There are moments on autumn days when the sunlight has a unique clarity. The light is cooler than in summer, more blue and bright, though not as thin as winter, and when it hits a colour down here on Earth it glows magnificently. It was like that around four o’clock that afternoon on the edge of Westport. The grass in the playground opposite was a fierce green, two chilli-red buses spluttered past. The kids at the back waved. Deep patches of blue shifted between the racing clouds.
I’d reached Westport in good time and had a couple hours before dark so I thought I’d go to Louisburgh. A previous driver had told me there was a beach worth seeing near there and some beautiful woodland.
A BMW pulled over, its chassis a bright burning blue. Will had ashen hair and black round sunglasses. He was going to the beach. He said it was called Old Point. His mother’s family had an apartment there, overlooking the sea. There were eight apartments all together and the family owned six. It had been a lovely thing to have growing up. Big family events, endless cousins, uncles and aunts. The owners of the other two houses were like family now too.
Will would stay for a few days. He doubted anyone else would be there, it being October, and that suited him. He needed some room to breathe. He’d had a child three weeks ago. There was some work he needed to do and he needed the emptiness to do it. He loved it when it was empty. He could walk on the beach first thing in the morning. “There’s not a sinner in sight,” he contemplated. He had a soothing voice. “Not a sinner.”
The river crept to our right, low, muddy and grey. To our left, the steep slopes of Croagh Patrick climbed. Clouds guarded the peak jealously, a dragon on its treasure. Will told me that it’s the holiest mountain in Ireland. Pilgrims come to climb it barefooted all year round but reek Sunday is the busiest, especially for the Gypsy-Travellers. Will had climbed it once or twice but never on reek Sunday.
He slowed down as we came to a car park. People were getting in and out of cars. He pointed out a sculpture in the field just beyond. It was a bronze ship, ghostly to behold, its rigging ragged, masts tapering to nothing. It was something from a barely remembered nightmare. I looked closer and saw the rigging was a twist of emaciated, spider-web human figures. It was the national famine memorial. Will told me the sculpture was a coffin ship commemorating the thousands that fled and never made it to more abundant shores. We contemplated it, the horror. A moment later the ship was gone, replaced by hedgerows and a sunburst through the clouds.
We reached the beach a few minutes later and got out in his driveway. The apartments were a row of slightly dated modern buildings, like something you might see in Spain. I thanked him and he said it was no bother. The beach was mostly empty, unsurprising given the sprinkling rain. An old couple warmed a bench overlooking. The woman’s body leant into his. A trio collected something from the retreating tide watched by a man on a shining rock. Someone had braved a swim.
I walked towards the woods. Will had told me there was a scenic route worth walking. I stepped into trees and the wind stopped suddenly. The light turned an emerald green. It was eery in there. Old twisted trees, mossy tussocks. The upturned roots of a fallen lime looked like a frieze of a strange battle scene. Beech trees had green moss stockings clinging to one side. My senses were pricked by what I thought was a scream.
From the clearing at the top I could see across the bay and out to the ocean. A ray of sunlight swept the bottom of Croagh Patrick. I pressed on through the dead red bracken to a road a mile or so beyond, past a sentinel tractor. I realised I was probably trespassing and could see the farmer inside so I kept low. Beside the tractor, a chainsaw lay against fresh yellow wooden disks and a pile of sawdust.
I followed the track past abandoned machinery and latent rams with thick curling horns. An old farmer in overalls emerged from a barn a little further on. He had a warm smile and no bottom teeth. I said hello and though he was friendly, he didn’t seem given to talking. He probably didn’t want to give much away to a stranger. Opposite there was a pebble dash house with a garden that ran to the sea. It had black bin bags for curtains. I thought it must be abandoned but I saw movement inside.
The wind got stronger as I walked on. The Old Head wood has a humid microclimate protected by the hills. The fierce Atlantic winds don’t reach it. But here, beyond the hills, there was nothing to stop them. They roared with all the might of thousands of miles of unimpeded force. My hat was ripped off, my face pinned, hair wet with spray and rain. It was invigorating.
The outskirts of town were a few miles on, beyond abandoned stone houses and a barely inhabited caravan. I came to a bungalow public library. A board dedicated to Grace O’Malley was nailed to the wall with a fantasised image of a ginger woman looking sexually at the swaying yew tree opposite. This was Grace O’Malley’s coast after all. She knew these winds better than any.
Born in 1530, I read, Grace O’Malley inherited her father’s clan. She inherited ships and a trading business too but she turned the sailors into pirates, raided rival clans, stole ships and cargo and became famed, loved, feared and revered. The Pirate Queen they called her.
The encroaching English government stopped her in the end. She was captured by Sir Richard Bingham, the cruel governor. He spared her life which was fortunate given he’d hanged three of her cousins. They’d only been 14, 9 and 7 years old. Instead O’Malley was sent to England and in 1593 she met Queen Elizabeth. The Pirate Queen convinced the Virgin Queen to reinstate her lands and free her brothers. She returned home victorious but it was short-lived. Elizabeth reneged on her promises and sent Bingham back. The two queens died in the same year. The English took the land.
I pushed open the library door. I suddenly felt relieved to be inside but the librarian seemed shocked to see me. She told me it was closed so I turned on my heel and wandered back into the Atlantic wind.