The traditional Irish B&B is dying on its feet, I was told by the man who let me into mine in Galway earlier this week.
As if to underline his point, there had been nobody there to welcome me at the door, where a sign instructed visitors to call to another of the several guesthouses in the small estate to get access.
When I did get in, sure enough, the B&B was half dead. That’s to say, it emerged that only one of the Bs (bed) was included in the price The Irish Times had paid.
Breakfast was available for an extra £12, but not on site. For that too, I would have to go to the other house. I decided against.
Tribal trauma – Frank McNally on the terrors of being a pedestrian in Galway
War veteran, doctor and newspaper tycoon – Oliver O’Hanlon on William Lombard Murphy
Bold moves – James Mason and William Pollock, two Irish chess masters
Big Benn – Brian Maye on Belfast philanthropist and antiquarian Edward Benn
This house appeared to be empty, except for guests. And without the bustle of a bean an tí, it seemed a bit cheerless, like an Airbnb but without the self-catering option (apart from a kettle and teabags in the bedroom).
The man with the keys did not blame actual Airbnb for the plight of the traditional bed & breakfast. Instead, he listed off the various taxes and overheads that, combined, meant “I can’t sell a room for €100 a day and make a profit”.
Mind you, this was Race Week. So my room had cost €180 a day, plus €25 VAT.
The name of the guest house included the word “Manor”, which somehow led me to expect a charming 19th-century mansion with virginia creeper and a winding, tree-lined avenue.
In fact, it was a detached red-brick in a 1970s or 1980s estate. And where the winding avenue might have been, there was the main Dublin Road, with its unrelenting traffic.
On the plus side, buses stopped just opposite.
But such is the nature of Galway traffic management, including the lack of any pedestrian crossing or footbridge within visible distance, that even the most committed of chickens might have thought twice about trying to cross the road there.
***
Having time to spare on Tuesday afternoon, I decided to walk from Galway city centre to the racecourse. This seemed like a good idea for a newspaper columnist – I might pick up some human-interest stories en route.
But humans were scarce, as it happened, never mind interest. And as I neared the course, via the suburbs of Upper and Lower Carmageddon, I found myself wondering if I was the first person ever to attempt this journey on foot.
Signs eventually told me I was on the “Red Route” to the racecourse, which sounded ominous.
It involved negotiating Bóthar na dTreabh (“road of the tribes”), a name that implies a boreen but is actually attached to a dual carriageway and part of the notorious Galway bypass system – itself now in need of a bypass, according to planners.
There being no footpaths, or even grass margins, I had to walk on the hard shoulder, nervously, and hope for the best. It was a great relief when at last I turned off into the racecourse, only to be reminded that the main entrance was a motorised tunnel under the track.
A friendly garda, who must have wondered if I was dangerous, identified me as that eccentric thing, a pedestrian, and referred me “up that way there”.
The path in question seemed to be barred by a farm-style gate.
But this wasn’t locked so I let myself in, then crossed the back straight of the racecourse and climbed the hill to another entrance tunnel, mercifully pedestrian.
The walk had taken me nearly an hour and a half and I was glad of the exercise. But I had learned my lesson. Henceforth, I would stick to taxis.
***
One man’s traffic hell is another’s paradise, it turns out. So it was that on Tuesday night, still chastened by my pedestrian purgatory on the Bóthar na dTreabh, I got a taxi back into town and fell into conversation with a Pakistani driver who humbled me with his happiness. He had been born near Islamabad and, after moving to Europe, spent a time in London. But he never liked big cities and when he came to Ireland on holiday some years ago, “fell in love with the place”.
First, he lived in Killarney but found it “too far from everything”. Later he moved to Athlone, which was handy for most things but short of work. He also tried Limerick for a while
But in Galway he found the perfect life – with one qualification.
Even Galway was a bit too hectic, and expensive, to live in. So he made a home in Tuam and travelled in and out. He had now found the perfect balance and, in conclusion, told me that life in Ireland was “awesome”.
I was struck that in travelling from the far side of the world to here, my taximan had reversed the emigrant experience immortalised by the Saw Doctors.
This seemed all the more true because the Galway-Tuam commute was now central to his ideal. He had exchanged Islamabad for the N17 – “stone walls and the grass is green” – and so doing, achieved all his hopes and dreams.