The last time I climbed Croagh Patrick, I was barefoot.
It was forty years ago, and we were young and stubborn. So stubborn, in fact, that we hid our shoes under a bush at the bottom of the mountain—just to remove any temptation of putting them back on mid-ascent. That decision made perfect sense at the time, but like so many youthful choices, it came with consequences. The sun had long set by the time we descended, and the mountain, wild and unlit, was not as empty as we thought. Wiry rams loomed out of the darkness like horned ghosts. Our hidden bush? Vanished into the night. There were no phones back then. No Google Maps. We thumbed our way home, thirty miles of sore feet and laughter, and returned the next day to retrieve our shoes—still nestled under that elusive bush, slightly damp, but heroically waiting.
I always knew I’d come back, though I didn’t expect it would take me four decades.
This time, I kept my shoes on.
My barefoot climb that time followed on maybe a dozen previous ascents, and the toe-stubbing exercise was worth it. After a few minutes and your feet are stubbed to numbness, you forget you’re barefoot.
Croagh Patrick has changed, of course. There’s a sort of stepped path now, a clear route up and down the mountain, designed to protect the land and the pilgrims alike. Gone are the ankle-twisting scrambles over loose stone, replaced by carefully laid tracks. And yet, the heart of the mountain remains unchanged. It still rises defiantly over Clew Bay, still catches the clouds in its crown, and still draws thousands each year—pilgrims, tourists, seekers of all kinds.
I went early this time, not wanting to repeat the ram-bumping, shoe-losing escapade of my youth. The morning air was brisk, with a soft breeze blowing up from the bay, and the sky overhead was low and grey. But Croagh Patrick is a mountain that reveals itself slowly. As I climbed, the mist began to lift, unveiling the glitter of Clew Bay below, each of its 365 islands scattered like stones on a jeweller’s cloth. From the summit, I could see into the next world—or at least into the next county. Mayo spread out around me, wild and wonderful, and beyond, Galway shimmered in the distance.
They used to say Mayo children were brought up here young, shown the distant lands of Galway and beyond, their futures pointed out like Simba on Pride Rock in The Lion King. I wonder how many of us stood at that summit, squinting into the haze, believing that our destiny lay somewhere just beyond the horizon.
And maybe it did.
Today, climbing Croagh Patrick feels less like a test of endurance and more like a deep breath. Still, don’t be fooled—it’s no walk in the park. The climb will take at least two hours up, maybe more if you’re like me and pause often to stare out at the view, and about ninety minutes down. Allow yourself more time if you’re not in the habit of hill-walking. And do give yourself time at the top—not just for the photos (though you’ll want those ), but to really see the land around you. There’s a quiet majesty to it, and a strange stillness too, even when surrounded by fellow climbers.
What do you need?
What to bring? Start with sturdy hiking boots—trust me on this one, I’ve done it barefoot, and I don’t recommend it. The terrain, especially near the summit (known as ‘the cone’ ), is steep and loose underfoot. A walking stick helps take the pressure off tired legs and keeps you steady on the way down. Dress in layers; the temperature drops noticeably as you climb, and Irish weather is famously fickle. One minute it’s sunny, the next, you’re in a cloud. Bring rain gear. Bring water. Bring a few snacks, like nuts or fruit. And always let someone know your plans. It’s a safe enough climb, but it’s still a mountain—and mountains deserve respect.
Don’t wear sandals, flip flops, or heels. Yes, people try it. No, it doesn’t end well. You’ll spend half your time picking stones from your shoes and cursing your life choices on what is still considered a holy mountain. This is, after all, the place where St. Patrick is said to have fasted for 40 days and 40 nights in 441 AD. Long before that, pagan rituals were held here at Lughnasa, honouring the harvest. There’s history under every footstep—layers of belief, sacrifice, and awe.
At the summit, there’s a small chapel built in 1905, carried stone by stone up the mountain by 12 local men and a few stubborn donkeys. It’s a quiet space, often open for prayer or shelter. Even if you’re not religious, it’s hard not to feel something up there—whether it’s reverence, gratitude, or just the tingling pride of having made it.
And yes, it’s absolutely okay to brag.
Because climbing Croagh Patrick isn’t just about reaching the top. It’s about feeling the wind on your face, hearing the crunch of stone underfoot, and connecting—if only for a moment—with something vast and timeless. It’s about looking out across the Atlantic and realizing just how far you’ve come, and maybe, how far you’ve still to go.
I’ve climbed it many times now: once barefoot and bold, and many times again with boots and once with wisdom. And I think I’ll be back again. Don’t let life pass you by without experiencing it.
