A Little-Known Cliffs of Moher Hike | Doolin, Ireland

Pat Sweeney is the patron saint of Doolin. Or at least that’s what the locals told me at the pub the night before I met him.

Pat’s claim to fame, er sainthood, is the Cliffs of Moher hike he founded in 2007. And on the first day of last February, I embarked on an off-season hike, trailing behind him and his walking stick in awe of the imposing cliffs. We enjoyed a full day of sunshine — a rarity, I’m told, for the West Clare coast in winter. I’ll never forget it.

I found the hike while researching Doolin, a town with a population of 300 that sits 45 miles away from Galway. The site explained “the trail is not a difficult walk, it requires a basic level of fitness and a good head for heights.”

I considered myself to have both, and signed up for the tour (by WhatsApp-ing Pat a few weeks before). And on the day of the hike, I layered up and drove to the meeting place in downtown Doolin, waiting to meet the Doolin Cliffs Walk founder.

As we traversed the street toward the cliffs, Pat, who is only a few years older than my dad, detailed the history of the trail, which intertwined with his own upbringing and ancestry.

“I had the idea to start a trail in 2007,” Pat explained. “I thought to myself ‘wouldn’t it be nice to show tourists that there’s more to the cliffs than what they see at the Visitor Centre?’”

Speaking from a tourist’s perspective, “nice” doesn’t come close to what I experienced on my hike. But we’ll get to that later.

Pat’s idea was a good one indeed, but before he could devise any routes or clear any paths, he had to make sure everyone — the 39 farmers who’d have to donate a fraction of their land for the path — was on board.

And so he held meetings and negotiations. While the farmers at first hesitated, they knew Pat and knew he could have nothing but good intentions. So after years of pros and cons and heart to hearts, Pat earned every Doolin farmers’ blessing , created the trail, and geared up for his first guided hike.

And thank goodness he did. Just five minutes into my hike, I was already blown away. Luckily, not literally.

“Wait until we get to the Upper Cliffs” Pat said with a grin, continuing on. But the Lower Cliffs, or in Pat’s words “the Baby Cliffs,” were already wowing me with their verdant green verticals contrasting the foamy light-blue sea tens of feet below.

I felt so small here. And the world around me felt limitless. Here, my problems didn’t exist — and not because I was thousands of miles away from them. The scale of life’s possibilities felt unthinkably large, and my minor struggles — no job, a bruised ego — were, at this point in time, superfluous. I’d be fine. And it was thanks to my struggles, that I was here at the precipice of the Wild Atlantic Way.

Chasing Vertigo

“Be careful with Pat,” the pub lads jokingly warned the evening prior. “He’s somewhat of a daredevil. And don’t look over the edge, that’s how you get vertigo!”

I began to heed my friends’ warning about a mile and a half into the journey, when we came across a waterfall. The only one in all of the cliffs, the waterfall must have been at least 500 feet tall. Like its cliffy counterparts, its mounds of soft grass drop to a sharp 90-degree angle, not unlike the one Bella jumps off of in The Twilight Saga: New Moon. At the bottom of the cliff was another waterfall, with water that cascaded onto a bed of black pebbles and into the sea.

Throughout the hike, Pat generously agreed to my every photo request (and there were a lot). But I backed off at the waterfall. Too steep. Did not want to pull a Bella. Or get vertigo. And so instead of taking photos of me, he offered to take some videos for me. I agreed and gave him my phone, grimacing in fear as he stood at the cliff’s drop-off, the toes of his Merrell boots peering over the edge. I was certain a gust of wind would come out of nowhere and push him — and my phone — down down down mid-video.

But luckily, Pat felt more at home on the cliffs than I do on Weston road, and both him and my phone survived the minute-long video that still makes my stomach drop upon replay. I couldn’t be gladder to have it. Check out a snippet of it:

An Unexpected Cameo

The next stop on our journey was a landmark discovered by Pat’s son: a special rock formation.
Like I said before, the cliffs were Pat’s everything growing up: playground, workplace, refuge. He knew their every detail. Or so he thought.

While hiking with his son, his son asked him if he’d ever seen Marge Simpson on the trails. He laughed and replied no, he was afraid he hadn’t. And as his son’s tiny hand pointed to the sea, to a rock formation that looked like it had been created by Matt Groening himself, he saw what he meant. The rock cluster resembled Marge (or Bart, depending how you look at it) Simpson’s side profile. And now, Pat can’t pass the rock without sharing the story that underscores an important truth: adults have a lot to from children.

Doolin’s Patron Saint

Over the course of our 4 hours together, our conversation never lulled. We talked about my recent travels, his family, the U.S., a certain orange-hued presidential candidate, and the nature of cattle farming. About halfway into the hike, I asked if Irish people actually celebrated St. Patrick’s Day — a holiday I figured was victim to America’s commercialization, much like Cinco de Mayo. I was wrong.

In Pat’s words, St. Patrick’s Day is a kind of independence day to the Irish. Each year, he proudly displays the Irish flag on the trail, and there’s a parade that marches through Doolin led by the town’s elders.

And for the past 3 or 4 years, Pat has led the parade too.

You see, in 2020, Pat suffered an aneurysm that landed him in the hospital for days on end — and due to that little global health crisis that effected all of us in early 2020, he faced his aneurysm and the healing process that followed alone, only permitted to make video calls to his loved ones. Part of him thought he’d die, convinced he thought he’d never walk his beloved cliffs, or any stretch of green earth, again.

He fought for his life and so too did his doctors. And soon enough, he returned to his farm and family and eventually, his beloved trail. Upon his return home, the St. Patrick’s Day parade organizer invited him to lead the festivities. Although he declined at first, showing deference to the elders, the organizer urged him to say yes. Life was short, and the entire town wanted to honor him while they had the chance to.

And so Pat leads the pack every year, and I’m sure he does it with as much grace and humility as he does his hikes. Maybe one day I’ll see for myself.

We finished up the trail at the Visitor Centre, where busloads of well-dressed tourists were just now starting their excursion. But around these parts of the cliffs stood guardrails, separating spectator from sight.

The sights were still impressive, and if I had done the day-trip tour from Galway like I momentarily considered, I’m sure I would’ve been satisfied with what I saw. But having done the hike and having seen the cliffs’ gradual growth in height and magnificence all the while hearing stories of Doolin and its past and present residents, I felt bad for these naive travelers. They were getting a fraction of the experience and they didn’t even know what they were missing.

*Visitor Centre views. Courtesy of cliffsofmoher.ie*

I’m no Catholic, but after spending a day with him and his pastures, if there is such thing as a living saint, Pat is it. From brainstorming and building the trail to sharing stories, facts, and little-known sights, Pat brings a beacon of light to the cliffs, and my time with him was the high point (pun intented) of my two weeks in Europe.

To book a hike with Pat, visit http://www.doolincliffwalk.com/.