I have a story that a lot of people might be able to relate to,” 47-year-old David Keohan tells me. Given the Irishman’s favourite pastime is ripping 150kg-plus boulders from the ground, I’m doubtful. But he continues.

“In my twenties I was into art and music and drinking and smoking. I was obese and unhealthy, mentally and physically. Then you get to your thirties and your body says, ‘Hold on a second, we need to start doing something about this, kid’.”

At 32, hungover, he went into a sports shop and bought a pair of trainers. “I remember the young fella working there laughing and going, ‘Are you sure, man?’” says Keohan, laughing.

Within six months, he had run a marathon. In the next few years, he became a world champion in kettlebell sport. Then, when Covid lockdowns struck, he started lifting stones. Heavy, heavy stones.

“I got bitten by the bug of feeling good,” Keohan continues. “Before, I never knew what feeling good felt like. But once you start to feel good, it’s amazing, and you realise how bad you felt for the last 10 years.”

Reviving the ancient culture of Irish stone lifting

When Covid lockdowns hit in 2020 and gyms were closed, most people used burpees in their bedroom to stay in shape. But Keohan, a father-of-three, had other ideas.

“I met my wife in art college and she carved stones,” Keohan says. “The stone I started lifting in the backyard was one of hers that weighed 60kg. I use strength training to keep me on an even keel anyway, so I think this helped keep me mentally sane throughout those years.”

A friend, who was building a wall at the time, saw what Keohan was doing and duly dropped 70kg and 90kg stones at his house. He has been without a gym membership ever since, instead performing lifts such as squats, rows and presses with gigantic stones – often with kettlebells balanced precariously on top of them.

This approach isn’t for everyone, sure. But it goes to show how fitness plans are far from one-size-fits-all.

“I sometimes go to the beach, name stones and lift them,” Keohan says. “It’s a free gym, you’re there by yourself, you get to hear the seabirds – why wouldn’t you?

“Then I found out there was a whole culture attached to stone lifting – it was more than just ‘man picks up rock’, so I started researching it.”

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Scotland has strong ties to lifting stones, with the Dinnie stones in Aberdeenshire being the best-known example. Other areas in Iceland and the Basque region also have a rich history in the practice.

“They were like a job interview in some cases,” Keohan says. “You couldn’t be a stonemason or a fisherman unless you could lift a certain stone. Or they were used as a rite of passage as you progressed from child to adult to warrior.”

Ireland has a strong culture of stone lifting, too. But this was wiped away centuries ago, largely through British colonisation and the famine, leaving little trace.

Learning of the Fianna stone in Scotland – named after bands of medieval Irish warriors – gave Keohan the hint he needed that lifting stones existed in Ireland. He then made it his mission to unearth any stones that remained west of the Irish sea.

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The stone of Inishmore – the first of many

He found his first on the Atlantic island of Inishmore in 2023. The breadcrumb trail that led him there included a mention in a short story called The Stone by Irish author Liam O’Flaherty, a tip-off from a Reddit post by O’Flaherty’s ancestor, and a collection of folktales from locals.

“Me and my friends went off in a camper van, headed over on the ferry then cycled to get to the right area,” Keohan says. “But once you get to Inishmore, you realise it’s just an island made of stone, covered in stones. And the stone we were looking for was located in a field of boulders.”

Fortunately, it stood out immediately – a rounded 171.2kg rump of granite with a uniquely pinkish hue, sitting in the middle of a small clearing. This isn’t 171.2kg of weight plates loaded on a knurled, ergonomic barbell either. It’s wet, it’s unwieldy, and it won’t be picked up without a fight.

Keohan went away and dedicated his free time to becoming strong enough to lift the stone: lifting progressively heavier stones in his training, eating more and packing on 20kg of body weight.

Months later, he returned to Inishmore and prised the stone from the floor. He lifted it to his lap, then lips, before planting three kisses on its cold surface – just as the protagonist in O’Flaherty’s short story had done. And with that, the culture of Irish lifting stones was continued.

From this point on, Keohan doubled down on his goal of tracking down more stones through myths, stories and word of mouth. Continuing the hunt at weekends, around his job at a construction depot in Waterford, he has since found more than 50.

“It’s given me a whole new purpose and a lease of life in my forties,” he says. “Finding this culture and sharing it with people has been amazing. It’s bringing back strength and pride, and there’s a whole national identity attached to it, too. ”

People now travel from all over the world to lift stones that Keohan has rediscovered. His Instagram account, Indiana Stones, has a loyal five-figure following. He recently released a book about his discoveries called The Wind Beneath the Stone. Irish stone lifting is back.

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Keep rolling: the life of a lifting stone

Historically, lifting stones served many purposes. Some started life as jostle stones outside pubs, stopping horse-drawn carts from cutting corners and damaging the pub’s walls. Some were placed at crossroads or along mass paths as entertainment. “People have always wanted to pick stuff up,” Keohan explains.

Other stones were used as a tangible measure of strength to decide if you were well-suited to a certain job. In Iceland, a set of four called the Dritvík stones were used to determine how much of that day’s fishing haul each sailor took home, Keohan tells me. They weighed 23kg, 54kg, 100kg and 154kg – the stone you lifted onto a natural plinth dictated your role in the boat and what share of the catch you kept.

“They had the same thing in the west of Ireland, I’ve found,” he adds. “They were all in the same boat, quite literally, and whoever could lift the stone the highest on their body would get the share of the catch they wanted. It was a cut-and-dry way of thinking, which I really enjoy.”

This, he says, is “the opposite of toxic masculinity” – a buzzword describing an antiquated environment of hierarchical masculinity, often based on subjective measures.

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The stones, by contrast, are inarguably objective – you either lift them or you don’t. Whoever you are, whatever your background, you can try. Pass or fail, you’re part of something bigger.

“It’s supportive and healthy,” Keohan says. “Come along to one of these stones. If you can get the wind under it, great, but it doesn’t matter. The most important part is that you get to be a part of the continuation of its story and culture. The strength aspect is secondary to me.”

To take part, there are just two overarching rules: “Respect the stones and respect the culture.”

“These stones aren’t pieces of gym equipment; they’re historical items,” says Keohan. “If the stone is broken, the story is dead and you broke the chain.

“If you’re strong enough to pick it up, you’re strong enough to put it down again without dropping it from your chest or shoulder. If you do that, you’ll have me and every other person who loves the lifting stones chasing after you.”

And that is a brawny group you do not want to fall foul of.

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