On a running pilgrimage in the land of my forebears I was blown away by the scenery – and even more so by the warmth of the people
A
s a long-distance runner, I had always wanted to use running as a means of travel, a way to traverse a landscape. I’d heard of people running across Africa, or the length of New Zealand, and the idea of embarking on an epic journey propelled only by my own two legs was compelling. I had just turned 50, and some might have said I was having a mid-life crisis, but I preferred to envisage it as a sort of pilgrimage – a journey in search of meaning and connection. And the obvious place to traverse, for me, was the land of my ancestors: Ireland.
Most summers as a child, my Irish parents would take us “home” to Ireland, to visit relatives, sitting on sofas in small cottages, a plate of soda bread on the table, a pot of tea under a knitted cosy. Having been there many times, I thought I knew Ireland, but, really, I knew only a tiny fragment.
And so I concocted a mad plan to run around the entire island of Ireland. I’d start in Dublin, the birthplace of my mother, and run down through the Wicklow mountains, all the way to Cork in the far south, before making my way up the Wild Atlantic Way, up past Galway, the birthplace of my father, home of the Finns, up to Donegal in the north, on through Northern Ireland, and then south to finish back in Dublin. A mere 1,400 miles. And along the way, I’d get to know Ireland more intimately.
