Running the Edge: Sean Clifford’s Wild Atlantic Way Challenge
There are endurance runs, there are grand adventures, and then there are undertakings so vast they seem almost impossible to comprehend. In August, Kerry ultrarunner Sean Clifford set out to tackle one of the most audacious challenges ever attempted on Irish soil: to run 2,700 kilometres along the Wild Atlantic Way in a single, unbroken effort.
The Wild Atlantic Way is no ordinary route. At over 2,700 kilometres long, it is Europe’s longest defined coastal trail — a jagged line tracing Ireland’s Atlantic edge from Donegal to Cork. It is a road of cliffs and coves, peninsulas and punishing out-and-backs, of hairpin bends carved into headlands and villages that cling to the shoreline. Most people drive it in two weeks. Some brave it by bike. Almost no one dares to run it.
Clifford’s plan was simple on paper: start in Muff, County Donegal, and make his way south to Kinsale, County Cork. His target: 27 days. His reality: 29 days and 15 hours of relentless running, taping, refuelling, breaking down, and clawing himself back from the edge.
It was not just a test of endurance. It was a month-long battle with body, weather, and mind — and a showcase of the Irish running community at its very best.
A Harsh Reality Check
On the opening day, Clifford covered 103 kilometres — a staggering effort by any standard. But it was a costly one. By the second morning, fatigue and soreness forced him to recalculate. The challenge was not about racing. It was about surviving. If he was to make Kinsale, he would need to treat every kilometre with respect.
Donegal drove that lesson home. The county’s endless headlands and punishing out-and-backs devoured nearly a week on their own. Some stretches seemed designed to test the mind more than the legs, forcing Clifford to retrace steps along the same lonely roads.
What kept him moving were the people. The ARD running club appeared day after day, pacing him through wind and rain, bringing food and cheer, reminding him that this was a shared endeavour. On challenges of this scale, company is more than support — it’s medicine. A few miles with friends can lift the heart, put a smile on a face, and remind even the most exhausted runner that they are not alone.
The Gift of Westport
If Donegal was survival, Mayo delivered an unforgettable lift. After days of relentless miles, the General Manager of the Westport Plaza Hotel offered Clifford and his crew a night’s stay.
“It was surreal,” Alicja recalled. “After living out of the van, suddenly we felt like monarchy.”
The contrast was stark: one moment battling wind and rain on the causeways to Achill Island, the next stepping into warmth, comfort, and rest. It was a brief respite, but it restored body and spirit for the miles ahead.
Galway as “Halfway”
Maps don’t always tell the truth, but in Clifford’s mind, Galway meant halfway. The numbers said otherwise — but refusing to count mileage became its own strategy. Ignorance, as he put it, was bliss.
Galway also brought another wave of community. The Galway Trail Running Club turned out in force, from dawn until late at night, ensuring Clifford was never alone. Their presence underlined a simple but vital truth: when the body is battered and the mind begins to unravel, a friendly stride beside you can restore belief.
A Body on the Edge
Despite the camaraderie, Clifford’s body was fraying. His Achilles tendon inflamed, forcing him to tape it daily and slow his pace to avoid disaster. Later, his quad seized, demanding careful management.
This was not recklessness. Clifford’s strength lay in knowing when to adapt. Each time pain surfaced, he adjusted, refusing to gamble the journey on stubbornness. Listening to his body — when most would block it out — allowed him to keep moving where others might have been forced to stop.
Kerry and Collapse
When Clifford finally reached Kerry, his home county, he thought the worst was behind him. It wasn’t. The weather turned vicious, rain lashing the roads and wind cutting through every layer. On day 23, outside Cahersiveen, he was struck by violent illness — vomiting, diarrhoea, his body stripped of nutrients and water.
Still, he moved. Over three days of sickness, he covered 50 km, then 70 km, then 70 km again — distances that would define a career for most runners, but here were survival marches.
What pulled him through was, again, community. Friends appeared with hot food, warm tea, and simple words of care. The gestures mattered as much as the calories: proof that people wanted him to finish, that he was not alone in this battle.
Day 28: The Save
By the time Clifford entered West Cork, he was on the brink. The peninsulas there — Beara, Sheep’s Head, Mizen — are some of the most punishing sections of the entire route, long out-and-backs with no shortcuts, no easy outs.
On day 28, with the help of Len Whelton, he produced his most remarkable performance. In one day, he covered both the Beara Peninsula and Mizen Head, clocking 101 kilometres and finishing at 2:30 am. It was a herculean effort — and it saved the run. By banking those miles, he bought breathing room for the final push to Kinsale.
The Final Celebration
If day 28 was about grit, the final day was about joy. Clifford woke with the same freshness he had on day one, powering through 96 kilometres at pace. The sun blazed over West Cork’s rugged coastline, the roads lined with friends and strangers who had come to share in the last miles.
By the time he reached the final Discovery Point at Old Head of Kinsale, darkness had fallen — but a crowd was waiting with lights, music, and cheers. From there, a rolling carnival carried him the last 13 kilometres into town. Cars leapfrogged ahead to form human gates. Cyclists flanked him. The energy was electric.
Then, just outside Kinsale, the surreal: Gardaí pulled the group over, responding to calls about “a bunch of weirdos” running with head torches on the road. Once the story was explained, the Guards themselves joined in — providing a private escort for Clifford’s last stretch.
At the finish, the Kinsale Triathlon Club had built a gantry, a real finish line, where over 50 people gathered to witness the end. After 29 days and 15 hours, Clifford crossed it to a roar.
More Than a Run
In the aftermath, when we spoke to people who had followed the journey, most admitted the same thing: they hadn’t believed he could do it. And yet, kilometre by kilometre, through injury, sickness, and storm, Clifford proved them wrong.
In total, he ran just under 2,700 kilometres, climbing the equivalent of three Mount Everests, through some of the hardest terrain Ireland has to offer. But beyond the numbers, the story is one of resilience, adaptation, and the quiet power of community.
Clifford himself puts it best:
“People think it’s about running. But really, it’s about people. The running was just the excuse to bring us all together.”