shingles, fog obscuring the peak like smoke.
A pilgrim’s staircase up the side of Croagh Patrick.
I had been in constant motion for 45 minutes straight. How many flights of stairs could a person climb in less than 15 minutes?
Doubt and fatigue crept into my bones.
“Steady on there, lass!” bellowed a voice behind me.
A man in a bright orange rain jacket smiled as he passed me and strode buoyantly up the steps.
The foreignness of his accent and the familiarity of his encouragement shook me awake. Laughter filled my lungs. “Steady on there, lass,” I repeated to myself as I followed him up, up, up, to the summit.
After exactly 59 minutes and 30 seconds of hiking…I reached the top!
Squinting through the fog and the rain I could just make out a sign:
CRUACH PHÁDRAIG, SLIABH NAOFA NA HÉIREANN
Croagh Patrick, Ireland’s Holy Mountain
Any other hikers at the summit had taken what shelter they could below the roofline of the century-old chapel. The man who had called to me on the way up held out a piece of dark chocolate with another beaming smile that said “You’ve earned this.”
Pagan or pilgrim, Celt or Christian, native or tourist.
It didn’t matter. I was welcome here.
I let the rich sweetness melt on my tongue as I made a quick loop around the chapel, knowing by the time the chocolate dissolved I should be on my way back down.
With each step of the descent I felt the adrenaline wearing off and the embarrassment settling in. I felt sheepish. Selfish. How long had I made the others wait on the bus? Was the bus even still there?
At last, I passed the statue of Saint Patrick and caught a glimpse of the bus right where I’d left it in the parking lot.
The three steep steps up into the bus were harder than the final steps to the summit.
One of the Kiwis called out to me, “Deed yew meek eet?”
Flushed, I replied “Yes!”
Cheers erupted from my fellow pilgrims.
They high-fived me and patted my shoulders as I made my way down the aisle to find my seat next to my mom.
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Erin go Bragh!
Mwah!
Rachel
I picked up this postcard as my souvenir from the trip to the top of Croagh Patrick. The style reminded me of a postcard I found shortly after my hike up Mount Katahdin. Check out more original art inspired by the Irish landscape around County Mayo by artist Jane Dunn at janedunn.com.
This particular hike-oo is not included in the first volume of published Hike-oos, currently in production and scheduled for release later this Summer, but the lines of this pagan poem are scribbled in the Cavallini & Co. notebook that I keep in my pack for every hike.
You never know when (or where) inspiration will strike!
