Máméan, Maum Turk range and scéals 

My grandfather was a great storyteller and so I grew up listening to what one might describe nowadays as horror stories.

One of the many that stands out, was of the Maamtrasna murders; five family members who were killed as they slept — described by my grandfather as “ in dog like conditions” where they lived — far up the mountains past Clonbur.

Maolra Seoighe (Myles Joyce), wrongfully convicted of the Maamtrasna murders, was sentenced to death and hanged on December 15, 1882.

I was fascinated by these “true” stories. With no internet, no way of finding out more; listening, chatting, questioning, and exploring was our Google search engine.

Always craving more knowledge, we gladly made the tea for the visitors to stay up later, to listen and over hear more scéals — sometimes as Gaeilge; they of course thinking we wouldn’t understand and making it all the more challenging!

Growing up in a storytelling house meant the kettle was always on the boil hissing away on the Stanley range.

The door was always open, visitors calling was commonplace and there were always stories to be told.

The laughter, the food, and the companionship kept both young and old self-fulfilled and, wow, did we learn a lot; we listened, we gained knowledge, and we travelled with the scéals; everything from the fairies to the famine.

We had wonderful imaginations, weren’t afraid of the dark or the unknown and became more determined to achieve.

Realising what these people, we looked up to, had achieved, the places they had been to; we now wanted to explore them and so we did. We heard the stories, believed in the tales and the folklore; nowadays a lot of these places are heritage sites.

Way up in the hills in the Maum Turk Mountains in Connemara, there is a trail called Mám Éan meaning “the passing of the birds”.

A local running group was heading up there last Wednesday evening and so I went off with them.

Fifty minutes to get there on a beautiful summer-like evening in August, we went off on the magical journey to Maum, the roads getting windier as we get further into Joyce Country land.

On nearing Corr na Móna, one feels like they are exiting the town and entering the countryside. It’s a different kind of landscape, with wilderness, bleakness, and scenery to take your breath away.

It’s like going back in time, mountain sheep own the roads, traffic comes to a halt to let them pass. The phone coverage gradually fades and the roads get windier.

As we approached our destination, I become familiar with the location, having been to the fair of Maam Cross many times.

The historic one-day fair saw local farmers gathered at the crossroads at Peacocks, to sell their hard earned produce, helping them to survive the harsh conditions of the rural landscape of rugged Connemara.

Today the fair attracts people from near and far, to walk for a few miles, admiring the stalls of all kinds of animals, crafts, knick-knacks, before reaching the hub, taken over by Connemara ponies.

Arriving at Mám Éan, there is a wilderness, a vibrant emerald green surrounding us for miles.

What an amazing place to get lost for an evening, and so we do; not a sinner or soul about, only us hardy souls getting ready for the climb.

Heading off up the hilly road, jumping a gap to get onto the trial; it’s stony, the streams are flowing, the terrain uneven underfoot, we work together as a group, chatting, laughing, jumping the rocks, the sunshine lighting the way ahead.

As the lactate acid begins to build in the quads and the burn in the calves, we are completely hidden in Inagh Valley, I look around at one of the most spectacular views; the Twelve Bens to the left, the Maum Turk mountain range to the right.

I’m in the middle of a V-shaped valley, whichever way my eyes glance they are captured by the most stunning images. This is a breathtaking, beautiful scenic route, we are up over 700m elevation and can see for miles around.

Being told St Patrick climbed this same track we are running on and gave Connemara his blessing, at the top of our trek lies an ancient pilgrim site dedicated to our patron saint, a holy well, St Patrick’s Bed, stone circles of the Stations of the Cross and a chapel. To me this is a hidden valley.

Having ran Croagh Patrick a few weeks ago, I can see a lot of similarities between the two areas. St Patrick must have liked the bleak landscapes, the harsh weather, and the rocky uneven surface for climbing.

The steep inclines burn the legs, but the sights, smells and sounds of the surroundings blank the burning feeling.

Over 30 miles apart, this trail is a hidden gem; out in the sticks, no crowds, no tours, just us and the passing of the birds!

The Maum Turk mountain range runs for 20 miles from Maam Cross in the South to Leenane in the North.

Today, we will do half, it will be dark by finishing.

Although it’s 30 miles away, the Reek seems nearer this evening, not an obstacle in the sky and so we have a clear view of the top of the Croagh Patrick; I wonder about all the people who walked from here to the holy mountain.

It would make a good adventure someday

This lesser known Mám Éan pilgrim site dates back to the fifth century.

Completing the shrine is a Mass Rock — used during the 18th century penal times when Roman Catholicism was outlawed.

A day of Christian celebration was held on the last Sunday in July or the first Sunday in August.

My grandfather talked about these events; people from both sides of the mountain gathering, people from Connemara ascending from Recess and people of Joyce Country from Maam, often resulting in a fight.

Groups moving up the mountain to get to the top, older people gathered by the well sipping on poitín to keep them warm and happy.

Back then, hundreds seated on the grass. Today running on the Maum Turk grass with twelve others, it’s hard to imagine sharing it with a few hundred. I often wondered how they kept going but the poitín would have helped!

We stick to the water and begin our descent.

Galloping down the mountain, our legs are moving so fast. On a route like this it is easy get lost as there are lots of paths to take.

I use the Stations of the Cross as a guide to bring us home. My eyes are focused on the footing, I tend to veer towards the grass, a softer bouncier surface for running faster.

Running on the Maum Turk mountains is like being let free in a far away place one could only dream of; bouncing free through a beautiful valley time just stands still; sometimes, nowadays, it is hard to find a quiet space to escape completely from our modern world.

This evening we have escaped.

The group sticks together, miles mean nothing, it’s about getting from start to finish, there are no obstacles only natures, there are no disturbances, only that it will soon end.

We will return though, the next time to do the full 20 miles.

I see the meandering man-made road up ahead and not a house, car or sinner to be seen; the stories my grandfather told are as real today as when I was a child. The folklore I believe in, and so I am not brave enough to travel these mountains alone, the celebrations I will be back for.

For now I am content to return home, put on the kettle and ask my father for the rest of the scéals. If the visitors arrive, I’ll gladly make the tea.