Balance and Unseen Beauty – Ireland & Rome, Part 2: Galway & Croagh Patrick
After the quiet beginnings at Knock, we drove west with a sense of momentum. The road was still narrow, but the horizon felt wide open. We had prayed, we had taken our bearings, and now it was time to see what lay beyond.
Galway was waiting.
Galway’s Rhythm
If Dublin was a capital with bustle and Knock a shrine of silence, Galway struck a balance. It felt alive without being overwhelming, like a place you could actually settle in.
We wandered the streets, past storefronts painted in bold colors, past doorways with music seeping out, and along the Corrib River where the sun broke through the gray clouds for the first time in a while. In that sudden light, a rainbow arced faintly across the sky. Otters played below, kayakers dipped their paddles in the water, and just around the corner live music drifted through the streets.
It was one of those “stacked” moments—too many good things at once, layered together like only Ireland can deliver. The city was alive, the river gleaming, and for a brief time everything felt like a gift.
That night, we ate at a pub that turned out to be perfect for Patrick’s first real Guinness in Ireland. The timing was uncanny: it happened to be his twenty-first birthday—exactly one month late.
The pub atmosphere was electric. Traditional Irish music filled the room, fiddles and flutes weaving together in quick, upbeat rhythm. After each song, the whole crowd burst into cheers, and every so often the space in front of the musicians cleared just enough for Irish dancers to leap and stamp in perfect time. It was the kind of energy that felt spontaneous but somehow perfectly choreographed. And then there was this St. Bernard walking around like it owned the place.
There were the occasional stumbling fellows who had trouble keeping a steady footing, but even they seemed part of the atmosphere—greeted with laughter more than annoyance. The overall balance was remarkable: lively, noisy, filled with cheer, yet not overdone. People were there for the music, the dancing, the pint, and the company.
Patrick held up his Guinness, foam tracing down the glass, and smiled. It wasn’t just about turning twenty-one. It was about being here, in Ireland, surrounded by music and joy, with the trip still unfolding ahead of us.
Anchors in the City
The next morning began with Mass at St. Patrick’s. A quiet start to a city day, grounding us before we wandered further. We stopped at St. Joseph’s afterward and a Franciscan friary, each church with its own atmosphere but all reminding us that even amid Galway’s bustle, the Eucharist remained the center.
Galway could have been its own destination for days. But we recalled the map from Knock, where Patrick spotted something that pulled us back north: Croagh Patrick, the Holy Mountain, traditionally where St. Patrick fasted for forty days. We added it to the route. To make it work, we needed to be on our way. It wasn’t in the original plan, but it quickly became one of the defining moments of the whole pilgrimage.
To the Holy Mountain
We drove north toward Westport, aiming for the base of the mountain. From a distance, Croagh Patrick looked almost gentle—a sloping rise, the kind of hill you could tackle in an afternoon. But as we drew nearer, the reality set in. This was a pilgrimage site. This was no casual walk.
The sky was clear when we began, giving us beautiful views of the surrounding countryside. Rolling green spread in every direction, the ocean flashing silver in the distance. The path started steadily enough, a wide gravel stretch with families, hikers, and pilgrims all mixed together.
Before long, we were stopping to catch our breath. It wasn’t just about lungs or legs—it was about learning the rhythm of the mountain. At one of those pauses, I said to Patrick:
“You know, I’m just now realizing that in my human weakness I have to stop to take a breath once in a while, and only when I do that can I take a moment to really appreciate and praise God for these incredible views. I suppose that could be applied to daily life too, that sometimes we need a little break because of our limitations. How often might I push through to avoid a break, and fail to stop and appreciate what is good, true, and beautiful around me?”
Patrick nodded, looking out at the ocean and island hills. The pause became more than just catching breath—it became a prayer.
Pilgrim Encouragements
The further we went, the closer we got to the clouds.
Halfway up, we entered a world of mist and wind. The scenery disappeared. The wind pressed against us constantly, sometimes so strong we had to lean forward to keep balance. The only way was up, eyes fixed on the rocky path, ears full of the gusts tearing past.
Other hikers appeared and disappeared in the fog, like figures materializing out of thin air. All ages, all paces. Many were already on their way down.
“Keep going!” they’d say.
“You’re almost there!”
Whether or not it was true, it gave us a boost. Encouragement on a mountain works like encouragement in life—it doesn’t have to be accurate, it just has to be given.
One Irishman grinned at us as he passed. “There’s a pub at the top!”
I brightened immediately. “Really?”
“You’re in Ireland!” he laughed. “There are pubs everywhere!”
Even in the fog, humor carried us upward.
Another hiker, half laughing, told us, “It’s easier going up.” Her tone said otherwise. But the comment stuck. Sometimes the climb is simpler than the descent, because at least on the way up, you’ve got hope ahead of you.
The Shrine at the Summit
We finally reached the top, only to find that the little shrine was closed. At another time, that might have felt crushing. But by then, the climb itself had already been enough.
We circled the shrine seven times at the suggestion of a fellow pilgrim. The wind whipped around us, and with each lap the experience changed. On one side of the shrine, the wall blocked the gusts and left us nearly windless. Rounding the corner, we were hit head-on with a blast so strong it slowed our steps. On the next side, the wind shoved us closer to the shrine, as if pushing us into God’s presence. And on the last, it was at our backs, filling our sails.
It repeated each lap like a rhythm: calm, resistance, closeness, momentum.
In my mind, I thought of Jericho. The Israelites circling the walls, waiting for them to fall. As I walked, I prayed: What walls have I built in my own life that need to fall? What barriers ahead of me are really just the ones I’ve put up myself?
We laughed at times, jolted by the blasts of wind, nearly stumbling into each other. At other times we walked steadily, beads of rain tapping against our jackets, a contemplative quiet in the relentless wind. More than once we had to check with each other: “What lap are we on again?”
By the seventh lap, I didn’t need certainty. I just needed the prayer, the walk, the surrender.
Down the Mountain, Into the Valley
The descent demanded as much focus as the climb. Loose stones slid underfoot, knees complained with each step, and the fog still pressed close. But about halfway down, the valley opened before us again.
We stepped off the trail to a grassy spot sheltered from the wind. It wasn’t planned—it was just too inviting. Soft turf, a view out over the hills, the ocean beyond. We sat down.
It was a lingering moment, not wanting to leave the mountain behind too quickly. We talked—not about logistics or where to eat next, but about life, about gratitude, about what it meant to sit there together on the side of a mountain we hadn’t even intended to climb that morning.
There was no agenda. Just the moment, the view, the experience, and the gratitude that filled it. It was joy without noise, a kind of joy that seeps in when you’re too tired to force words and too content to need many.
Eventually, we got up and continued down, stepping carefully until we reached the bottom, legs heavy, lungs full, spirits lifted.
The Transcendental of the Beautiful
If Dublin taught patience and Knock taught presence, Croagh Patrick was the Beautiful. Not the postcard beauty of wide landscapes—though we had those before the clouds—but the beauty of perseverance, encouragement, and unseen presence. The beauty of discovering God in the wind when the view had vanished.
We didn’t get the pub at the top. We didn’t get the shrine open. But we got what we needed: the experience of climbing, the voices of strangers urging us on, the laughter and the Jericho prayers, and the realization that sometimes beauty isn’t what you see but what you experience and endure.
The mountain had not been part of our original plan, but it became one of the defining moments of the pilgrimage. A reminder that detours aren’t interruptions—they’re often the very heart of the story.
To be continued in Part 3: Doolin & Lahinch.
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