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From Donegal crowds to Galway busy charms

Now, about Donegal. Officially, it has a modest population of 2,800. Unofficially, however, it feels like 20,000—because, of course, the town is currently hosting the entire tourism board of the United States. Coach after coach disgorges cheerful Americans, and you can spot them from a mile away: the sneakers, the baseball caps, the “Oh my GAAAD, look at this castle!” delivered at a volume sufficient to reach Dublin without Wi-Fi.

I’m starting to suspect they all failed a collective hearing test. Why else would one need to shout at a friend standing precisely six inches away? It’s either that or they’ve mistaken Donegal for Times Square on New Year’s Eve and feel the need to make themselves heard above the non-existent fireworks. Either way, it’s a curious cultural phenomenon.

But enough anthropology. Galway awaits! Stay tuned—there will be music, there will be Guinness, and quite possibly, there will be dancing (though hopefully not by me). As the Irish say: “What’s seldom is wonderful”—so let’s hope Galway delivers plenty of seldom and an extra dash of wonderful.

The Wild Atlantic Way carried us south-west, the Nissan Qashqai heroically soldiering on despite its sulky rear indicator light. I drove the first 150 kilometres under moody skies, while Chris nobly handled the remaining 100. Showers came and went, clouds brooded, but the road was kind enough.

Galway welcomed us at the peak of lunch hour chaos. Our lodgings? A fully renovated three-storey townhouse tucked in the old quarter. We claimed the ground-floor bedroom with direct access to the street—perfect for discreet snack-hunting missions.

Barely had we dropped our cases before the Latin Quarter beckoned. Less than 200 yards away, a proper old-fashioned pub lured us in with its jaw-dropping whisky collection.

Tempting as it was to explore the entire shelf, I remained faithful to my current favourite, accompanied, of course, by a brace of Guinness pints so smooth they practically applauded themselves.

Groceries were procured (tomorrow’s DIY breakfast: secured), a brief nap was taken (civilisation: restored), and soon it was time for an early apéritif. Dinner had been cleverly booked at Kirby’s restaurant two minutes away—just far enough to justify another drink on arrival. I began with an Old Fashioned cocktail, graduated to excellent fish and chips, and then sabotaged the entire meal with a Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon that can only be described as “ambitiously unpleasant.” Lesson learned.

Back home, we cracked open the Bushmills bottles procured earlier in the trip. I was the last to bed at the almost virtuous hour of 11 p.m. Reflections of the day? Galway charmed, Guinness delivered, and Americans remain both ubiquitous and mysteriously loud. Prices, too, seem to rise in direct proportion to decibels. Coincidence? I think not.

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