I WILL tell you where and when I found the Soul of Ireland. I discovered it in the summer of 2004. In those days, there was a direct flight from Glasgow to Carnmore, the tiny airport that served Galway City. I flew there one day in August and stayed in Brennan’s Yard hotel, a stone’s throw from the River Corrib. Nowadays Brennan’s is a boutique hotel, advertised as the ‘hotel that thinks it’s a house,’ Oh well! I dropped my bag in the hotel and, following the first commandment of arrival, hit the streets. I crossed the Wolfe Tone Bridge at the bottom of Quay Street and was thrilled to see the Corrib roaring down, a surging torrent, under the bridge and by the Galway basin, by the Long Walk with its pastel -coloured house facades, and by Nimmo’s Pier to Galway Bay. You would not want to topple into the torrent. You’d end up at the Aran Islands.
I ambled on past the monument memorialising Columbus’s discovery of the new world, which took him past the bay. On the quay by the basin stood an ancient Galway hooker, missing mast and red sails. At the slipway near Nimmo’s Pier gathered more than a hundred swans. I sat on a stone bench dedicated to the memory of Dr Joe McHale, ‘the kindest man in town.’ I passed another granite stone dedicated to the memory of eight men who drowned in Galway Bay back in 1902. At the furthest point of the pier, I came across a stone plinth bearing lines written by Louis MacNeice in 1939 about Galway. I was impressed. It’s a grand country that celebrates its poets.
And then I walked the dirt track that skirts the edge of the open ground—GAA pitches and all—where once stood the Claddagh, the old fishing village on the west bank of the Corrib. The shore of the bay was busy with oystercatchers, seagulls, cormorants, and the occasional stray swan. On to the causeway, which stretches out to Mutton Island and its lighthouse, which once lit the way west for emigrant ships. It’s now a sewage plant. The causeway was strewn with seaweed and broken shells, but what caught my heart off-guard—to borrow a line from Seamus Heaney—and blew it open was the light over Galway Bay. Constantly shifting, brightening, sending beams of sunlight onto the sea, glowing on the distant hills of Clare, turning the horizon into the edge of the infinite. Wow, thought I, this is the stuff that can blow all your blues away. So, was this the soul of Ireland? Hold your horses.
I strolled down the hill from Eyre Square, down the streets which have many names, past Lynch’s Castle, down Shop Street into High Street. I had never seen so many buskers in the one street. In High Street, I dropped into Murphy’s Bar. I felt instantly at home in its comfortable gloom. Old men of character sat on high stools, or in a corner, studying the form—bookies next door—or simply gazing into a distance that only they could see. I waited patiently—Guinness Mean Time—for the two-pull pint. A magical shadow show. Was this the soul of Ireland? It felt as if I’d found my spiritual home.
Annual visit
I have visited Galway every year since then. The swans have more or less disappeared. The dirt track round the Claddagh has been tarmacadamed. Kenny’s bookshop has moved out of town from High Street, but otherwise much has endured the passing of time, despite the massive changes in the Republic as a whole.
Then came the pandemic and the restrictions on travel. I was in Galway in February of 2020, but was unable to return until the autumn of 2021. I made my delighted way from Galway station across Eyre Square to the Western Hotel on Prospecthill. Faithful, as ever, to the first rule of arrival I dropped the bag and made my way down the hill to High Street. My heartbeat quickened as I approached Murphy’s Bar. The same heart sank when I saw that the bar was shut. But some of these bars keep irregular hours of opening. Maybe it would be open later in the day. Then I noticed that the insides of the windowpanes were grimy with dirt and hadn’t been washed in weeks. Oh dear!
But we are fickle creatures, we men. I thought of that line in Will Ye Go Lassie Go?—the McPeake Family version, obviously. “If my true love she won’t come then I’ll surely find another...” I crossed the road to Freeney’s Bar—also excellent—which served me well for the next few days and nights. There’s no shortage of great pubs in Galway.
On my next visit, in November of 2022, Murphy’s was still shut. A notice in the window advised that it had been bought by a ‘Heritage Pub’ chain and was to be refurbished. Anyone who knows anything about refurbishment knows that it is synonymous with stripping the character out of a place. Once again, I crossed over High Street to Freeney’s.
Another year passed. I strolled down from Eyre Square to High Street, tingling with trepidation. And there it was, lights shining, and—an innovation—tables in the street outside. With trembling heart and hands, I opened the door. Ah. The gloom had been banished and the old men of character were to be seen only in old photographs, which had been thankfully retained. The pub was busy. A younger age group all together with hardly a seat or a high stool to be had. The gents, though, had escaped refurbishment; it was as basic as ever. More the arsehole than the soul of Ireland. It was just another—excellent—pub.
I was back in Galway in November 2024. Trump had just won the US Election. I remembered being there in 2016. The feeling of incredulity that the States could vote for such a vile lunatic. I overheard a man say: “Shock results come in threes—Brexit, Trump, and Ireland beating the All Blacks.”
I was pleased to see one of the buskers I had seen 20 years before was still singing Spancil Hill opposite Eason’s. Mind you, he’s bald now. The Corrib was still raging, and the Light over Galway Bay was still magical.
I dropped into Murphy’s Bar. It was a soft day. I had a high stool. The barman dropped a pint of Guinness over to me. Still magical, I decided. Sure, the soul of Ireland was everywhere.
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