Having been in what one local told me was “the Galway of Romania” recently, it was interesting this week to revisit a city I now saw as “the Cluj-Napoca of Ireland”.
In fairness to the latter, the actual is quite a bit bigger. So we might excuse Galway not having a tram and trolley-bus system, with a metro on the way. The more relevant comparison, I suppose, is in the artsiness of both cities, and the sense of them being a bohemian alternative to the respective capitals.
There is also the sense of wildness beyond the urban confines, romanticised in history and literature. Transylvania had Vlad the Impaler and vampires. Connemara had the ferocious O’Flahertys, from whose depredations a 17th-century mayor of Galway prayed for protection.
Getting back to transport, however, there is at least one area in which the City of the Tribes excels Cluj. I refer of course to its world-class traffic jams, now back to pre-pandemic levels and better.
Prince of the church – Brian Maye on Cardinal Michael Logue
Conflict of many colours – Frank McNally on a finely illustrated atlas of the Civil War
Lunar quest – Frank McNally on moon missions, misinformed quiz questions, and mountweazels
The Dromcollogher cinema fire disaster – Frank McNally on a fateful day in 1926
Not only do these outstrip anything Transylvania can offer, Galway has been ranked in the top 10 most congested cities in Europe, despite having only 2.5 per cent of the average population in the other nine.
This remarkable achievement is in part due to inadequate public transport. But the famous Galway roundabout system, which must have been inspired by those ancient Celtic spirals at Newgrange and elsewhere, symbolising eternity rather than any notion of earthly progress, is clearly a factor too.
On the other hand, I felt more at risk crossing streets in Cluj. Perhaps because of its excellent public transport, drivers there consider pedestrians – especially jay-walking Irish ones – fair game. Either Galway drivers are less homicidal or, thanks to the tailbacks, they just never get a clear run at you.
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The Galway-Cluj comparison may also relate to both being university towns, and small enough that the youthful energy of college life dominates.
In this respect at least, the Irish city is copper-fastening its position. The lead story in the latest Galway Advertiser reports the local university had been “given the green light for the construction of a new Learning Commons”.
I hope this green light will not be like the ones on the suburban approach roads, where nothing moves anyway. But that concern aside, the Learning Commons – it’s what we used to call a library, apparently – sounds like a dramatic development.
The Advertiser says the plans are for an “exciting, new, sustainable, iconic four to six storey building”. And right enough, any development deemed worthy of four to six adjectives in a lead story must be big.
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In a thoughtful editorial for the same newspaper, on the need to “future proof our culture”, Declan Varley makes the interesting suggestion that the Government should present every Irish 18-year-old with a birthday present of €200, to be spent on cultural goods.
They could use it for books, artwork, exhibitions, etc, with conditions that would prevent them wasting it in on Coldplay tickets. It’s an excellent idea – just the sort of the thing bookmakers do in a lesser cause: sucking in new punters with loss-leaders they know will pay off long-term.
Bookies are everywhere in horse-mad Galway this week, but book-makers of the other kind made local headlines too. This was mainly thanks to Elaine Feeney from Athenry who, on board the novel How to Build a Boat, emerged from a large field, unexpectedly, to reach the long-list for the Booker Prize.
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Varley also wrote of the strangeness of the modern race festival, taking place as it does now after the All-Ireland (men’s) football and hurling finals. It used to be that if you saw Galway footballers or hurlers there, he says, it was a sure sign they were out of the championship. Now they can attend regardless.
Returning to the races on Wednesday night, after several years absence, I knew what he meant about the strangeness.
A bad case of PDT (Pre-Deadline Tension) had not been eased by the world’s dullest taxi-driver who, while not offering any of the four to six stories a colour writer can usually rely on from such sources, made the interminable journey seem even longer than it was.
Arriving late, I discovered the “media marquee” was not where it used to be. And when I found it, there were none of the colour writers I knew from previous years, who might have marked my card.
Adding to the sense of disorientation, twice, I heard somebody call out “Frank” and turned in expectation of a friendly face only to find that the greeting was to a stranger next to me.
Later, deadline met – just – I considered de-stressing with a stupid bet on the evening’s last race. Of the 23 runners, a horse called “Thornleigh Frank” seemed to be calling out to me. But I decided that was a mistake too. So I didn’t back it, and of course Thornleigh Frank went on to win, or at least share victory in a rare dead heat.