It was my first time in Galway, that much sung about city tucked away on Ireland鈥檚 western shore. Arriving on a Monday morning and with my bus ticket already in hand for the following afternoon, I had only one evening to take in the local nighttime flair. And so, a colleague offered to meet me for a pint of Guinness and show me a bit of the renowned Latin Quarter where tourists and locals alike gather for drinks and food and conversation.
We met not far from the Jesuit secondary school and walked together across the rushing River Corrib. The water gushed beneath the bridge upon which we stood, drawing our attention southward to where the river emptied into Galway Bay.
鈥淚 should be giving you a tour,鈥� he said suddenly, pointing down along the river. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 the Spanish Arch there. And beyond that, the Long Walk.鈥� In the day鈥檚 dimming light, I could still make out the collection of brightly colored homes lining one side of the promenade that led to the dock and, abruptly, the bay.
鈥淚 was there today,鈥� I replied. 鈥淣ot so long of a walk, as it turned out.鈥� The Long Walk is just over 300 meters.
My colleague smiled. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 true,鈥� he said. 鈥淏ut it is iconic.鈥�
The Long Walk, as I鈥檝e come to learn, is one of the most well-known locations in Galway. The place has been featured in music videos and movies, on postcards and magnets. The Long Walk itself was built in the 18th century to extend the dock and act as a breaker against the ever-present lapping waves. In the early 1900s, the area around the Long Walk fell into disrepair, and those colorful homes saw more than a few high-profile 鈥� and at times, fatal 鈥� crimes.
You wouldn鈥檛 know any of that today. The place is cheerful, friendly. The breeze that blows in from the bay keeps you cool, and there鈥檚 always the promise of rain on the distant clouds. It鈥檚 a place to snap photos, to sit on the pier and watch the circling seagulls and passing boats.
But my colleague had more to say, another view of the Long Walk that has remained with me, haunted me, even, in these intervening days. 鈥淚 think of the people who left,鈥� he said. 鈥淭he people who made the decision to pack up and leave during the famine. Who went out along that pier for the last time. They took a long walk. They never came back.鈥�
That was a somber reflection. The long walk. The last walk. A walk that demands courage and sacrifice and trust and who knows what else. But a walk that felt trapped in the past, depersonalized and now reduced to a collection of photogenic buildings.
I took my own walk the following morning. I headed to Salthill, a rocky shoreline that lies to the southwest of Galway proper. I meandered along the pier toward the city, listening to the cries of the gulls, my raincoat pulled expectantly about my body. As I made my way, a monument came into focus, looming larger and nearer: three stones that sat in the center of an empty park, one that jetted out into the bay like a bruise. It鈥檚 called the Famine Ship Memorial.
The place has a name, too: the Celia Griffin Memorial Park. Aside from a few folks walking their dogs, the grounds were empty, quiet, green. But as I read more about the place and the history, I realized that the best descriptor was solemn. Celia Griffin was a six-year-old child who died of starvation in the streets of Galway in 1847. The memorial wasn鈥檛 simply a tribute to her; it was for all those who perished during the Great Famine 鈥� particularly children 鈥� and all those who continue to suffer from starvation to this day. Celia Griffin and her family had undergone their own long walk, but it had resulted in nothing but death.
That was a terrible truth to mull over as I continued my own short walk back toward the city, my thoughts drifting toward the haunting memory of those many walks deemed long. I glimpsed the Mutton Island Lighthouse along my way and learned that it was the last sight many Irish saw of their homeland as they departed for the unknown.
I return to my colleague鈥檚 reflections on the Long Walk. I think about all those individuals today 鈥� women, men, children 鈥� forced onto the winding and unforgiving road in search of something better. I think of Celia and the countless Celias among us in this time whose own long walks end in suffering and stillness. And I think of each of us, you, me, journeying through life carrying some burden, some heaviness, something that stirs us onward into fog and mist and uncertainty.
I wonder if we spend enough time reflecting on the 飞丑测鈥檚 behind one another鈥檚 long walks. What propels us onto the road, both figurative and literal? What are the stories of desperate hope that underpin so many faces we see on the news and across our social media feeds and in our own neighborhoods?
Most importantly, how do we receive one another at the end of these so-called long walks? How do we hope to be received?
Because time and again, Scripture reminds us that we are a pilgrim people; we are necessarily on the move. Everything we have is a gift; nothing is ours to cling to or control. And so, we find ourselves leaning upon one another, walking with one another, journeying together toward our God who knows what it means to take a long, hard walk up a lonely hill.
