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The speculation begins on the 12.40 p.m. Dublin to Foxford train. The woman beside us, an excitable character, insists we are out of our minds for even trying to climb Croagh Patrick, Ireland's holiest mountain. It's known locally as "The Reek," where St. Patrick fasted for 40 days and 40 nights in the year 441 AD, as part of his quest to rid Ireland of paganism. "Don't go near it," she says. She describes in too much detail a pain that began in her arse and drilled down to her toenails the day after she climbed it. The young man sitting opposite her is more measured. "Well it's a hard slog," he admits. "I climb it every year on Reek Sunday." In the dark, without a torch, he adds.

Reek Sunday, the last Sunday in July, is traditionally when 25,000 pilgrims climb the 2,510 foot mountain together. My Great Granny was rumoured to have walked 16 miles to it, and then taken off her shoes to scale it barefoot, a tradition, which continues today among some devout pilgrims, with sincerely high pain threshold.

I'm not of such hardy extraction myself, never having climbed anything other than a set of subway stairs and am proposing to climb it with three generations of my family. Not only are the proposed troupe - Granny, my sister from Dublin, myself and my seven-year-old son - a group of squabblers, but our levels of physical prowess offer a complicated twist. They include the family's various medical complaints (from a dubious left hip to a recent case of collapsed lung) and various religious devotion (from an agnostic child to my mother's casual attendance of mass).

The next day, I am reassured to wake and see the weather is unusually beautiful the Sunday in April we are to attempt the climb. It's my annual visit home from Vancouver to stay on my mother's farm that overlooks Lough Conn, in a rural area between Foxford and Ballina in County Mayo. Why the urge to climb now? Individually none of us have ever climbed it. Yet the three generations of women who came before us, with far worse footwear or nutrition, did.

We set out on the Pontoon to Castlebar road. The gorse is in full yellow bloom. Good weather in the West of Ireland turns the colour up in everything because traditionally the weather is of the definitive grey variety. We pass through Parke, Ross and various villages; many comprise just a road or two with important buildings like pub, church and shop surrounded by football posts in a field and the occasional flapping of clothes on a washing line beside a farmhouse.

I rejoice in the reassuring lack of symmetry. Roads wind and fields end in strange curves. The smells of turf and cow manure float across the fields. It reminds me why visitors should venture further from Dublin. This is still the wilds. This is confirmed by the driving style of the locals and the eccentric conversations you can have. I've never laughed as much as I do here.

Here, out in the country, farming remains a central part of life. Ireland's recent economic prosperity is evident in the shocking price of houses and the surprise of seeing a car salesroom, all glass and glimmer, on the road approaching Westport. Twenty five years ago you'd have been more likely to find a grotto with a statue of the Virgin Mary and a bunch of wilted flowers.

Westport is where we see the first good glimpse of Croagh Patrick. Despite a hazy top today, the mountain is enticing. We pull into the car park at 2 p.m. We have made a late start because of the disorganized nature of this family (endless indecision around which socks might be best), but the weather is good and sunlight besieges us as we begin the set of about 20 very wide steps. Behind us, Clew Bay with its curling islands is peaceful and an unusual blue/grey colour.

A statue of St. Patrick leads us into the first phase. He's high, bold and white, holding his staff over us. Above the deludingly comfortable steps it looks craggy. We will be climbing up and over, crossing behind a neighbouring mound before reaching the ascent. The average climb takes 3 ½ hours. Ours will take closer to 5 ½. Along the way, there are a series of holy stations at which pilgrims stop to recite specific combinations of prayers.

According to the most recent census, Islam is now the third-largest religion in Ireland, so Catholicism has some competition in a country where historically you could barely slide a sheet of paper between church and state. Recent exposure of clerical sexual abuse have dismayed the population and the Catholic Church no longer has the same influence and fear it once held over Irish lives. A glance at any of the main streets in Dublin or Cork might suggest that shopping has replaced religious devotion, but Croagh Patrick's appeal has not faded. It's difficult to gauge what one gets by climbing, but for the devout it's an important pilgrimage. For others, it may be a love of nature, or curiosity, and a final cluster of folk will do it for what's known as the craic; the sheer madness of the experience. I count myself in that bracket.

Enthusiastically up we hop and Clew Bay starts to look distant. Immediately I am at the back of the pack with the seven-year-old taking the lead, as I puff and pant, using the excuse of needing to take photos to grab every small chance to inhale. Folks 30 to 40 years my senior pass me by and I have to call to my gang who threaten to disappear without me.

Today's pilgrims are young, many of them walking in fashionable trainers, while representing the older generation a couple appear to have had the idea walking out of mass. A group of lads say the idea grabbed them driving past. When I remark they've no water, they laugh that they'd plenty to drink in the pub.

During the next stretch, an invigorating misconception takes over that the whole thing is easy. Something in ascension elevates and lightly deludes the mind that you just cannot get enough of this climbing lark. A similar delusion takes over at the beginning of childbirth.

We exchange chat with pilgrims descending; did you make it to the top? A unanimous yes. A man from Galway rests on his walking stick to explain he's drawn to the peace of the mountain. There is something about it, something he can't explain.

A gruesome assault on the knees and heart rate is intercepted by several chocolate breaks, but at the next bend, my mother, in her sixties and recently trained as a local hill walking guide, announces she'll wait for us on this rock, as yesterday she did another strenuous climb. My sense at this point is we will not even make it to the half-way mark.

A passing German woman informs me this is the worst stretch, which feels like a permission slip to give up. We agree not to take a break until we reach the top of a curving stretch, but we barely make it a third of the way before my sister calls another chocolate break. Joking, since I am fairly sure none among us now has any notions of the summit, I suggest a vote and am astonished to hear my sister and seven-year-old state they are up for the summit.

Something in this declaration gives us a renewed vigour. Finally, the boulders recede and the path flattens to a manageable elevation. I begin casting aside all resistance now. This path proves the summit is attainable. To the left is a small, beautiful lake and rows of trees. I'm filled with affection for Croagh Patrick, declaring that anyone who caves in would not know what they are missing. If I had a megaphone I'd call back: Don't give up there. Fortitude! Fortitude!

In true sense of penance, the most extraordinarily steep mound of dense looking-stones begins to loom. We are told, as we've been told for the last hour, just another 20 minutes. Already three hours into the climb, and with no summit in sight, the will to carry on is sapped. The difficulty factor has increased 500 per cent and our feet slip on the boulders. I suggest we try to find the Clew Bay view, as it would feel as though we made the summit.

Finally, the summit. The only indicator are four metal poles, almost scaffolding looking. I shout we've made it, even though there's still 200 meters to go. It's the most extraordinary feeling. The small white church at the top is locked and lonely looking. We are freezing, it's misty and we may be euphoric, but my mother's calves need to be fed.

On the way down it's brutal. My son struggles to navigate and falls several times. Eventually we establish a system where he leans against me. I encourage him on. In a quiet voice, he says, "Sometimes I regret things." The boulders go on endlessly. I'm worried we've taken the wrong path back. My sister tells me "at some point you just want to sit down and cry." But there's no crying, just me telling my seven-year-old a story about a sheep called Virginia. He got me up there, now I must get him down.

"I hope you realize your mother is off her head," my sister says brightly, in that sisterly way that not even St. Patrick can curtail.

Pack your bags

GETTING THERE

Croagh Patrick is situated near the town of Westport in County Mayo, Ireland. It is around 90 kilometres from Galway City and 230 kilometres from Dublin City. The main pilgrimage route originates in the village of Murrisk, eight kilometres outside Westport. For more information, visit http://www.croagh-patrick.com.

Stress factor

Hydration, feet and shoes. The trick is to take regular breaks, especially the last leg approaching the summit.

Memorable moment

As a crowd of people pass us swearing, my son saying: "I'm not sure God would be happy to hear all this swearing on his holy mountain." A man called back "Ah sure he's well used to it."

Souvenir

A Foxford Woollen Mills blanket from O'Hara's of Foxford (available in every supermarket aisle up and down the country). Or for the more devout pilgrim: A bottle of holy water from the nearby holy shrine of Knock (http://www.knock-shrine.ie).