Love: The Latin Quarter
Okay, so there’s always been something faintly ridiculous about the Latin Quarter name but the Cross St, High St, Quay St axis on any given Race night is still special - as long as it’s not lashing. The streets which snake down from Shop St and O’Brien’s Bridge towards the Spanish Arch and the Bay beyond morph into an alfresco superpub late into the night as publicans and public take advantage of the more relaxed approach to licensing laws the Races bring.
Hate: Horse hangovers
Sadly, late night drinking leads to early morning horrors betimes. The horrors are almost never improved by a furtive glance into the wallet to see how much 12 hours of racing spirit can set a body back, particularly if the bookies have had their day. And the bookies always have their day.
Love: Horse lovers
President Michael D made a good point yesterday when he said that the Galway Races are ultimately "about horses and the people who take care of horses". Serious horse people flock to Galway, people like Noel Henley. He's been coming to Ballybrit for more than 60 years. "My father owned Arkle's father," he told us. Arkle's dad, Archive was bought by Noel's dad for £300 in the 1950s. "The sire was sold by the Vard fur family from Dublin. They had been looking for three grand for Archive.
“Now that might as well have been a million pounds for my father but he could drive a hard bargain and talked the price down. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink and I couldn’t care less about gambling,” he said.
Hate: A room costs HOW much?
We know the basic rules of supply and demand dictate that hotel prices increase during busy seasons but is the gouging of punters by hoteliers really necessary? Average to grim places on the outskirts of the city are charging more than € 300 for a bed for the night. And then there are the sneaky increases in the price of a pint. It might only be 20 cent here and 30 cent there but it can all add up after hard week’s racing. Are the bookies not doing them enough lighten to our wallets as it is?
Love: The tips
For one week only almost everyone in Galway becomes a tipster. Pay close attention and you will hear the weirdest names being whispered in supermarket aisles, coffee shops and pubs throughout the week. All tips are given and taken with gravity and appreciation. And almost all tips are complete nonsense.
Hate: The Weather
There is something unique about Galway rain. It is a better – or at least a wetter – class of rain that people who live east of the Shannon struggle to appreciate. Eastern rain is, generally speaking, so anaemic, you could easily step between the drops. There is no stepping between the drops out in Balllybrit. When it rains on the racecourse the going can turn from soft to sodden in a heartbeat while a fascinator that can stand up to it has yet to be invented. On Monday and Tuesday the rain hammered down hard forcing people to seek refuge in the bars.
Love: The Weather
But then Wednesday happened. The clouds parted and the sun came out. And It was brilliant. “It’s a perfect day for racing,” said President Michael, a man who should know as he has been coming to Ballybrit for the guts of half a century. The breezes were warm and gentle and sun lightened everyone’s mood while the cute hoors on the Tote lightened their wallets.
Hate: Fake tan and goose bumps
Over the course of the week there’s enough tan-in-a-bottle sold in Galway to fill Lough Corrib. Probably. And the fakeness comes in all shades and streaks as tanaholics struggle with the application process.
Love: The style
And we’re not just talking about the women tottering about on vertiginous shoes and ridiculous hats. Everyone makes an effort going to the Galway Races. As well as the big hats and heels, there are little girls dressed like princesses and little boys dressed in communion suits, accessorised by Minion paraphernalia Gents manage to pull off the Trilby look without looking too ridiculous.
Hate: The press tent
The press tent at the Galway Races is where happiness goes to cry. The Galway Races staff do their best giving away free tea, coffee, minerals (remember when we all called soft drinks minerals?) and wraps (wraps? WRAPS??? What’s wrong with a simple hang sangich?). Despite the organisers best efforts to placate the hacks, they are invariably bad tempered in the tent. When you get a Snide of Journalists (that’s the collective noun) into a small cramped tent and ask them to do a bit of work while everyone around them is drinking, gambling and having the craic in the sunshine the mood is never likely to be good.
