ultra gaelic

Good day and you’re very welcome to this post on Galway. We spent two nights here. 

Kevin seems to rate Galway fairly highly, but I’m not so sure. Perhaps my disinclination stems from the dubious quality of the hotel we stayed in. The first night was an unmitigated shocker as the drunks streaming back to the adjacent apartment block kept me awake until dusk. Hawkworthy, in his far more comfortable bed away from the window, slept just fine. 

The city itself is pleasant enough. We strolled along one edge of the wide bay one sunny afternoon, the first of our many walks throughout Western Ireland. Along the way we passed a peculiar strip of road, known to Kevin from his previous trip, that seemed to double as a parking bay for trucks designated for learner drivers. Perhaps the owner of the company was a local political heavyweight who had managed to wrangle permission to park his machines on the street?  My favourite venue in the city centre was a fish and chips cafe with no-nonsense staff and curious paraphernalia on the wall, including an enthusiastic endorsement on the quality of the fish from the Russian navy. The servings were enormous and the food was indeed good, so we came back a second time (making that three trips in total for Kevin, since he had been there on an earlier trip), the Hawk finally finding that the elusive ray was available for consumption. Not sure if he would recommend the item, but then again, who orders ray at a fish and chip shop? 

The first night was more memorable than the second. Kevin rather surprisingly elected to join me at evening Mass in the Galway Cathedral. It proved, however, to be an occasion of meagre inspiration. The elderly priest had trouble staying on his feet and spent most of the Mass mumbling into his vestments. He finally perked up during the concluding rite when it came time to wish the Galway hurling team all the best for their evening game – “Yes, and we certainly wish them well and trust that they will do us all proud.” The reference soon turned out to be something of a red herring: we took a taxi that evening to and from the nearby village of Spiddal, but neither of our drivers seemed to know or care about the game. The first driver made a half-hearted effort at tuning in the game before eventually settling on the frequency that would provide us with the maximum amount of static for the remainder of the journey. The driver on the return journey opined that the owners of the pub we visited knew full well that the Irish-music band wouldn’t show up (on account of the bank holiday), but had refused to disclose this information for fear of driving patrons away. It was a neat little pub, though, and we still had an enjoyable evening, two Guinnesses prompting Hawk to take over the role of making small talk with the second taxi driver. Ouch! In any case we did get manage to get a small taste of hurling earlier that evening when, on a brief walk after dinner, we came across a young lad practicing his skills in his back yard. Jumping the fence I grabbed his hurling stick and had a bit of a go myself, imagining that I was doing the Galway priest, and indeed all Irish people, proud as I ran up and down. Is that how you remember it Kevin? 

Summary: Galway is something of a Hawkins plaice, but it ain’t no Ann Arbor.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 18th, 2010 at 4:42 pm and is filed under photos. Both comments and pings are currently closed.