Excerpt one - Wonderwall

I remember growing up in the 1970s and 80s, tribalism was all around. The grandeur of the industrial heyday had long passed and urban decay was at a high. Unemployment was high and options felt limited. People everywhere were looking for where they belonged and who they identified as. The Punk movement was visibly the most defiant of social expectations. They proudly displayed rock hard multi-coloured Mohican hairstyles, aggressive piercings and long black coats with Union Jacks varnished onto their calf length steel toe capped Doc Marten boots. A less dramatic search for identity was visible in the fans that wear red or blue on derby day. To add to my confusion both of my Irish catholic grandfather’s broke convention and didn’t demonstrate a sectarian allegiance to the correct team and would become lifelong Manchester City fans. The dividing line of Catholics supporting one team and Protestants the other wasn’t as fiercely patrolled as in Glasgow where it would be unheard of being a catholic Rangers fan. Football wasn’t inclusive or diverse back then. There was always an air of latent violence even in the “family” stand at Maine road. I recall being no older than seven years old and the man stood directly behind me was so enraged that being in his presence felt like being in a cage with a mad dog. He shrieked threatening non-sensical and racist threats that spoiled the entire match. At the end of the game his hatred abated and he simply faded into the crowd invisible amongst the other angry men. In the post punk era a new wave of Manchester music filled the airways. Bands such as ‘Joy Division’ and ‘The Smiths’ paved the way for new Indie bands like ‘James’, ‘The Stone Roses’ and the Irish Mancunian Gallagher Brothers to become globally recognised as coming from Manchester. Brian Cox the eminent professor of particle physics at Manchester University was on to something years earlier when he predicted that things could only get better. Today even football has become more progressive; the aggressive edge has softened but not gone. Not so long ago I marvelled at our current world beating team of highly loved international footballers and Stockport’s own Iniesta, whilst listening to two young Portuguese women sat behind me chatting to each other in as relaxed a fashion as if they were sipping cocktails in a sun-drenched plaza and a Malaysian couple sat taking photos in front of me enjoying the match together. As the game played out, in a moment of realization, I understood that the only tribe that I had ever truly belonged to would instantly recognise the first few chords of “Wonderwall” or “Sit Down” in seconds and love to see their team victorious on derby day, as this is my home and this is our city. Living here is a gift borne of the struggle of my not so distant ancestors who made sacrifices to ensure their children and their children’s children could thrive. Being here made sense despite an inherited feeling of longing to be walking in open boglands and across wind swept beaches.

The desire to search out the wild and remote places on the island of Ireland, has driven me to repeated trips over the last 30 years. I wasn’t sure if it was because I knew something had been lost or taken but I knew that there was something that I was trying to find. Where better to start than with the Mountain that shares my name. Croagh Patrick or ‘The Reek’ as it is popularly known, dominates the skyline over the majestic Clew Bay. Croagh Patrick has called me back to climb most years since I was a young man, and I have had the most wonderful company.

Excerpt 2 Ancient Paths

This year despite the weather warnings 10,000 unofficial pilgrims voluntarily climbed the Reek in torrential rain and high winds. The toughness and devotion of these people is genuinely awe inspiring. My feet were cold in two pairs of socks and sturdy walking boots. In the rain, the stone changes colour to a mixture of green and gold that from a distance seems to sparkle. Close-up the stone has an almost marble quality. The veins of minerals pull through the rock like the capillaries in a living being. The practice of climbing the mountain goes back to a time before Saint Patrick, to a pagan ritual where there may even have been human sacrifice. I wondered, which tradition were these people with bad or no footwear and weary hearts keeping alive. Is their desire to climb a tribute to the early Christians and solidarity with the Irish church or is it in fact the same calling that our pre-Christian ancestors felt. This pre-Christian ceremony coincided with the end of summer and a celebration of the harvest. The ancient God Lughnasa was worshiped by these early people who no doubt demonstrated their gratitude for the crops grown during the fair weather that would feed them through the harsh winter that was on its way. My climb took place almost a week later and there was no sign of any litter or discarded rosary beads. I started early and was loaded down with soda bread and boiled eggs. The ground was very wet, which is something that a discerning holiday maker may have already expected to find in county Mayo in August. Everything was very wet. I was soon also extremely wet. The water was running down the mountain side in small streams and rivulets. Everything was very slippery, and the path seemed to glow as the metal ores were revealed within the stone. I remember thinking how particularly quiet it was this morning. It seemed that even the sheep were sheltering, and there was barely the sound of a bird as I passed the statue, I was glad to be climbing. Even the crop of new cottages on the headlands did nothing to spoil the beauty of the place. I had started to become aware of minute details such as dew on the gorse or the distant plaintiff cries of the black face sheep. The constant companionship of the wind made the climb more elemental. I started to think differently about the mountain. I felt so familiar with each of the twists of the path I felt that I was able to relax and really enjoy being there. It’s a wonderful feeling to actually be in the moment. All worry vanished. I became determined to take pleasure in the raindrops and the stillness and enjoy the peace. I realized that this is one of the Reek’s many gifts.

Exerpt 3 Unexpected thin places

After a hilarious time in the company of lots of genuinely friendly and wonderful people I found myself walking back along the Quay to Westport House. I remember whilst walking through the woodland thinking about the haunting verse from ‘Raglan Road’ that had been sung earlier. “On a quiet street where old ghosts meet, I see her walking now” I could really feel my parted loved ones around me again and felt a deep connection with those words. Maybe one day hopefully in the very distant future it will be possible to encounter my own old ghost on this tired old quay side