Nora's England/Ireland Travels 2002
Galway, June 18, 2002
It poured on Sunday.
Watching the match is our main goal in any case, so we spend a lazy morning, then decide to use the hotel lounge for our base rather than drive into the city in the rain. It was an exciting match, surely the best I've seen, and though our boys fought bravely the Irish lose after two periods of extra time in the last-ditch kick off. The fans here aren't fair weather, and though sad, they say it's a shame but how well the boys played throughout the tournament.
We spend the rest of the rainy Sunday reading by our fire, then have another wonderful dinner on the Orient Express.
Monday dawns sunny, or mostly in any case. Windy, too. I can hear the wind moan down our fireplace flu and see it whipping the trees outside. BW wants to drive along the coast, visiting the beaches and taking pictures, so I send him off so I can have a writing day.
It feels good to spend the day writing, and in the company of Eve and Roarke.
By late afternoon, I'm done for the day and take a long walk around the grounds. The hotel has a pretty little golf course skirting the lake. I avoid that, afraid I might get beaned, and walk around the other side where the old stone abbey stands. Behind it is a walled area, mostly just a wide field of mown grass, but the walls themselves are wonderful, vine-covered, and there's a lovely little rose garden.
All the little slopes here, running down to the parking lot, flanking the hotel entrances, leading to the Pullman cars, are planted with a mix of shrubs and flowers, and everything seems to be blooming. I see the gardener pushing a wheelbarrow and note he's just plugged in a flow of pink begonias. The sun moves in and out of the clouds while I walk, and the wind is fierce, but fairly warm. I walk all the way around, and see that even in areas where it's obviously for employees, the plantings are full and lovely.
As I round the building again, BW is just getting out of the car. We both agree it's a fine time for a drink in the pub. He had a good time rambling around, taking pictures, and spend some of it in a beach community near here that has an amusement park. While the rides weren't going yet, people were swimming. Hardy to say the least as it's no more than 60 degrees out and the water's bound to be colder than that.
We consult our two guides, and decide on what the older describes as one of the best dining experiences in Galway. We'll go for music after.
Back to Galway through the maze of roundabouts, traffic and narrow streets. Finally dump the car in a lot and hoof it. The wind's up, and it's fierce, but it's not raining. Nearly all the shops are closed, but people still stroll on Shop Street and a few buxters play. The cello girl is back in place in front of Kenny's. After some misdirection and backtracking, we find the place we'd picked only to find it's no longer a restaurant. We walk back, checking out menus posted in front of a few restaurants, and decide to eat in the pub where we'd planned to hear a session later.
The Quays is really more club than pub. It's three open stories for food and drink set in an old church. Thick stone walls, crooked windows, and a little area, like a nave, I suppose, across from the bar that's stained glass. From where we sit in the restaurant, we can see the bar, the upper stories, and the stained glass nook where we're told the musicians will set up.
We both go for the fish and chips. Wonderful fish in huge portions served with the expected chips as well as a potato croquette, an ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes--where else would you get three kinds of potatoes on your plate--and sautéed vegetables.
Our waiter tells us we have a good seat where we are for the music, so we stay put while they clear off the tables. They bring in a kind of platform for the musicians, and a plank for the stone floor as they'll also be step-dancers. People are pouring in now that it's after nine, and the bar is loaded. So is, apparently, the top level, and most of the main. All our tables are filled, too.
There are three in the band to start, and they spend a great deal of time setting up, unwinding a rat's nest of wire for the mics, smoking, chatting, having a pint. Just before ten, another comes along, carrying a McDonald's bag. He deals with wire, too, and there's a lot of sitting, smoking, drinking.
Behind us are a group of French I take for students, just across in my line of vision is a young couple of unknown nationality. A table on the other side of us fills with Irish and Americans who know each other. And in the back of us are tables filled with more French and a lot of young Irish. The girls here, I note, wear the most unflattering clothes. Tight, tight pants, riding low, low on the hips, and short tops to expose the belly--and the little rolls of fat. I'm thinking looser higher pants or lay off the pints and hit the gym. The guys dress like guys everywhere, mostly jeans baggy or snug with sweatshirts, sweaters or tees. But the girls, they baffle me.
Everyone had a cell phone here, to the man.
Just after ten, the music starts. It's been worth the wait. The oldest plays a bodrhan drum, amazingly. There's a young mandolin player, another on the guitar and another on the squeeze box. Tonight, there'll be ballads as well. When the guitarist sings its in that rough, tough voice, like the lead vocalist in The Commitments.
The dancers are three young women, dressed in short velvet with glittery sleeves. The crowd floods in, cramming the stairs so there's no hope of my seeing them. But I can hear their feet hitting the plank, and it's nearly as good.
The dancers finish and people go back to their tables. The young man of unknown nationality is having the best time. I don't know if I've ever seen anyone happier. His girl is up and around everywhere taking pictures, but he sits, grinning, tapping his foot, chair dancing, sipping his pint.
One of the French kids asks us, in very careful English, if we know where is the toilets.
I see a young man wearing a Bob Marley tee-shirt dancing a few steps with the music. He tries to convince an older American woman to dance with him, but she just laughs and shakes her head. The music is a great mix of traditional and pub songs delivered in that sandpaper voice. Three times the dancers come down, and people cram together to watch them.
An American woman asks me if I know where the bathrooms are.
We think we'll probably head back, and BW follows the American woman to the bathrooms. But when he comes back they've taken a request to honor Paul Fury--one of the band well-known here, The Furies, who died unexpectedly that day. The Furies were booked to do the late concert on the top level that night. So we stay and listen to them do Willie McBride. And stay on as they do more and some of the people make use of the plank and step-dance, or stomp, or do a kind of informal swing your partner.
In front of me, leaning on one of the stone pillars, a French guy is hitting on an American girl. She appears to be hitting back. He's so into his moves, he doesn't seem to remember there's anyone behind him, and keeps edging back, eventually sitting of the radiator, and all but in my lap. There are a couple of empty tables now, but I realize at this stage of the flirtation they can't take one--too much of a commitment--and I don't have the heart to tell him to move. I have to keep one eye on his elbow so it doesn't connect with my face as he talks.
Another French guy asks us if we know where is the toilets.
The couple of unknown nationality both take out identical little phrase books and study them carefully before they leave.
We get up to stand on the stairs, lean on the railing to watch the musicians and the dancing before we head out. There's a mix of ages on the floor, and everyone's having a fine time. I see someone's little purse has fallen, half onto the plank, but I can't risk the stomping feet to retrieve it. Someone nudges it aside, closer to the bar, and it's picked up and tossed onto a stool.
The floor, like the steps, has taken a bath in spilled beer that night, and one of the girls slips when she does the hooked-arm turn, but she's caught before she hits the ground.
Another Irish boy tries to convince the same American woman to dance, but she won't. He spots me, and apparently BW doesn't look threatening as he holds out his arms.
Why sure, cutie.
I join the mix, going arm to arm, and slip on beer. Am not caught as handily, but am pulled up. The boy puts his arm around my waist, and I put mine around his shoulders. He isn't much taller than me, and we do an amateur stomp and step-dance to the tribal drum. When the music ends, he gives me an enthusiastic hug and grins at BW.
We walk out, and into rain.
Nora
ADWOFF > Nora's Travelogues > England/Ireland 2002 > Galway, June 18, 2002 > Pictures from BW!
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