We are cursed by our egos and those of the people around us.
As Irish people we’re proud of our country, and quite often, ourselves for being from it.
I love telling people from foreign lands about how the Irish landscape, and what it lacks in size and scale compared to other countries, it makes up for in character.
Typical small country-folk mentality. They seem to love it though.
And of course, when the golf is going well and the dragons are being slain on TV and then everyone’s “one of our own” and everything was “filmed just up the road.”
I’m delighted I get to be from there and claim the supposed personality of the landscape as part of my own, in the absence of anything better to offer, perhaps.
And I’m lucky to be from The Third Biggest County in Ireland, the green and fuchsia-coloured plains of Mayo, whose greatest natural assets are the ocean claimed by all from here to America, and a mountain claimed by the Catholic Church.
Anyway, it’s bloody beautiful here, which I love telling people.
But such is the parochial nature of Irish people both at home and abroad, that as much as I can claim the whole island as part of me and what I have to offer to those from across the seas, I feel a sense of shame and disappointment when I have to look my closer neighbours in the eye and talk about ‘home’.
Where am I from?
Ireland.
Connacht.
Mayo.
‘The West’.
“Where are you from?”
Every time you leave the house, or the village, it’s a championship game.
And so I drove down to Westport to meet my friend, proud Mayo men that we are. I’m blown away as usual on the way into Westport and secretly a bit disappointed that deep down, even though we’re still in ‘my’ county, we’re not in my town. I can claim it with the foreigners but not with my friend from Westport.
But the view kills your ego with its beauty. I’m well used to that road – coming ‘round the corner and gradually making your way up the straight, gentle hill before you descend – past the Corrib Oil – and into Westport town. I’m from Claremorris but I’m not from Westport. But I can still claim it to outsiders.
I’ve done it hapes but it always gets me. I’ve been there hundreds of times but this time the size of Clare Island really got me, guarding the gates to Clew Bay like a sleeping dinosaur.
And of course, the Reek on your left and to the front. Even there weren’t any stories passed down that would be a holy mountain. It’d be a holy mountain in any culture. There’s your personality.
The poor Reek got an awful doing all day.
“Not fit for climbing any more.”
“It’s had its day.”
“Dangerous.”
“I hear they’re making it one way.”
“That’s only bollocks.”
The bitching got worse when we got to Diamond Hill, which lamentably, although only less than an hour from Westport and still on the Wild Atlantic Way, is in Galway.
There’s a beautiful view from the top, from the hundreds of lakes and the anarchy of the Connemara coast to the south, to the intricate coves of Renvyle and north towards Clew Bay. Islands, too. Inishboffin to ‘Turk to Clare Island and even the cliffs of Achill beyond it. Inland, the ridiculously pristine Kylemore Abbey sits on the edge of its lake, and mountains and forests surround in every direction.
There’s your personality.
The mountain and its views in their natural state would be amazing but they’ve done a serious job on it too. Whether it was a Fas scheme or Nepalese WOOFFers or just the OPW, from the visitors centre at the bottom to the expertly-set stones that form steps all the way to the top and around back to the car park, the walkways are safe and brilliantly-made and take nothing away from the natural environment.
Short boardwalks and gravel paths complete the job and it’s a credit to whoever built it. It’s also being graciously used by dozens of people on the day. They’re mostly foreigners, and sure I’m only dying to tell them I’m from an hour and a half down the road and you can only see the county lines on a map or a football pitch. But they don’t ask.
The weather held out and it was as good a day out as you could ask for.
After that there were oysters and pints of Guinness and shepherd’s pie and even a fish-finger sandwich.
World class.
Proud to be Irish.
And even more proud to wear the Mayo jersey and to be from only out the road (to a foreigner).