Galway

Day Ten: June 12

A Black-headed Gull on the quay.  They are raucous in calls, pointy-winged and have brown heads.

We traveled a short distance from Kinvara to Galway, sneaking up on the city core along the quay roads leading inland from Galway Bay.  Our Griffin House B and B was a thick-walled and small-roomed former house. The sitting room was filled with tables, light chairs, framed pictures of vases of flowers and ceramic plates, many in willow ware pattern, on the wall.  Our room had only enough room for a bed and reminded me of our rules in our own college housing days—only one person allowed to dress at a time, the other must wait until the first was finished.

World famous Launderette near a pub called the Crane Bar

We found that we had chosen our B and B well as it was only one block away from the Crane Bar, well known for its nightly traditional Irish music sessions.  Next door was a launderette that we needed desperately and Steve checked in the Crane for music time and whether it was an open session.

We had lunch in a modern espresso shop.  There we met Michael "Tom" Greeley, a man about 45 years old who chimed in with loads of history on this section of the city after hearing our waiter tell us this was the original Gaelic-speaking area of Galway and that Shops Street—the current buzzing touristy area of Galway—was part of the walled city.  For centuries, the Anglo-Normans of the walled city had very little interest in the people of these streets, the Claddagh, (the shore) and restricted heavily their passage into the walled Galway.

The Spanish Arch gate in the original 16th century walled city, very few remnants of old Galway remain.  Another portion is imbedded in a shopping mall

We told him of our times here, some of the family research and the numerous and confusing similar names. He talked about how in his family there are four living Michael Greeleys, not to mention many dead ones.  He told us of the difficulty of getting records for the area.  Apparently Dublin caretakers of past censuses did not know there were no duplicate copies in Galway and thus the mass of records from 1881 and 1891 were pulped in a World War I paper shortage.  Others burned before the revolution in 1922.   He told us of records that could be found at a website called militaryarchives.ie  which he had found fascinating as these records dealt with who deserved pensions for military service.  Here he could track which relatives were on which side of the equation during the Irish War of Independence.  He learned all the political leanings of various of his family members with great interest as they now all get along just fine.  And again we heard the Gardai or police are not much trusted here due to rifts that stretch back nearly a century.

After our lengthy informative lunch we strolled up the River Corrib and found baby swans with their parents, and a salmon weir where evenly spaced fisherman, who have long reserved a chance at fly fishing for wild salmon, cast and cast their lines again.  We saw one older man snag a fish from shore and then his son netted it (he looked to be in a suit without a jacket) and the curly-headed grandson about four years old watched grand-dad bop the fish to death on the neatly manicured lawn below a floral sculpture of an arching fish.  Tradition in all its sweetness and horror.  We visited the Catholic Cathedral finished in 1965 that was quite beautiful and quite a beloved effort by Catholics here in an area that had so looked down upon them.

Salmon weir on the River Corrib in Galway City

Just about the ugliest photo anyone could have taken of the Cathedral.  Sometimes we forget that we are living for a future narrative complete with attractive photos.  This, obviously, was an afterthought. 

Okay now on to the most important part of the day.  This is why I am so behind in blogging.  We stay out all day, then do stuff after dinner, go to bed when it is finally dark outside, try to sleep even though the sun returns around 3:45 AM, stumble in for our Irish breakfast of one egg, two sausage, two bacon, one black and one white pudding (blood puddings) and toast and a tomato, and then careen around all of the sights we can manage the next day until dark and collapse into bed again.  You find time in that to blog! 

Steve and I got drinks at the Crane Bar bar around 9:30 when we had been told the music would start.  We tried to sit at the low tables and backless little stools.  They were so low that I couldn't even get my legs under the tables. Sitting side saddle with a forced straight back we watched and waited for the music to start at 9:30.  Nothing happened until ten.  Steve had deduced from his experience in Dublin that it might be best to introduce yourself to the musicians of an open session right up front.  They are not mind readers, and if you wish to join in then what the eff are you doing being silent there mate?

When musicians gathered Steve introduced himself and sat up on the stage.  The penny whistle guy and the large button accordion player started all of the sets.  There were four fiddles and a young accordion player who was quite good.  Steve's mandolin could only be heard by sitting in his lap and the pub itself was full of young students who kept up their important conversations at a full yell as an accompaniment.  It was so loud that I had to quell the urge to bolt. Steve knew about a quarter of the songs and he got a chance to play at playing the others as loudly as he wished as even he could not hear himself.  It was good practice and fun. It was too loud for any craic or banter in between sets.  Lots of applause and a free beer was their pay. 

 Steve is on the far left, then whistle, button accordions, and coming back-four fiddle.

You might think that I dutifully sipped my Jameson's and listened with a contained smile of pride on my face but as the pub was very crowded seating was at a premium. I was with company all night long. 

My long term seat mate was a woman from Clarinbridge outside of Galway whose son was the young  accordionist.  He took it up at thirteen.  She knew the stories of all of the regulars, worked nights as a caretaker of infirm and elderly people and had such a thick accent that I once had to have her spell out what she was saying.  We looked like close schoolgirl friends as we had to cuddle up to hear each other and shout in each others ears.  Her husband being two feet further away was lost to all possibility of conversation. 

My most interesting table-for-midgets visitor came earlier in the evening.  He was a very handsome thin dark-haired man with green eyes wearing the oddest black suit with a black button down shirt, a cross between a Mod and Johnny Cash.  A classic Irish mythical male came and sat down with me.  Asking if the seat was free I replied immediately, yes because my husband is sitting up there, pointing at my dear boy in his green vest.  I got that across in almost a reflex. 

My friend reeked of cigarettes and a great deal of metabolizing alcohol and that rather transported me back to an earlier age. After a pause he said, "Terrible news coming out of America don't you think?"

I said "what news is that? I haven't been reading any papers in the last week."

"Oh the Republicans you know, how they treat Obama, between you and me I think it is really racist."  

I then completely agreed that the Republicans were acting horribly, something about being they're being evil, that the world was under corporate rule and that trade agreements and worldwide greed ruled the day in all countries.  Maybe I said too much, but he stopped for a minute of silence and then said, "well I'll be leaving you alone then, going to go over there." and then as he stood up he gave me a quick-fire back and neck rub, all of which Steve was watching from the stage. 

Then just as I was free of this unbidden massage he sat back down again and this time he said,

"Well I gotta leave you with a little craic then don't you think? You see my 76 year old dad was driving along when he encountered a tinker walking along the road with two fishing rods.  My dad asked him why he had two fishing rods.  The tinker replied 'because I am going to teach my grandson to fish'.  My dad then asked him what he used for bait, worms or fish eggs or what?  The tinker replied "Worms of course!"  My dad then asked the tinker "how do you know which end to put the hook in?" 

At this point I am thinking oh dear I will now have to field a dirty joke.

My friend continued  "The tinker answered "you put the hook into the head.  My dad then asked, how do you know which end is the head of the worm?  The tinker said (and this my friend demonstrated for me) 'you put it in the palm of your hand and tickle its belly and which ever end laughs is the head!"  

He patted my arm and disappeared into the crowd of loud.  Even my night at Crane Bar was interesting. We walked home and it had actually become dark.