The Goliard Online - Reviews, opinion, complaints, original writing, analysis, humor, and pith
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The Snapper's Tour of Ireland Part 1- Dublin Part 2: Galway
I rode the bus all the way back into Galway City thinking I would locate some much needed supper before having a few pints. I was in fact starving having only eaten a Mars Bar to left me over since I pushed away from Catherine's morning spread and breathing the crisp sea air and walking all day had left a hollow in my pit. As I wandered up Mainguard Street, a lively pedestrian only byway with Irish music emanating out of each and every pub, I counted seven such watering holes within a hundred yards. The saucy tunes from coming out one door in particular caught my ear and despite my hunger and against my better judgment, I decided that it couldn't hurt to down at least one draught before seeking out some chow. As it turned out, I would not emerge for another few hours after consuming five pints and shattering another. So much for drinking on an empty stomach!
Notes on Galway: |
When my train finally pulled into Galway, the wind off the
Atlantic was driving the rain sideways and, as I jumped down onto
the platform and was almost blown back across the tracks, I realized
if I wasn't careful it might do the same to the Snapper. Somewhat disoriented, I
bundled myself as best I could, lowered my shoulder to the bluster, and followed the signs towards
Eyre Square which
I knew from my reading was a place I could catch a bus. I had arranged to stay at a
bed
and breakfast in Salthill, a
little resort town which I had selected because it was only about a 20 to 30 minutes
stroll along the ocean from Galway and I thought it might be remote enough to seem like it
was off alone in the Irish countryside. In
the rain and wind however, I figured I'd forego any lonely strolling for now and opted
instead for public transport. This decision was
made even easier by the fact that I wasn’t exactly sure which direction
I needed to head along the coast to even get to Salthill. Huddled in the entrance of a Bank of Ireland
and nearly soaked to the bone, I spied a bus with the word Salthill
on it and hurried aboard. My blunder became evident soon however
when I found that I had ignored the bus
number figuring there probably wouldn't be a bunch of busses heading to
such a small community. I had boarded a crowded bus which did indeed go to Salthill, but it was not the desired routing
that would drop me anywhere near my B and B. I ended up as one
of the last ones aboard, across
town somewhere, and peering out the rain streaked windows. At that
point I did what any savvy world
traveler would do and stayed on the bus until it had dropped every
last passenger and returned back to the same stop where I had first
gotten on. I then
exited that bus and walked three steps to the bus parked behind which
turned out to be the bus I should have been on in the first place. I was, of course, the
only passenger on the second bus.
When I arrived at the 
I dropped off my things and headed down to Salthill. It was still
raining and I didn’t really feel like trekking all over tarnation to find
food so I stepped inside the first cozy restaurant I passed which
was called The Galleon. I
ordered a pint of Guinness and an entree called "The Cod and Baked
Potato". The meal
was warm and satisfying if a little bland and provided a pleasant reprieve from the rain.
I set out for a post prandial and was
walking past a pub called Killoran’s when I heard from within the
sort of din that only emanates when folks are watching some serious sport. As I
headed for the door I was greeted gruffly by a craggy bloke leaning against
a wall having a smoke. “Er's good
beer inside but no women,” he rasped. As it turned out, there were a few women
but it was primarily a tough fisherman crowd all of whom were
completely engrossed in the
European Cup finals between Liverpool and AC Milan. The crowd was
naturally supporting Liverpool. I ordered a pint (at this point in
the account it is no longer necessary to identify what was in the
pint) and joined the cheering section. A dejected ruffian leaning on
the bar caught me up on the action and explained that "the
tossers" from AC Milan were
ahead 3-0 at halftime. Now I'm far from a fanatic soccer fan (am I
being redundant?) but am familiar enough with the game to know that 3-0 is
usually an
insurmountable lead in most matches. Liverpool however had other
ideas and came back
to tie the score and send the match to penalty kicks. When Liverpool
finally prevailed, the crowd went ballistic with full on back
slapping and high-fiving and extemporaneous speech making regarding
the superior stock of certain groups. I was glad I
stopped in Killoran's despite the shortage of females.
I woke up the next day at 7 am with the smell of Irish sausage and
bacon wafting under my door from Catherine's kitchen. Figuring there
would be nothing like the full
Irish breakfast to prepare me for an all day trek around the Aran
Islands, I helped myself to seconds and thirds and chatted amicably with a young couple and their two young children
who were living in Germany but were originally from Denver. Two
other adventurous lasses from Washington D.C. were also at table and were also
on their way to the Aran Islands. Catherine was right, the day was
beautiful and sunny. The 45-minute ferry ride was invigorating with
the salty spray of the Atlantic blowing in my face as we bobbed
over the white caps. I talked to the girls from the B and B a little
bit on the way over and they had me snap their photo but I didn't
see them again after that.
When the ferry arrived at Kilroanan
which is the main port on the largest
of the Islands, the less savvy of the passengers were swallowed up
immediately by mini van day
tours, horse drawn carriages, and renters of bicycles. I managed to
dodge them all and head off on foot to see the islands as
my own man. The windswept expanse is criss-crossed
with stone walls, ruined abbeys, old forts and Gaelic cemeteries. I
spent the day ambling through all of the above and mainly enjoying
the rugged peace and solitude that this desolate place had to offer.
I especially enjoyed the mysterious Black Fort, which is a crumbling
stone mass perched on the edge of sheer cliffs that drop straight into
the Atlantic. Next stop to the west is Nova Scotia! I sat on the cliffs for
an hour or more thoroughly relaxed until I sensed an encroachment from behind and found
that my solitude was suddenly being overrun by a French walking tour.
A couple of the French girls plopped down next to me on their
stomachs and I thought
about striking up a conversation but suddenly the time just seemed right for moving along.
The name of the pub was the Tig Coili and the sign boasted that
it was “home to traditional Irish Music.” The walls were indeed
covered with pictures of musicians that had played at the pub over
the years. It would have been a lucky bloke indeed who could have been
manning a stool in there on all those
nights and getting to hear the talent that passed through. I
took a seat at the end of the bar with a view of the musicians at
their table.
Towns like Galway bring back sentimental memories of my graduate
school days in Durham, England. The windy cobbled streets and all the
gleeful students finishing up their exams. Galway is home to Ireland’s
largest university and the term was in the process of ending. The
air seemed replete with the familiar vibe that comes with the end of
term and change of season.
I
had stayed my hour and was contemplating moving on until the beautiful and talented
Julia came on shift and took her post behind the bar. The Tig was not yet busy and
Julia seemed somewhat ambivalent about it all at first as she snacked on some
Planter’s Peanuts and leaned on the back bar. She noticed that I was jotting down notes and asked
me what it was that I was writing. Still coherent at this point, I replied that I
was taking down some travel thoughts for the Goliard while they were
still fresh in my mind. She of course wasn't familiar with the
publication but then I remembered that I had a wrinkled
business card that one of our editors had given me a stack of once
and extracted it from my wallet and handed to her. Right about then, the bar started getting
crowded and Julia kicked it into gear and worked
the room with a mesmerizing talent, sparkling smile and
contagious enthusiasm. She undoubtedly had her admirers and I can
understand why. Julia asked if I was going to write nice things
about her. The answer was, of course, yes.
As the music played, the pints flowed and Julia worked her magic,
I struck up a conversation with some locals. After about five pints
and some lively gabbing back and forth about how the damned French had voted
"non" on the EU question I realized I needed to head to the Loo. The
problem was that the toilet was located all the way on the other side of the
bar and it would be necessary to make my way through the shoulder to
shoulder crowd if I was going to use it. Given that I had swallowed five pints on an empty stomach,
this simple trip was becoming a much more formidable task than it normally should
have. It was necessary to brave it however and I shuffled forth through the
crowd murmuring my excuse mes and shoe horning my way along. I had almost reached my goal when I made a false move
that coincided with the animated gesticulations of an innocent
patron and resulted in me knocking a pint out of his hand. There is
no mistaking the silence that seems to follow a shattering pint
glass in a crowded bar, especially when you're the one that caused
the offense.
Naturally I offered to buy the bloke another pint. The problem
was that once I had used the facilities and purchased the beverage, I
returned to the spot of the foul but couldn’t remember,
or at least identify, who the person was among the crowd of other
drinkers. The table that I could have sworn the guy had been standing near now seemed to
have three women sitting on it, one of whom said "Why doncha
get along ya" as I unsteadily sipped the pint and tried to snap their photo. I
pinballed about some more and attempted to inquire of at least two other
amazingly similar looking blokes if it was they who I owed
the pint and did this by proffering it unsteadily towards them. When they
both looked
at me and my now half full pint as if I was crazy, I realized I was simply too hammered to
function and the time had come for me to bid Julia and the Tig Coili
farewell. As I was
contemplating my exit, the front door seemed a long way yonder and navigating
the room to get there without dashing another pint glass to the
floor seemed almost an impossibility. Instead I grabbed my pack and jittered out the back
door by the kitchen hoping nobody would notice as I disappeared into the windy streets of a Galway night. Not the exit I had
planned but then again no one really sets out to make a complete ass
of themselves. So, if you didn't throw the card away Julia and
happen to read this, drop me an email and let
me know if I am welcome back in the Tig Coili. I'd like to visit it
again someday as, despite my humiliations, it was truly one of my
favorite pubs!
The
streets were strangely deserted as I skittered down various alleys
trying to get my bearings and it became clear that I was drastically
in need of some food. Quite possibly, I was equally in need of
the bracing walk back to Salthill but the trouble was that I was
totally our of gas not to mention completely discombobulated
geographically by this
point. Finally, after I oriented myself
toward the sea, I hugged the coast and straggled along back towards the B and B. Since it
had somehow gotten to be 11:30 in the p.m., I was severely running out of options to get
any kind of food
in my stomach but just as I had about given up and set about
stumbling to bed hungry, a bright orange sign in the distance
illuminated my answer. Dynasty Chinese Take-Away, open until
Midnight! I crashed through the door and was pointed to a menu that must
have had over 100 options. I chose Kung Pao Chicken with Pork Fried
Rice. The food tasted more like sweet and sour duck and cashew
shrimp and was generally
pretty brutal in quality but it saved me nevertheless. The next morning,
I awoke to find that my small cozy room
smelled like a garbage dumpster due assumedly to some particularly
noxious nocturnal combustion brought on by my suspect
gastrointestinal efforts of the day before.
The Irish Breakfast invigorated me
once again however at the break of a new morn and this time it was augmented with the added power of three cups of
strong black fisherman's coffee. I
decided to take the day tour of the Connemara Peninsula. This
particular tour
did not get off to a great start as we were dropped at a type of
tourist trap and told we would have 30 minutes in which to browse
through the trinkets. Since I didn’t
need to load up on overpriced souvenirs, I decided on more coffee.
We then boarded the bus only to be told that we would be switching
to a smaller bus since the first one had a flat tire. Despite the slow
start the day progressed much better as we drove through the rugged
beauty of this western fringe of Ireland. The highlight was the
spectacular 
I once again visited Galway City but this time I decided I would
get some food in my stomach up front. I made a trip inside McDonagh’s Fish and Chips
and 15 minutes later I was full and properly fortified with Atlantic
Cod, chips, salt and vinegar. I was ready for a few pints. After
deliberating for a moment, I decided against revisiting the scene of last night’s crime, the
Tig Coili and instead headed back out towards Salthill to the
landmark pub called O’Connors. I almost gave up on the place and
began walking back to Galway when I read the
sign on the door that said "Will return at 7:30 p.m.".
Instead however, I decided to pop back over to Killoran’s for a pint
and then give O’Connors another try. On this night, Killoran’s was
filled with an even rougher crowd than the last time I was in. No
soccer tonight, just hard drinking characters and without the
distraction of the soccer
match on the telly I found that I was being not so subtly sized up. I didn't want to run the risk of drawing
their local ire due to some U.S. fishing policy or some such that I wasn't
even aware of in the event that they heard my Yankee accent so I finished my pint quickly
and quietly and took my leave. 
I headed back to O’Connors and
when I walked
through the doors, I was instantly mesmerized with the sheer clutter
of the place. Every square inch of
this bar including the ceiling was filled with antiques of every
size and variety, from glass fishing buoys to old lanterns, to
cracked wooden paddles, to ancient stained spittoons. Nothing
I can say would prepare you for the perfectly festooned and absolute hodgepodge of O’Connors. The
inner bar is comprised of a series of privately situated candle lit tables
in various alcoves and cubbies. This is a place to sit and spend
some time. The Irish music starts at 9:30 p.m. but an eclectic mix of
great music plays through the speakers until then. The place was more or less empty when
I first arrived so I had my pick of seats. Soon the room began to
fill with a wide range of clientele which included students of all
nationalities, tourists, and locals.
I enjoyed two pints but why stop at two when you can have three.
Since I love to watch people, I was in business. The table to my
left was especially interesting. A beautiful German traveler and an Irish
lad who appeared in over his head and who no doubt had brought the
lass to O’Connors to impress her
with the ambiance and uniqueness, plopped down. He immediately
began floating his local knowledge. This seemed to be a good move for
the lad and she had a sparkle in her eye when he mentioned that the
traditional music would start fairly soon and added the tidbit that his parents knew some of the
band members personally. I thought to myself that he was playing his
cards right as we both listened to tales of this woman’s travels,
him with a stupid grin on his face and me surreptitiously. He
didn’t seem happy though all of a sudden when his cell phone chirped. I knew something
was up when he fumbled to turn it off only to have it vibrate across the
table a few minutes later.
I suspected that things were
beginning to go south for this fellow when I heard the traveler ask him some question regarding an apparent
girlfriend that he was clearly trying to down play. I had a fleeting
sense of false hope that the joker would be forced to scurry home soon and the German woman would
then slide over to my table
once she
noticed me writing in my travel journal and detected an erudition and cut of jib that she had not often encountered in
other men about the world. Before my reverie could get too
involved however the Irish bloke’s situation began to unravel further as he kept getting spotted by
his mates who would then come over to the table and demand introductions
to the new gal. As all good mates will, they also made a point of asking after the health of his steady woman. Somehow I knew that
in a small town like Salthill, word would travel and this bloke was
going to have some explaining to do. I entertained the idea briefly
that the poor
sap was merely showing a weary world traveler the inside of a
traditional Irish watering hole with no ulterior motives but I doubted that was the
case and who could really blame him. Just
as the music began to play I
overheard something about how they now had to hurry off because the apparent
girlfriend had cooked a meal and they were expected over at the flat
ASAP. As the
two exited stage left I made eye contact with the German woman and
her glance seemed to say that she was wishing she could stay and
join me at my table. That's
what I like to think anyway. I
went to bed that night wondering where her travels would take her
next and whether I could arrange to be there waiting. If it happened
to be Trim
where she was headed, that would work out fine since I was heading
there myself in the morning.