Skip Lectures. Go on Pilgrimages.

Ended September by skipping lectures to go on a spontaneous pilgrimage. Spontaneous plans were discussed and split over some shepherd’s pie the night before.

No plans, No preparation.

Last minute, threw a rain jacket and fluffy night socks into my bag. Drove nearly three hours on the West Coast, blasting music, phones already dying, and bladders threatening to spill.

Croagh Patrick.

Situated in County Mayo, Ireland, which I had never actually been to before the pilgrimage. As a child in primary school, I always thought it was such stupid name for a County - too much like the condiment.

They say St Patrick himself spent at least 40 days there, or was it where he banished the snakes from? Or both? Anyways, hence the name. People call it the most holy mountain in Ireland, with some believing it was used for rituals before Christianity overtook the island.

Naïve. Believed we could get to the top barefoot. We aren’t mad, despite the looks and concerned words of elders passing us. “Put your shoes back on, you’ve only two feet and one soul”, a worried grandfather-looking man said when I asked him, “isn’t this the whole point?”. One soul.

It is a tradition, though. One many pilgrims have done before us and will continue to do so.

Spiritual Journey. Suffering. Healing. Sin. Forgiveness. Isn’t that what all religions are about?

Five out of the eight of us started barefoot. One dropped like a fly within fifteen minutes. Which I was secretly grateful for as she slipped on stones. Not the best weather. Didn’t really look into the weather beforehand.

I joined those who were barefoot after a bit, almost immediately regretting such a decision. Soil on my sole. Dirt under my toenails. Stones cutting into my skin, removing the first layer of flesh. Redness. Blisters bubbling to the surface. How some of the group went barefoot the entire way up and down is beyond me. Great respect. However, I gave up and eventually put my shoes on, feeling like a baby lamb learning how to walk.

Over an hour in, clouds covering us, the fog from before embracing us as we semi-walked, semi-crawled up the gray rocks. Believing we were nearly there, as we saw a flag with Mother Mary. Motivation struck. Flag getting closer, only for it to be an American tourist carrying it, who rightfully laughed at us as one of the girls shouted at him, “I thought you were the top”.

Ten more minutes, or twenty - time is meaningless up there, and I found myself wondering, “Just how much can the human body take?”. Considering all I had in my system were antidepressants and pieces of chocolate from the car ride.

The top.

Covered in fog. The simple white church. The two blended nicely together, as though they were made for each other. Observing offerings left behind by other pilgrims. Wind pushing us backwards as we skipped around the simple white church. It looked straight out of some religious movie they would’ve shown us back in my all-girls Catholic school.

Blasted Irish rebel music for motivation on the way down. Some feet blistered, bleeding, bruised at this point.

Managed to get off the mountain before nightfall, because of course, we didn’t plan our timing either. Drove into some village beginning with “Port”, found the closest chipper and felt maybe God is real as hot food filled my soaked, sinful body.

Skip Lectures. Go on Pilgrimages.