This journey didn’t start with holiness; it started as an alternative to twelve pubs — not because there’s anything wrong with twelve pubs, but because we wanted to try something different.
We were looking for a reason to get up on a Sunday morning that didn’t involve questioning our life choices the night before.
What we called Twelve Churches began half as a joke and half as a challenge: could we replace pints with pews and still enjoy ourselves?
As it turns out, we could — and then some. We are from the parish of Baltinglass, and what started close to home with the three of us — myself (Luke Doogue), Neil, and Stephen Patterson — quickly took on a life of its own.
The very first Mass was in Grangecon, said by Father Ger Ahern — good enough to bring us back the following week to Stratford, and apparently good enough to accidentally start something far bigger than planned.
Twelve Churches never really stopped.
It kept going past twelve, past twenty, and has now grown to over forty churches.
Some people think we are mad. They are probably right, but we don’t really care.
Somewhere between church number fifteen and church number forty, it stopped being a challenge and became something we genuinely looked forward to.
Along the way, what began as a once-off idea quietly turned into a Sunday morning ritual: going to Mass together, followed by breakfast and long conversations over a cinnamon bun from the Grangecon Kitchen or a breakfast roll.
Mass stopped being something we simply attended and became something we shared.
The breakfast table often became the place where the readings were unpacked, how Communion tasted was discussed, and the homily was debated — usually between bites of a fry.
Getting to know people in our own parish proved just as important as travelling further afield.
As familiar as our everyday parish Masses became, stepping into places like Bolton Abbey reminded us that Mass can also feel like an experience.
Celebrating Mass there felt different — quieter, more reflective, almost suspended from normal routine.
By contrast, Mass in the cathedral always felt like an event.
As the heart of the diocese, there was a sense of occasion to it — you sat up a little straighter, paid a little more attention, and felt part of something much bigger than yourself.
Across the dioceses of Kildare and Leighlin and Dublin, we encountered a wide range of Masses and priests and quickly discovered that there is such a thing as a near-perfect Mass length.
In our view, it sits comfortably in the 35th – 42nd minute window, too short, and it feels rushed; too long, and you find yourself mentally planning your breakfast order.
The best Masses also contained the right elements, including, crucially, the Nicene Creed. Why anyone thought it was a good idea to shorten a creed so great remains a mystery to us.
We also learned that the little things can elevate an already good Mass, and where you sit is one of them.
We are firmly not main-aisle people.
Our seat of choice is the side aisle — usually the left — about a quarter of the way up, and ideally within a reasonable distance of whatever heat source is available.
A good seat won’t save a poor Mass, but it can certainly add to a good one, helping you settle, focus, and feel properly part of what’s happening.
Some churches challenged our expectations entirely.
Askinagap Chapel was a shock to the system in the best possible way. With one set of pews along the left side of the small chapel, everyone shared the same seating space. When we say it filled from the back, we mean it — shoulder to shoulder in the back five rows, while only a handful sat closer to the priest. It was different, unexpected, and a reminder that Mass doesn’t always have to look the same to be meaningful.
Music played a huge role in shaping our experience. We came to deeply appreciate a good choir and were lucky to encounter many. One particularly memorable occasion was in Duiske Abbey — a church that is nothing short of magnificently engineered.
The acoustics worked incredibly in the choir’s favour, especially when they sang one of my personal favourites, Magnificat.
Another standout was Saint Mary’s Pro-Cathedral in Dublin, where the Castledermot Choir put on what can only be described as an exhibition of music. The congregation sang the majority of the Mass, turning it into a thoroughly enjoyable and uplifting experience.
While those two choirs stood out, many others were equally excellent.
We were also fortunate to attend some truly special Masses.
The Chrism Mass in Carlow Cathedral was one such occasion — an event in every sense of the word.
Nearly every member of the clergy in the diocese was present, the cathedral was more than full, the choir was outstanding, and the atmosphere was something to behold.
Refreshments afterwards didn’t hurt either — they never do.
It was around this time that the group began to grow.
Friends joined the journey, including Ross Harmon — a Carlow man, but we like him in spite of that — and Dylan Byrne, a great club man, well known for his ability to appear just before the Gospel and slot in seamlessly.
The group expanded naturally, proving that enthusiasm has a habit of spreading.
Another unforgettable Mass took place much closer to home, in Knockpatrick Cemetery.
The local custom of climbing the hill through the fields to reach the graveyard set the tone perfectly. We met loads of people we knew, admired views stretching for miles around, and were reminded of the deep connection between faith, place, and community.
Refreshments afterwards once again sealed the deal.
Over forty churches, one thing became very clear: people matter. Priests who smiled, made eye contact, spoke plainly, or took time to chat before or after Mass transformed the entire experience.
Often, it was conversations at the church door — or with parishioners afterwards — that made us want to return. Many people were both admiring of and puzzled by a group of young lads travelling the country for a different church every week, and those exchanges became part of the journey itself.
A quick nod to Bishop Nulty and Father Ahern, whose encouragement never wavered.
After that, it was down to us committing to the rhythm of Sunday Mass and staying faithful to it. That made a huge difference to how Neil, Stephen and I experienced the whole journey.
And, of course, the grannies — quietly delighted to see their grandsons up early on a Sunday morning, heading to Mass rather than home.
With a bishop backing us and grannies proudly keeping tabs, giving up was never a thought; it had simply become part of our Sunday routine and part of who we are.
This isn’t a sermon, just a story — of a year that made us laugh, brought us together, and showed that a Sunday morning can be something to look forward to. What began as an alternative to twelve pubs became a tradition, and we have no intention of giving it up. We don’t know how many churches we will end up visiting, and we are not in any rush to stop.
If loving Mass, community, friendship, and breakfast makes us mad, then we are more than happy to be.