A Mother's Day run on Mount Gable

Clonbur; a land of green unspoilt pastures. An ever-ending beauty, clear peaceful waters, where the past is protected, the present play freely. It is a place very close to my own heart having spent many a fine summers evening playing football with the children while they rolled down the lands of knolls, hiding behind the hills.

On a hot summer’s day, the traditional job is of sheep been shorn on the side of the mountain, feeding the family workmen picnics by the lake, running miles through the woods, jumping into Lough Na Fooey.

For one who loves the outdoors, the rugged landscape of the Joyce Country Land provides the most spectacular scenic views, where life is on pause and remains still. An escapism, a peacefulness, a bleakness, a beauty exists; the mountains to the left, the lakes to the right, the land up ahead, the homes left behind.

On Mother’s Day I plan an early start to be back for a wonderful day; which way? road, trail, mountain or trek, speed, long or a mix of both. A grand fresh dry Spring morning promised; only one place to go, the majestic Mount Gable.

In a world where one is consumed with work, family commitments and the busyness of life, a Mother’s Day present means escapism so I’m off. A long time trying to fit Gable in and with all the families’ activities on a little later, a trek all-round the boggy mountain will work.

Never going alone, we plan the adventure to Clonbur: the meadow of the knolls, where the green grass grows thick and strong, the white waters shine brighter on a fresh spring morning. Where the streams flow fast down the mountains, the birds fly free over rugged heights, the sheep graze in a sea of rushes, ferns, and thrushes. Where buttercups, ferns and daffodils light the trails way; the sight of lemon, auburn and yellow, guiding our way for Mother’s Day.

Two kilometres running out of Clonbur our adventure begins, mount gable in sight, where according to the legend, the hordes of Firbolg gathered at the top before their confrontation with the Tuatha De Dannan at the Battle of Moytura.

We continue up a narrow boreen, the Seanbhóthar, meaning an old road, nestled between the villages of Corr na Móna and Clonbur and that’s exactly where we are going, back in time. Fields with lines of hand built stone walls, grass in the middle of the road, no tar, no road markings, just us finding our way.

Starting with a fresh climb, one doesn’t notice, time has already stopped still, the smell of silage, the freshness of farmyards, two herdsmen with their jeeps parked in middle of the road; it’s lambing season and so one abandons all to assist when nature needs.

Continuing our trek, we jump over a battered timber gate and head for the mountain. The thick, soggy grass makes cross country running seem easy. Running through thick rushes scratching the legs makes one run faster. We pass the first ruin, the home of 'Maidhc Ned' who like lots of other local people, fled to England in search of work.

This is the first morning with a Spring-like feel; buttercups are peeping through, the mountain sheep grazing, supporting us all along our way. This is a different type of running, where one must concentrate on each step with each footing bringing new obstacles and challenges as many hazards make the mountain trek tricky; some sharp limestone rocks, some slippy streams, some boggy marshy footing, when running through the bog, one’s not sure what lies beneath.

As one tip toes through the stages, one gets higher, gets to see more beauty and is totally in awe. Lough Corrib to the left, Lough Mask to the right, the top of Mount Gable providing panoramic views and dominating the isthmus between the lakes, overlooking Connemara and the Joyce Country Land.

This isthmus is known as the Gap of Danger where conflict between local rivalries led to blows and often drew to swords. We’re told the famine never reached the valley, more so poverty, the Guinness family living near and very proud of what was portrayed as a thriving settlement! Today the lakes attracting anglers from all over the world, caravans and mobile homes dotted along the lakes.

Not having a clue where I am going, or having no sense of direction, my friends lead the way, sometimes not saying which way. A quick turn right by me to follow, losing both legs, landing straight in the bog, what a wonderful feeling of wet, thick, dirt all over ones clothes even up to my arms.

The mountain is no place for grandeur, good clothes or caring about appearances, there is however a cleanliness in the dirt out here, because this is natural, this is a cure and we want more. Not a sinner about, only lots of strange, unusual sounds, sounds of birds I have never heard of before.

Our running route takes us along the side of the mountain leading us all the way around, we get to take in the views from both sides. We come to a steep, not safe part to run up and must hike, hands on the legs to push up the tired quads, we get to take it all in; the most spectacular sightings of water, mountains, clear skies and nothing else.

Back at home this is what we miss out on, this is what we need to take in; we hear of mindfulness, breathing, taking time out, this is distressing at its best. The busyness of daily life soon becomes forgotten memories replaced by a cleansing magical adventure on Mother’s Day.

We begin to trot to the top, a mound of hedgerow, clay, and bog. A beautiful breeze with the wind at our backs, all across the top, lies a flat piece but it’s more difficult. Lifting our legs out of the bog it’s like competing in the tough mudder.

We pass several old ruins, stone cottages and the remains of an old village. I try to picture what a typical village from around the famine times was like. The settlement is in a cluster of cottages close together, nestled beside Lough Coolin at the foot of the mountain, meaning the people were protected and sheltered by Binn Shléibhe and facing the sun.

Surrounded by ruins of little cottages, I begin to imagine who lived here. There is a bleakness, a wilderness, an exposure to the elements, I can only imagine one could be hidden away from danger. I begin to feel a sadness but its overcome by a magic, a beauty that makes it all ok, because every step you take, every move you make up here, is different, is tough but unique.

From running on hard tough stones, to jumping over bog holes, to running sideways on the mountain to hopping over hedgerow. From slipping on sopping wet bog land to running alongside a stream, our minds are totally consumed on the ground below but also on the sights around, our bodies getting a buzz from the heart rate continually rising and the endorphins pumping fast.

For miles around can be seen; Lough mask, Lough Corrib, Lough Coolin, Lough na Fooey, Clonbur, Cloughbrack, Clonboo, The Burren, The Reek and The Land. Up here today when I slip on the muck, when I run through the floods, when I gallop over rocks, I think of how tough and hardy the people that lived up here were all those years ago and of how soft we are today, pampered with warm clothes and shoes, tea, flasks and food awaiting in the cars for us after.

We continue and begin the descent. With not having the correct trail shoes on I end up sliding down more than running down, safely of course. I am weighed down with muck, wet and peat.

We arrive at Lough Coolin, renowned for trout until the 1960’s when pike arrived, now occupying the lake with perch. Our adventure takes us around the manmade lake. An amazing gleam on the still water, we embark on a beautiful natural trail, where one can run, freely, picking up some speed.

A stream from Lough Coolin flowing into Lough Mask, the water running so fast through a pure, clean, landscape; providing fresh water for the villagers, a water to be trusted if one needs a drink.

On a beautiful spring day, the bright blue stream flows fast beside us, the road runners fly freely through the trails, our feet kept cool by the constant sogginess, the arms pushing through the fresh breeze, the tips of the fingers cold from the wet arm sleeves, the eyes being splattered by muck, the sounds of the flowing water get us into a flow, a flow of freedom and movement that feels good.

A steep downhill brings us back to dry land, a run on the road back to the cars. The bounce from the boreen is a welcome surface for the tired legs.

We dip the toes in the stream, it gets rid of some of the dirt and the flasks come out on the side of the drain. A dry stone to perch on, we sit and get our breath. Yes, flowers delivered are beautiful, the vouchers, the presents, but for me, this morning is to be free, to be cleansed, to have the mind clear is a magical start to Mother’s Day.

Up ahead I see the land, I see the jeep, the family on duty to tend the animals. I head for the green pasture; my daughter awaiting with handpicked daffodils, my son with the warm scones. It is such a happy and wonderful moment, Mount Gable in the background, “Mam how was the mountain?” “Magical” “Can we please climb it?” Maybe not today but definitely next Sunday again.