Achill Island

‘And with whom are you here?’

‘On my own.’

‘Really? Fair play!’

‘Yeah I like traveling that way, makes you meet people.’

Just at that moment Alex arrived at the pub, and high-fived me on his way to the bar.

‘But please, do continue your story about dairy cows’ I said, taking a sip from my fresh pint of Guinness.

This journey deserves a blog post. I know I have been procrastinating writing stories, and there have been plenty of events that equally much deserve coverage. Such as the weekend in Cape Clear island off the coast of Baltimore, West Cork, with the Adventure Pack. Or my mini-reunion with Johan and Wojtek in Zurich. But this post is about a weekend that is just coming to an end, and although already in bed, I couldn’t supress writing at least the first paragraph of my story. It’s a story about Ireland, about the Atlantic coast. A story about windswept plains and desolate mountains, water and wind. It’s a story about Achill Island.

‘Are you going to the club?’

Alex looked at me. ‘I’m not sure man… I won’t go on my own. What about you?’

We were sitting at bar in the local pub in Keel, teeming with locals and quasi locals, and I had just ordered my fourth pint of Guinness for the evening. In response to Alex’ question I grinned and looked down at my attire. Big hiking shoes, trousers full of mud from my attempts to scramble up the hill through the bog that afternoon, and a white t-shirt that I usually wore underneath my shirts to work. ‘No way man, I can’t go out like this. Besides, I’m wrecked, I’ll hit the sack after this one.’

‘This is Achill man, it doesn’t matter. Look at me!’ I followed his gaze down. Sneakers, tracksuit bottoms… ‘And I slept in this t-shirt last night’. My response was a broad smile, I really came to like this Italian guy with his thick Irish accent. But I stuck to my point, cause, after all, I was pretty tired after an exciting day out and about.

Wind back the clock 16 hours and I just woke up in a bunk bed in Westport. My snoring roommates (long live earplugs) were still asleep, as they were an hour later when I set off towards Achill Island by bike. It had taken the better part of the previous evening to get myself and my hybrid monster to Westport from Dublin, but it was well worth it. The feeling of pulling your bike off the train and cycling away makes you blend into your new environment immediately. You instantly feel local and part of the road you just hit, much more than when boarding a bus or getting in a cab. This feeling of excitement and adventure took hold of me again when I sped away that morning, onto the Greenway, off to Keel. The Greenway is a signposted bike track void of any traffic, mostly made up of fine gravel, and winding its way through the Mayo countryside. The many twists and turns on the track, in combination with the numerous gates I had to open and close (to prevent the cattle and sheep from escaping), made it hard to gain pace, but it didn’t make the journey any less enjoyable. The result really was that when I arrived at Richview hostel at noon, I still had plenty of energy to spare for a good hike that afternoon. And within 5 minutes of meeting him, Alex had already laid out various maps depicting a number of hiking trails in the area. It seemed I had booked the right hostel.

A woman enters the living room.

‘Hello. Hello I am Monica. What is your name? Where do you live? Dublin? Where? Oh Portobello no I don’t know that. Glasnevin, that’s where I’ve been. Already 26 times. I always stay with my friend. But this time she wasn’t there. I’ve been here to Achill 16 times already. 16 times.’  

I look at Alex. ‘Oh hey Monica, how are you?’ He greets her kindly. Time for my hike, I thought, grabbing the maps from the table and escaping through the stairs to my dorm room to change into my hiking gear. On my way down I run into the lady again on the landing. ‘Oh hello my name is Monica, who are you?’ She squints at me. ‘Oh no I just met you downstairs. Are you going out? Don’t go up the mountains, it’s too misty. It’s too misty up the mountains.’ I make my way past her down the stairs and head for the door. The misty mountains are awaiting me, and I can’t wait to plunge in head first.

The wind is howling, and I take refuge behind the ruins of a 200 year old signal tower. I might as well have been acting in a Northface commercial; zipping up my coat, the pockets of my outdoor pants stuffed with maps and biscuits. Sitting on a rock I take my time to take in the spectacular view. The Atlantic Ocean is dotted with tiny islands just off the coast of Mayo, their white sand beaches lit up by rays of sunshine breaking through the clouds. My hike continues over the top of the hill towards the lake that Alex had pointed out on the map, its water segregated from the ocean only by a few yards of land, which are slowly eaten away by the waves. I guess if and when I set my eyes upon this scene again, the lake and the ocean will have become one. I climb back on the hill, where a gale-force wind welcomes me. Below lies sprawling Keel, on a wide plain in between two mountains. The kites of the surfers partaking in the ‘Battle of the lake’ are bobbing in the wind, and sheep dot the commonage separating me from the village. It is a view worth braving the elements for.

‘Would you like some food as well?’

I had just been pondering what to have for dinner, while chatting away to Mary, a juvenile grandmother from Tipperary. The question came from a tall, blonde German kite surfer, who was preparing enough food to feed an orphanage.

‘Well…’

‘I’m asking you.’

Etiquette and good manners and being polite and what not aside, if somebody offers me food, I have to say yes. Otherwise don’t offer me food. And this girl seemed genuine in her offer, not just polite. ‘Yeah sure, thanks!’ Kiki and Elna were pleasant dinner companions, and the food was very tasty. I thanked them extensively for letting me join them, and did the dishes, as they took off in search of wifi. In search of wifi to search for a place along the coast with enough wind to blow their kites, as their day on the lake hadn´t been too fruitful. Try up the mountains, I thought with a wry smile. Plenty of wind there.

The hostel I stayed at acted as a gateway to the past. It seemed that nothing had changed in the past 20 years or so. A fork was stuck into the radio acting as an antenna, and a few dozen tapes with music from the 80´s and 90´s were stacked on the shelves below. There was no TV and no internet. Some comfy couches lined the wall next to a fireplace that was lit in the evening. The open plan kitchen looked a bit grubby even though it was spotlessly clean. The view from the window made clear where the hostel had derived its name from. The place wasn´t advertised anywhere, not on hostelworld, not in the Lonely Planet, not on Tripadvisor. As the more famous hostel in the area was already fully booked, it was pure chance that I came across this name, hidden away somewhere on an outdated Mayo tourism website. When I called the phone number on Thursday, someone did answer it however. ´Sure, I have plenty of beds left. What time will you be arriving? Cycling from Westport are you? Haha good man, well best of luck with that. See you on Saturday.’

The character I haven’t elaborated upon yet is Mary, from Tipperary. In such a peculiar place, and the hostel was very peculiar, you expect to meet peculiar people. Mary was definitely fitting the bill. ‘This is the first time I ever stay in a hostel. The people are so friendly here!’  I explained how hostels often have a social buzz going on, as people who frequent these place are usually looking for some craic and often travelling on their own. ‘Wonderful concept, just wonderful’. Mary was away for the weekend, along with her giant camera, and seemed to be enjoying her stay in Keel tremendously. ‘These locals are so bold you know, they don’t shy away from asking you anything. I’ve been asked whether I was married within the first five minutes of a conversation. So bold!’ But she didn’t seem to mind. When I entered the pub that Saturday evening Mary was happily conversing with two stout Englishmen who had just told her their life stories. The ‘oh Tony good morning, loving day isn’t it’ the next morning suggested that we had known each other for much longer than the mere day it had been.  

That was last weekend, and now it’s Saturday again. Such is the length of time it takes for me to finish a blog post these days. But I guess it was worth it. It’s a weekend worth eternalising.