Galway: The Best Little City in Ireland
Right, let me tell ye about Galway, my beloved chaotic hometown, the city that can’t go five minutes without music, rain, or someone asking where the nearest ATM is. Ya see, for outsiders, Galway is charming, but for us locals, it’s… well, still charming, but in that “I know exactly which cobblestone is going to trip me because it has for twenty years” sort of way.
I must admit that I'm proud to be a Galway man and maybe it's just people being mannerly, but I've yet to hear somebody say anything bad about my hometown. On the contrary, the comments are always complimentary to the people, the buzz, the festivals and the general vibe.
‘Venice of the Wesht’? Ah sure look…
So apparently we’re the “Venice of the West.” Sound out of Yeats to say that, but let’s be honest, if Venice had seagulls this bold, it wouldn’t last a week. Still, we’ll happily take the compliment. On a sunny day the Corrib sparkles, the Long Walk dazzles, and we all collectively pretend this is the normal weather.
As I write this days like that seem an eternity away mind you! The sun? The fuck is that may I ask?? The rain in Galway lately has been next level and I mean next level! We’re talking biblical levels of wet. If Noah showed up with an ark, he'd probably just park it on Shop Street and call it a day. The sky has opened up so many times, it’s like God hit the "refresh" button on a storm app. The streets are flooded, the seagulls are considering taking up swimming lessons, and I swear I saw a guy building a makeshift raft out of empty dutch Gold cans, Bucky bottles and soggy flyers for CPs. At this point, if we get any more rain, we’ll be trading in our wellies for snorkeling gear and having to tow around a paddleboard for “just in case” situations. You get the idea.
Buskers, Festivals & General Galway Shenanigans
In Galway, you’re never more than 10 seconds away from:
A lad with a guitar
A trad session starting in a corner
A festival you forgot was happening even though it happens every year
Someone saying “Are you heading into Neachtain’s?”
We don’t do quiet. We don’t do boring. We barely do Mondays.
Galway’s festivals are like a madman's dream where fashion, food, and questionable life choices collide in the best possible way. Take the Galway International Arts Festival. It's like someone opened a Pandora's box of weirdness. You’ll find yourself at an art show where people are painting with spaghetti, then wandering into a "performance" that looks suspiciously like someone just having a nap in a giant inflatable hamster ball. At the Galway Races, suddenly, everyone is a horse-racing expert, despite the fact half the crowd is there for the "fancy hats" competition, and the other half is just trying to find the nearest pint without tripping over their heels. The Galway International Oyster Festival? Oh boy, it’s like a mass oyster-eating contest where no one actually knows what they’re doing, but everyone's pretending to enjoy swallowing slimy sea creatures like it's a delicate art form. And the Galway Film Fleadh? You’ll walk in thinking you’re about to see a high-brow indie masterpiece, but by the end, you’re just sitting in a dark theatre surrounded by people whispering things like, "I think the plot is about a guy who loses his keys... or maybe his soul?" It’s chaos, it’s madness, and somehow, it’s the most fun you’ll ever have in a festival where the only thing more unpredictable than the events is the weather!
Ya there's the w word again, weather is high on the conversation points about my home city. Did I tell ye it makes the odd drop of rain??
Spanish Arch: Our Unofficial Living Room
If you text a Galway person "Where are ye?" there’s a solid 70% chance they’re at the Spanish Arch, just lounging like it’s their personal living room, having a chat with anyone within a 10-metre radius, and probably pondering the meaning of life with a can in hand. The other 30%? They’re either on the way there or have just left but are already planning their next visit, because once you’ve entered the sacred land of the Arch, you’re basically trapped in a never-ending cycle of coming back every day. In summer, the Spanish Arch transforms into the ultimate Galway social hub. Forget pubs, forget cafés, this is where the magic happens. The entire city migrates there, like some sort of ritualistic pilgrimage, armed with cans, guitars, a random assortment of snacks, and about 12 people they’ve met in the last five minutes. It’s practically impossible to stand still for more than a minute without someone dragging you into their circle to discuss everything from local football scores to the most recent conspiracy theory they’ve overheard.
This entire situation is lovingly referred to as sparching, because, of course, we’ve decided to invent our own verb for it. It’s not “hanging out” or “chilling”; no, we’ve taken it to a whole new level, sparching is an art form, a lifestyle, a way of life. And we treat it like some big secret tradition, even though let’s be real, the whole country (and probably half the world) knows about it now. It’s like the worst-kept secret in Ireland, but still, we pretend it’s this exclusive, underground thing that only we know about. Tourists often look bewildered, standing on the sidelines, watching groups of people strumming guitars, throwing Frisbees, and exchanging cans like they’ve been lifelong mates. But really, that’s the charm of it: it’s a strange mix of impromptu friendships, chilled vibes, and the occasional half-arsed philosophical debate about the weather. No plans, no stress, just the Spanish Arch, the cans, and an endless parade of new faces who are all, for one glorious afternoon, part of your tribe. Sparching is the heartbeat of Galway, whether it’s your first time or your hundredth, once you’ve caught the bug, it’s game over. So, grab your can, your guitar, and go join the madness. Just remember, when you text "Where are ye?" there’s only one right answer: the Spanish Arch.
The Prom
Galway locals don’t decide to walk the Prom. The Prom decides for you. One minute you’re just going for a coffee, and the next thing you know, you’re halfway to Salthill, your hair tangled in the Atlantic breeze, swearing you’ll treat yourself to a massive 99 at the end of this spontaneous journey. You tell yourself it’ll be a quick stroll, but suddenly, you’re at the far end of the Prom about to kick the wall, legs sore, but that 99 is now a necessity.
And let’s talk about the wall. Why do we kick it? Who knows. It’s not a conscious choice; it’s just something that happens. It’s muscle memory at this point. You’re walking along, chatting with mates or dodging tourists, and BAM, there it is, the wall, and your foot’s already in motion. It’s like some ancient Galway tradition that no one ever questioned.
Along the way, you’ll meet the usual suspects: joggers looking perfect as they breeze by, tourists taking photos of waves that haven’t even hit yet, and locals pretending the Prom wasn’t exactly where they planned to end up. In the end, you’re sitting on the wall with your 99, kicking it one last time, and wondering how it all spiraled into the best accidental adventure of your day. Classic Galway.
Eating Well or Not at All
Galway’s food scene is ridiculous. You’ll be happily living your life and suddenly:
Someone suggests Dough Bros
Someone else mentions Kai
A third person says “We could go fancy, sure,”
And then boom, you're broke but spiritually fulfilled
If food was religion, Galway would be Vatican City.
Eating in Galway is like a culinary adventure with zero directions and all the detours. You've got everything from fish and chips so good, you'll wonder if the ocean is secretly handing out secret recipes, to cafes where the barista looks at you like you just asked them to write a novel when all you want is a simple flat white.
There’s the fabled McDonagh’s for fish and chips, where you might wait in a line longer than a queue for concert tickets, but when you finally get that crispy, golden parcel of joy, it feels like winning the lottery.
Then there’s The King's Head, where you can grab a pint, but good luck deciding whether to eat their famous chicken wings or just stare lovingly at their perfectly toasted sourdough.
One of my personal favourites is Ard Bia at Nimmos, where the food feels so fresh you’d swear they pulled it straight out of the ocean or off a local farm, just to make you feel like you’re part of Galway’s ancient culinary heritage. It’s all so good, you’ll end up eating your body weight in cheese, scones, and questionable amounts of dessert, and by the end of it, you’ll swear you’ve just experienced an epiphany about life, love, and food.
That's a wrap
Galway isn’t fancy. It’s not polished. It's held together by trad music, student loans, seagulls with violent intentions, and pure stubborn joy.
But it’s magic.
Real magic.
You come here for one day…
You stay for three…
And you leave already planning your next trip.
And as a Galway person, I can tell you, we wouldn’t have it any other way and if any of you Hive dwellers ever visit, be sure to let me know.
