Continued Adventures in Galway
I’ve got the day to spend cavorting about Galway, and stop number one after I get a quick breakfast is a trek out to a place called Mutton Island, which I discovered while looking at a map of the area. Visiting a place called Mutton Island plopped in the middle of Galway Bay with a mild hangover is the most stereotypically Irish-ass sounding thing I could conceive of, so it quickly becomes a priority. On the way to Mutton Island I stop by the house of James Joyce’s wife and muse, which is now a museum, and - uh oh - the Gaelic Meter is getting dangerously high. I learn that his wife’s name was Nora Barnacle and now the Irish American Defamation League is asking me for a formal apology.
Turns out the Barnacle House is closed today, but I’m a poser who never read a lick of Joyce (though “getting into James Joyce” is on the short list for annoying traits for me to pick up in 2026!) so I go on my merry way. Before crossing the River Corrib, I stop to admire the Spanish Arch, which is part of an extension of a city wall that was built in 1584. I’m deeply moved by the sheer oldness of the structure and the thought that my ancestors however many generations back may very well have laid eyes on these exact same stones. The sheer improbability of the circuitous route of their lineage to go across the ocean and back hundreds of years later makes my head spin, and I feel gratitude for knowing where my folk came from and the opportunity to see it for myself.
I walk down Claddagh Quay where the river spills out into the bay and nearly eat shit on the slippery rocks while going to examine a rotted out old boat on the shore. After warning a fellow solo traveler to mind the hazard, I walk along South Park toward the Mutton Island causeway. The weather is gray and drizzly, which is the country doing what it says on the box, so I’m a satisfied customer. I am enchanted by the gently sloped rolling hills in the distance I can see across the bay. From a distance on the causeway, I can see an old lighthouse on Mutton Island, and I look forward to both inspecting it and giving it regard.
Ah shit, turns out Mutton Island is now a sewage treatment facility and I am not allowed to enter. This is undoubtedly for the best when it comes to my health and safety, but I head back to the mainland disappointed. A quick web search confirms the current state of affairs on the island, and also informs me that the permanent population of Mutton Island peaked at 8 residents in 1861.
Back on land, I cross the river again and go through the Spanish Arch to the Galway City Museum, which offers a small collection of local artifacts and a riveting exhibit in the standing collection detailing the local history during the Easter Rising, War of Independence, and Civil War in Ireland from 1916 through 1923. I am particularly chilled by the video detailing the kidnapping and murder of Fr. Michael Griffin in 1920. His personal affects are on display, along with a statue of a saint with a bullet hole through it. Yikes!
I enjoy a fortifying lunch at Nimmo’s right next to the museum; a meal that includes the first leafy greens I’ve seen in ages and some of the best bread I’ve had in recent memory. I linger at the scrubbed wood table drinking coffee, scribbling in my little notebook the details that will refer to later as I write this. It all feels quite cheesy and romantic. I go to Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop and maneuver around the display tables and shelves piled and crammed with books, stopping to admire the statue of St. Patrick in the Irish Literature section.
After refreshing myself at the hotel and having dinner at a thoroughly okay tapas restaurant, I feel the coziness of Tigh Neachtain calling me back. I plant myself on a stool with my Guinness and watch the Cleveland Guardians play the Detroit Tigers on my phone propped up against the taps. My little setup serves as the conversational entry point with a cheerful middle aged fellow named Greg. He’s a local but lived in Boston briefly as a toddler, so he’s a Red Sox fan. Greg introduces me to his cousin Johnny, who is visiting from Canada; Johnny’s father passed away earlier in the year and so he’s come to visit the Irish side of the family with some heirlooms and mementos. In my recollection, Greg looks like if Collin Farrell was like, normal, and not incredibly handsome, and Johnny looks like the comedian Gregg Turkington.
The conversation flows easily with my new barmates and we have another round. I tell them what Cleveland is like and we try to figure out its similarities to Edmonton, where Johnny is from. Greg is determined to show Johnny a good time on his visit and he tells me that they are planning to sample the Guinness at as many of the local pubs as they can, and would I like to join? I certainly would!
We leave Tigh Neachtain and go up the street to Tigh Cóilí - a pub that I went into yesterday but quickly left as it was too crowded. The reason the joint was crowded then and is crowded now is they play traditional Irish folk music, more legit than what I was picking up at King’s Head. We manage to snake our way to the back and get some Guinness. Tastes about the same as the last place! While Greg is getting the beers, I chat with Johnny, from whom I am picking up a bit of a sad sack vibe. I ask what he does for a living and he says he’s been a paramedic for 26 years. I respond with what I think is the appropriate amount of being impressed and thank him for his service and Johnny seems baffled that anybody would care about or be interested in his work, downplaying it all not with false modesty, but genuine reluctance at accepting a compliment.
A group of thoroughly plastered ladies take a shine to our goofy trio. They become quite enamored with Johnny when it comes up that they are also from Canada, which is good for me. While the Guinness has put me in a sociable mood, I am just drunk enough to not be able to put in load bearing work on conversation with people who are way farther in the hole than I am. This seems to be the case with my companions as well, so Greg and I step out while Johnny takes a bit longer to shake the gals off. Outside the pub, Greg shows me a photo of a sportscaster he finds attractive in a very by-the-book “attempt at male bonding” way and I feel a bit embarrassed for him.
At Taafe’s across the street the shine is starting to wear off. We get more Guinnesses and Greg excuses himself to the loo. While he’s gone, Johnny confesses to me that he actually hates Guinness, but asks me not to say anything to Greg. He’s also complaining because Greg keeps trying to wingman for him, but he’s got a long term girlfriend in Canada and he’s not interested in cheating on her so the whole thing is quite burdensome. I try to encourage him to take steps to make the evening more palatable, such as ordering the kind of drink that he would actually want, but he seems to be attached to his quiet resentment. I’m starting to feel like I’m in a direct to video sequel to The Banshees of Inisherin and when Greg returns, I swap out to use the facilities.
Earlier in my trip at St. Vincent Bar AKA “The Vinnie” in Edinburgh, I discovered something that radically altered my notion of what a bathroom can be. In the men’s room at The Vinnie, there is a gutter style urinal. Even if you’ve never used one, I am sure most of you are familiar with a standard urinal - a fixture, often made of porcelain, attached to a wall, generally bowl shaped, etc. Some of you haughty pricks are thinking to yourself “well now, why has he got his lather up over a trough urinal?” WELL I KNOW FROM A TROUGH URINAL, YOU CLOD. I have been to an older stadium! I’ve even been to an older stadium with new trough urinals! It was Wrigley Field and it was fantastic! I am talking about something of a different order altogether. The gutter urinal sits at the base of the wall in the ground, as though you inlaid a rain gutter and put some tiling above it. To use one is to effectively piss on a wall, and for the American traveler, this requires a difficult recalculation of aerodynamics (to say nothing of the culture shock) all while likely besotted with drink. The discovery and use of the gutter urinal was an absolute thrill, and I was reminded of this thrill when I find one in the toilet at Taafe’s.
I return to the group with this fruitful topic of conversation served up on a silver platter; I remark on the differences in styles of urinals I’ve encountered here versus back home and Greg and Johnny absolutely ice me out. They seemingly have nothing to say on the subject, and even seem a bit uncomfortable at my bringing it up. This is where I absolutely check the hell out. Save for being at a business function or other setting where it might be inappropriate, if we have more than 2 beers together and you get gun shy when it comes to talking about taking a piss, you are no drinking companion of mine. Give me an effin’ break. I leave at my earliest convenience and hustle out into the night.
