The Story of Knock Airport
A Miracle on a Boggy Hilltop
It’s U.S. presidential election night.
The whole world feels like it’s holding its breath right now, and I’m no different, hunched over my laptop, doomscrolling through a never-ending stream of confusion and division.
But in contrast, in the background, Christy Moore is singing “Knock Airport” in my earphones…
“Once this quiet crossroads was a place of gentle prayer… From Fatima to Bethlehem and from Lourdes to Kiltimagh, I've never seen a miracle like the airport up in Knock.”
His words are like a time machine, pulling me out of this endless hellscape that we’re witnessing on the other side of the Atlantic and transporting me to the simple, boggy lands of the West of Ireland.
A Love Letter to the West of Ireland
I’ve always had a soft spot for the West of Ireland. There’s something really raw and comforting about it.
Stone walls winding through green fields, the Atlantic winds that hit you like a slap in the face, the history and folklore that live in every conversation.
It’s a place of true storytellers.
Some of my earliest stories from the West come from family trips to Knock. As a kid, I’d be dragged along as my mam took my granny to the Shrine.
At the time, it felt like a sort of Disneyland for adults who loved going to mass. A massive church loomed over the whole place, priests in their long robes were everywhere, and there were rosary beads pouring out of every crack and crevice.
I didn’t understand it then. I just knew it was a place where my granny’s eyes would light up, where she’d clutch her rosary and murmur prayers, lost in something deeper than I could understand.
It was only later in life that I began to see the significance of Knock, a place of hope, healing, and, for many, miracles.
The Miracle of Knock
Knock became famous in 1879, when the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, and St. John supposedly appeared on the gable wall of the local church.
Fifteen villagers witnessed this ‘apparition’ (sighting), and the story spread far and wide. Knock transformed into a pilgrimage site, a place where people came seeking grace or a touch of the divine.
When Pope John Paul II visited in 1979 to celebrate the centenary of the apparition, almost half a million people came to see him. This solidified Knock’s reputation as a holy site.
But nobody could have predicted what would come next.
In the 1980s, the West of Ireland was in a state of deep economic hardship.
Unemployment was rampant, and emigration was robbing communities of their young people. Infrastructure was poor, and many felt the West had been left behind as the rest of the country progressed.
It was against this bleak backdrop that Monsignor James Horan, the parish priest of Knock, had an extraordinary idea:
To build an international airport right there, on a boggy hill near the Shrine.
Not just any airport, but one that could welcome pilgrims from all over the world.
Obviously, people thought he was mad.
Critics called it a reckless fantasy. But Horan had faith (and not just the spiritual kind). He was a man with a vision and a belief that the West of Ireland deserved more.
“We Have No Money, But We’re Building an Airport”
There’s an iconic interview with RTÉ’s Jim Fahy that captures Horan’s audacity.
Standing on the muddy construction site, surrounded by workers, Horan grinned and said:
“We have no money, but we’re hoping to get it next week or the week after… I’m not sure whether I have permission or not, but I mean, I’m going ahead anyhow.”
The idea of an airport in this economically depressed area seemed truly absurd.
Imagine the West of Ireland in the early ‘80s: families struggling to make ends meet, young people emigrating in their thousands, and the roads so bad that even a trip to the local town felt like a pilgrimage in itself.
Yet Horan drove on, even when funding was cut after the 1982 election.
To make up the shortfall, he launched an ambitious Jumbo Draw, a lottery with transatlantic flights as prizes. It was a wild concept, especially in a place where many people had never flown before.
But Horan knew how to tug at heartstrings. He traveled the world. He went to Australia, the United States, and beyond, appealing to the Irish abroad, urging them to support his dream.
The aging priest raised millions through sheer charm and determination.
People bought tickets, believing in his vision, or maybe just in the magic of Knock.
In 1985, Knock Airport opened for business.
Watching an old, grainy video of the opening day is surreal. Jumbo jets landing on a hill that had once been nothing but bog and bramble.
Horan had pulled off the impossible, bending reality to his will through faith and sheer stubbornness.
But this wasn’t just an airport.
It was a statement, a declaration that the West of Ireland mattered, that it wasn’t forgotten.
As I sit here on election night, watching the world teeter on the brink of who-knows-what, the story of Knock Airport feels like a reminder of a time before my time.
A time that had its own very serious issues, one being the power and control of the very Catholic Church from which Monsignor Horan came.
But, it was also a time when one person could move mountains—or at least build airports.
We’ve come so far from those days, from that Ireland.
Now, we’re all plugged into a world that feels bigger and scarier, where hate is far too prevalent, where miracles seem harder to come by.
Anyway, back to doomscrolling through news articles, praying to God that Trump doesn’t win.
Who knows?
If things really go south, maybe I’ll find myself in Knock by morning, looking for one last miracle.
“This is the greatest thing that has happened in Connacht in the last 100 years and this is the greatest day of my life.”
Monsignor Horan at the official opening of Knock Airport in 1986