How I fell in love with Galway

The Caribbean, for instance. It has beaches, palm trees and a weather system that doesn't appear to have a personal vendetta against you. The Algarve has sunshine, outdoor restaurants and the comforting knowledge that if it does rain, somebody will immediately assume that you've done something to deserve it.

On the other hand, Galway has Atlantic gales, horizontal rain, sideways rain, rain that appears to be arriving from beneath you and the occasional day when the entire city seems to have been placed inside a washing machine. And yet, somewhere in the 1980s, this Welshman fell hopelessly in love with it.

Badge of honour

Perhaps it was the madness, or the music, or the pubs? Maybe it was the “craic”, or perhaps it was that extraordinary Irish ability to look at weather that's capable of lifting a small car off the ground and say, "Ah, Jeysus, it'll brighten up soon enough."

I first knew Galway when Ireland still felt very different from the modern country we know today. It was certainly very different from the UK. This was Ireland long before motorways stitched the island together. It was certainly before every second person seemed to be carrying an artisan coffee made from some obscure South American beans. Galway in the 1980s was rougher, less polished - but in a good way.

The city seemed to wear its Atlantic location like a badge of honour. Buildings were weather-beaten, streets could be utterly windswept, and the rain was less something that fell from the sky than something the Atlantic Ocean thrust upon you. That bit hasn't changed.

But despite inclement weather, there was always plenty of warmth. Not necessarily meteorological warmth, obviously, but the kind that came from the people. Galway had, and still has, that ‘rare-aul' Irish capacity to make a stranger feel like an old friend. You can still walk into a pub, knowing no one, and leave several hours later having acquired a lifelong drinking buddy.

And then, of course, there’s the music. Back in the day, traditional Irish music wasn't something performed primarily for tourists. It was simply part of everyday life. For a Welshman, there was something deeply familiar about that. Renditions of “Sésún Bach” and "Danny Boy” have echoed down Galway’s rain-lashed streets for as long as I can remember.

Modern network

The great transformation of Galway (since the 1980s) has been its accessibility. Getting there from Dublin used to feel like a full-on expedition. But Ireland's roads have changed dramatically. The modern motorway network has transformed journeys across the whole country, turning what were once lengthy, winding adventures into considerably more civilised propositions. Back in the day, an Irish road trip could involve being stuck behind a succession of lorries and more than a few tractors.

Today, you can make astonishingly good progress across Ireland. The infrastructure is better, the roads are faster, and the distances seem much shorter. Yet, you’ll still eventually end up caught behind a very slow-moving tractor.

Galway itself has also expanded and changed enormously over the years. It’s no longer simply the slightly eccentric western outpost I remember. It's become a confident, youthful, international city; driven partly by technology, education, tourism and the extraordinary cultural energy that has always made it so different from other Irish cities.

These days, there are cafés everywhere, and smart restaurants have multiplied. Whilst the old pub culture remains, it now shares the streets with a more cosmopolitan Galway. Students, artists, musicians, tech workers, tourists and locals all collide in a city that feels simultaneously ancient yet remarkably modern.

However, the Galway of old is never too far away. Walk towards the Latin Quarter, and you can still sense history beneath all the tourist gloss. The streets remain intimate, and the buildings have retained their character. Street performers compete with musicians and conversations still spill onto pavements just as they always have done.

Of course, the Atlantic still reminds us who's boss. You can arrive in Galway wearing sunglasses and a linen shirt and within ten minutes you'll be looking for your sou’wester. The wind doesn't just blow in Galway, it arrives with attitude. There have been moments when I genuinely wondered whether the roof would remain attached to the building I was staying at. Force Ten gales seem part of daily life. Umbrellas were never particularly useful tools to keep people dry, they were more like props in a slapstick comedy sketch. But still, we all went out, knowing full well that we’d likely face a long, soggy walk back home sporting a very broken brolly.

But that's just one of the joys of Galway. You can't just wait around for good weather, you simply have to learn how to ignore it. The people of Galway have mastered this. They don't allow meteorology to interfere with life. If the sun comes out, wonderful.

If it doesn't, tough!

Traditional eccentricity

There’s something profoundly attractive about Galway's refusal to become completely respectable. Sure, it has definitely grown wealthier, smarter and more sophisticated. But it hasn't entirely lost its eccentricity. It remains a city where a serious conversation about politics can somehow morph into a discussion about traditional Irish music. That usually ends up with someone singing “The Fields of Athenry”. That's just the craic.

Perhaps this is why, all these years later, I still feel such affection for the place. As someone from Wales, I recognise something in Galway that isn't easily explained. It’s the sense of being part of a small nation with a huge personality. A place where history is never too far away, where culture isn't something that's been carefully placed behind glass.

Sure. Galway has changed a lot since I first discovered it in the 80s. As I mentioned, the roads are better, and the city feels so much bigger now. The restaurants are definitely smarter, the technology is more advanced, and the tourists are more numerous. These days, somebody has installed Wi-Fi in a pub that previously considered electricity to be a luxury.

But the essential Galway remains. The music, the humour, the warmth of the people and the ever-present influence of the Atlantic. The city’s extraordinary ability to make everyone feel welcome, even when the weather is doing everything within its power to spoil the fun, remains as steadfast as ever.

So, how did I fall in love with Galway? Well, I'm still not entirely sure. Perhaps it was that first pint of Guinness, perhaps it was the music, or perhaps it was the people I've met and the many friends I made? Perhaps it was the simple realisation that, in Galway, we don't have to wait for the weather to improve before having a great time? Regardless of what the wind & rain were doing, we just needed to go out, get completely drenched, find shelter in a pub and just take it from there. “AHH, fer-God’s-sake. Sure, it's only a bit o’rain!"

Come to think of it, that's probably how I came to love it so much. Irish rain makes it feel rather like being back at home in Welsh Wales. Only, it's probably just that little bit wetter.