Even on the best of days, when the weather is temperate and the sky soft and cloudless, Galway City has a worn, secondhand feel to it: an historic, pensive, erudite quality everywhere you roam down its serpentine streets. But there’s also an energetic undercurrent to Galway that seems to thrive on the idea of opposites, which lends the atmosphere a certain air of unpredictability. In many ways, Galway seems like a lively college town, bordered on one side by the dark gray patina of Galway Cathedral, and the ever turbulent River Corrib on the other, which flows straight to Galway Bay on its way through the Claddagh. It’s an undefinable, mood-setting, soul-stirring town with a split personality; it is vividly animated by its youthful culture, yet deeply haunted by its storied past.

To Debra Wallace, who was born and reared in Letterfrack, 50 miles north in rural Connemara, Galway was the pinnacle of urban grandeur. At the age of 27, she’d blown into town carrying her dreams and her guitar to set up house in a two-story rental, on the edge of lower Galway’s Henry Street. She was an accomplished musician with a whisky-edged singing voice, and her dreams involved joining Galway’s vibrant music scene. The second I met her, I thought she embodied everything it meant to be Irish: She was big eyed, russet-haired, quick-witted, nobody’s fool, howlingly funny, and spiritually attuned. She gave our friendship no probation period when we first met at The Galway Music Centre, for there was nothing suspicious or cynical about her, though she was disarmingly shrewd. Upon learning that I am an American, she put her hand on her hip, narrowed her eyes to a slit, and give me the once over. Then she set her guitar case down and invited me to call out to her house for a cup of tea.

I had no idea what to expect as I made my way to Debra Wallace’s blue-painted door. It rose up from the sidewalk, sandwiched in a row of matching gray structures, each with a pitched roof emitting turf smoke that permeated the residential area in an aroma so redolent it made my eyes water. I rapped thrice on the door, and it swung wide immediately. Stepping onto the uneven cobbled brick floor, it took a minute for my eyes to adjust in the shadowy room, for it had only one window and it seemed the haphazardly arranged turf in the fireplace had reached its crescendo and now glowed in a burnt orange aftermath. The heat in the small room was stifling. I took off my raincoat and made to set it aside on the folded futon against the wall, just as I brought the four chairs before it into focus, where three figures looked up at me expectantly. Debra lowered herself onto the fourth chair and motioned for me to take the futon as a voice disrupted the damp air.

“Well, you weren’t telling a tale about that blonde hair of hers, God bless it; must have taken ages to grow,” the voice said.

“Claire, this is my mother; Da sits there, and this is my sister Breda,” Debra introduced, handing me a cup of tea.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. It was then I recognized where Debra had acquired her penchant for the once over, for all three Wallace’s studied me head to foot.

“You’re an American,” Mr. Wallace stated. He was short and stout and leaned forward in his chair, with his hands on his knees and his steady stare beaming beneath his tweed flat cap.

“Yes, I’m from Memphis, Tennessee,” I confirmed.

“Ah, Elvis and all that,” Mrs. Wallace said, who looked to be, in tandem with her husband, the second installment of a pair of square, blue-eyed bookends.

“That’s right,” I said, then I searched for a way to escape their scrutiny. I knew I could turn the tables if I could use the standard Irish conversational stand-by. “It looks like it’ll rain any minute,” I said, looking at Mr. Wallace.

“It does, yah. We brought the weather with us all the way from Letterfrack, so we did. If you haven’t been there, you should come see us. It’s God’s country up there; not much chance for the young ones to run the streets.”

“So I moved here,” Debra said with a wink.”

“Speaking of streets, we should get going,” Breda said. “We’ve only come to town for the one day.”

We all stood simultaneously, making our farewells, and after Debra closed the door behind her family, she asked me if I wanted to accompany her to the epicenter of Galway City, which is an area known as Eyre Square.

“There’s a card reader up there, her name is Harriet,” she said. “As long as you’re one of us now, I think you should see her.”

“Don’t you have to make an appointment?” I asked.

“For what?” Debra said. “Don’t be so American. Let’s just walk up the road and call out.”

What could have been a 10-minute walk up Shop Street took 45 minutes, for such is the nature of Galway. There is no way to set out from point A to point B within the confines of scheduled time because there are too many people milling around, everybody knows everybody, and it is a crime against Irish society not to stop and chat to the point of exhaustion. I stood idly by as Debra engaged in Irish banter time and again, which is to say that each exchange felt like joining a running joke that had been going on for a while, and we had simply stumbled into its midst. It is a game of wit-topping one-upmanship, this business of Irish banter, and as we made our way to Eyre Square, I was starting to catch the rhythm.

Two heavy wooden doors led the way into the back of an atrium on the north side of Eyre Square. Debra heaved the doors apart and ushered me inside to where a canvas marquee had a chalkboard before it, which read, “Readings with Harriet: 12 euros.”

What happened next is another story.

But the thing about that day is that it was exemplary of the spirit of Galway, where anything can and does happen, on any given day. This wasn’t the first or last time I’d slid into the day thinking it would go one way only to discover it had segued into quite another. Because there’s an energy to Galway that will catch the unsuspecting unaware. It emanates from the dichotomy of its nature, its marriage of opposites, its union of past and present, and at its foundation are the fluid Irish people, who know a thing or two about embracing the flow.

Claire is the author of contemporary fiction set in Connemara, "Dancing to an Irish Reel"  Http://www.clairefullerton.com

Views: 1192

Tags: Galway, Memoir

Comment by Claire Fullerton on March 23, 2016 at 7:44pm

Hi Candy: I'm laughing because you wrote Moycullen and Oughterand are 'just down the road." Everything in Ireland is just down the road, so it's perfect for you to say this. And as for my 1st published novel, it's a paranormal mystery ( although I didn't mean it to be, I intended it to be a page turner) entitled, "A Portal in Time." It's set in Carmel by the Sea, California and takes place in two time periods, which fit together like pieces of a puzzle. The reason I wrote it was to get "Dancing to an Irish Reel" published, which I actually wrote first. Long story involving the vagaries of the publishing world, but it all worked.  

Comment by Candy Gavin Aaron on March 23, 2016 at 7:48pm

Thanks, I will check it out. Still looking forward to the "Readings with Harriet" story LOL.

Comment by Claire Fullerton on March 23, 2016 at 8:54pm

I'll deliver!

Comment by Gavin Wells on March 24, 2016 at 3:19pm

You are very welcome Claire. I used to hate my name Candy. I was the only Gavin I knew and I wanted to be so much like other people with names like John. Now I am happy that, even though it is getting more common, my name is somewhat unique. I now know how someone with a common name feels if I hear my name spoken and it isn't to me. I love the little towns the most. We flew into Dublin and went straight to Drogheda for that first night. We went to Newgrange as well. From there we went to Belfast, Derry, Limerick, Galway of course. We visited the Aran Islands for a day. We also went to Killorglin for the Puck Fair which was great. County Cork and Blarney Castle. The only other place I loved almost as much as Galway was Killkenny. We finished up back in Dublin. A wonderful trip.

Comment by David Lawlor on March 25, 2016 at 3:45am

I love Galway, I had a lost weekend there in my youth. The images are a bit blurry what with all the Guinness I'd taken on board, but the ones that do remain, dazzle with their mischief

Comment by Claire Fullerton on March 25, 2016 at 9:24am

When any writer divulges a lure such as our dear Mr. Lawlor has done above, the only appropriate response is to encourage him to tell us a story! Nice to hear from you, David! 

Comment by Jean Sullivan Cardinal on March 25, 2016 at 1:27pm

Yes, please do!

Comment by David Lawlor on March 26, 2016 at 3:33am

Ah, I have to plead the Fifth on that one, I'm afraid. I will say only this: I wasn't a big drinker in those days (and am even less of one now), but on that occasion I managed to down 17 pints of Guinness in one day . . . I felt like a keg on legs.

Comment by Jean Sullivan Cardinal on March 26, 2016 at 11:07am

17 pints???  That's quite a feat!

Comment by David Lawlor on March 26, 2016 at 3:10pm

....and not one to be repeated ever again!

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