In the Shadow of a Pirate Queen: A Journey to Westport

“Any plans for the bank holiday weekend, Raj?” Grace asked, her eyes playful but curious, as we wrapped up our Friday morning huddle.

Grace had been my manager at work for the last two years—an incredibly smart and thoughtful leader, with a sharp mind and a sense of clarity that made you want to bring your best to the table. In meetings and one-to-ones, she cuts through the noise and gets straight to the heart of things. I always admired how she could so quickly synthesise long, winding discussions—especially the kind where everyone was talking but nothing was really moving. It was no surprise she held the position of Director.

She was also recently nominated for the Best Mentor award across the firm, and to some of us, she was exactly that—a mentor.

She’s a tennis player, an artist, and above all, she’s a mother, a wife, a sister, and a daughter.

I smiled, almost instinctively. “Surely, Grace. I’m going somewhere.” This was our ritual—every time a bank holiday neared; Grace would ask the same thing.

Not that her question led me to this particular trip—but Grace had long been planting the seed. For years, she nudged me, encouraged me to make use of the long weekends, to step out, to explore even just a little. A few years ago, I finally did. One trip turned into another. And before I realised, it became a habit—every bank holiday, a small escape. Now, anytime she asked, I had an answer ready. This time, it was County Mayo.

These escapes weren’t far-off getaways. They were journeys within Ireland—places I hadn’t explored, stories waiting on familiar soil. And this weekend, my compass pointed west.

And there I was, walking into the tree-lined entrance of the Westport House estate—located in the town of Westport and spread across nearly 450 acres of lush, historic grounds.

At first, it felt like entering into one of those hidden woodland trails in Wicklow—shaded, earthy, the hush of leaves holding space for your thoughts. But just a few steps in, the trees parted, and the estate opened up into a wide, open expanse. Sweeping lawns stretched ahead, perfectly kept, with smooth internal roads and simple wire fences guiding your eyes to the edge where three horses grazed without a care in the world—two brown, one black, and a delicate white pony that looked like it had just learned how to be curious.

As I walked farther, taking in the occasional chirping of birds and the serenity of the estate, I noticed something that pulled my attention. There, in contrast to the surrounding life, stood a tree so bare it looked like a pencil sketch against the green and blue landscape. No leaves, no soft spring buds—just branches like outstretched arms, gnarled and weathered. It stood like a sentinel, dignified in its solitude. It might be in its final years before humans eventually decide to take it away from the place it has stood for decades—perhaps nearly a century.

Westport House itself stood not far away, an impressive example of Palladian architecture. Built in the 18th century, its design was influenced by classical Greek and Roman styles, favouring symmetry, clean lines, and understated grandeur.

After exploring the inside of the house—its historic rooms, grand staircases, and portraits that stared silently back—I stepped out and came down the stone steps. I kept walking further along the path until I reached a small stone bridge. The Carrowbeg river flowed gently beneath it, making its way toward the sea. Just past it, partially nestled beneath the shade of tall trees, stood the statue of Grace O’Malley.

Carved from stone with bronze details, she stood tall, her left hand resting firmly on her belt where a sword was tied. Her gaze overlooked the estate calmly but commandingly. Grace O’Malley, the legendary Irish pirate queen of the 16th century, had ruled the western seas and defended her lands. Westport House was built on the foundations of the very castle she had constructed. And even now, she seemed to be guarding more than just land—perhaps a legacy, a defiant spirit that refused to be forgotten.

But the 450 bus to Achill island wasn’t going to wait for epiphanies. My destination awaited.

As I began to make my way back toward the town centre, a gentle drizzle began to fall.

Of course. It wouldn’t be a proper Irish afternoon without the benevolence of Indra—the Hindu God of weather. He must have immigrated from India when I did, conspiring with the other weather Gods across religions now settled in Ireland. A light mist first, like an affectionate nudge, before maturing into a steady patter—not hostile at that time, just persistent enough to remind you where you were.

Reaching the town centre, I grabbed something to eat and found a spot under the Glendenning Monument, The Octagon. The large patio umbrella above my table was flapping in the wind like a protest flag, fighting to stay in place. For now, the umbrella was winning.

As I finished my last piece of fries and wiped my mouth, I looked up.

Less than ten feet from me, an elderly man—perhaps in his eighties—was unloading trays of plants from the back of his white van. His frame was bent but not broken—he moved with care, laying out the pots one by one from the tray, pausing for a friendly chat with a passerby while doing so.

“What would my mom do if she were here?” I thought. I already knew the answer.

She would forget she was in a new place. Forget her son was even there. And without a care in the world, she would start examining the plants one after another, asking as many questions as she needed —without speaking proper English—until her curiosity was satisfied.

She’s been tending to our garden with more than 200 varieties of plants since I can remember. When I was a kid, I used to play cricket in our yard while she worked in the garden. She would say in her stern voice, “Raja! if that cricket ball so much as breaks a leaf, I’ll break your leg!” Oh mom, wish you were here.

I had a few minutes left for the bus, so I decided to walk around a bit when I came across a small exhibition for local entrepreneurs. Some stalls showcased wooden crafts, while others handmade jewellery. But one in particular caught my interest—a simple setup of natural skincare products, laid out with care.

I leaned closer and read the leaflet. All the products were plant-based.

"Wow Dad, did you see that? All plant-based—how about that?" I said silently in my head.

My father knew plants the way most people know their siblings. He is a retired professor in ethnobotany —a multidisciplinary science involving the traditional use of plants by human beings.

I had never seen plant-based skincare products sold back home in Assam.

“Hi there,” a soft voice broke my thoughts.

Dressed in black—professional yet relaxed—a young woman stepped forward. She had a soft golden blonde hair that tumbled just past her shoulders in gentle, natural waves. The strands shimmered faintly in the light, framing her features with a quiet elegance. She wore it parted slightly to the side, allowing a few loose layers to fall forward. The effect was both effortless and refined—a look that spoke of confidence and grace. Her eyes, subtly highlighted by a fine black eyeliner that winged gently upwards. Her tone matched her look—measured, kind, present.

She told me about her brand, 'Bláthana'. As she spoke, she picked up one of her products and ran her finger across the name on the label, pausing gently on 'Bláth'. “It means flower in Irish,” she said. “And 'Ana'... that’s the name of my sister”. She paused for a brief moment and continued “She passed away very young. I wanted to preserve her loving spirit, to hold her in something beautiful and alive—in the name, in the care, in every intention behind what I make.”

I was at a loss for words. What do you say when someone shares something so deeply personal, yet so calmly? There was a quiet strength in her eyes—not of someone who had moved on, but of someone who had made peace by carrying her sister with her, every day, through her work and her memories.

We continued our conversation like old friends in a new city, her passion for her brand wrapping softly around each word and at the same time inquisitive about India and her cultures.

Few minutes into our conversation, I glanced at my watch and said, a little reluctantly, “I have a bus to catch. I better hurry”. She inquired where I was heading and when I mentioned Achill Island, she responded excitedly “Ohh wow! Achill. You will love it. It is beautiful”. She extended her hand, and said warmly,

"I am Morgane."

"Raj," I replied with a smile, and wished her the best on her journey and continued my walk toward the bus stop.

As I walked, I thought about my recent encounter with Dead Sea cosmetics while I was in Jordan. I wondered if there were any common ingredients between skincare products made from Dead Sea minerals and those made entirely from plants.

It would take almost two hours to reach Keel, a village in Achill Island. About an hour into the ride, I felt it—that old, familiar flutter of motion sickness. Even though the roads weren’t winding through steep mountain passes, and I wasn’t climbing up to 2,000 metres like I had en route to Ooty, a mountain town in India, something about the motion stirred it anyway. I closed my eyes and rested my head back. Something I usually do when I find myself in such a state. It helps.

The rain, as we entered Mulranny, wasn’t friendly. It was hostile, lashing against the windows. The best part of Irish rain though, is that it never overstays. A few minutes later, the clouds were pushed aside, leaving the road ahead dry and glinting.

My journey ended at Joyce’s B&B in Keel, where a gentle elderly woman named Anne handed me the room keys. Achill waited to be explored.