For the second year running at the Galway Races, I found myself staying in a B&NB. That’s to say, a place that does bed and no breakfast. Okay, last year’s did have breakfast as an optional extra, but served in a different house nearby, so I didn’t bother.
This year, my gruffly cheerful – or cheerfully gruff – host responded to the query as to whether one was included or available with a laughing “Not at all!”. It was as if I’d asked if his house had a late bar, or a chauffeured limousine service. In fairness, he was charging a mere €89 for the night, a bargain by Galway race week standards.
My host in 2024 had been male too. Not only is the traditional B&B going the way of the dodo, so it seems is the traditional Bean an Tí. The last of those I saw in the wild was in north Donegal a couple of years ago while en route to Tory Island. Covid seems to have killed many of them off (not literally, I hope – just in precipitating early retirements).
You’d miss their motherly presence and personal touch all the same. After taking payment up front, this year’s host told me to let myself out in the morning and just leave the key.
READ MORE
Mind you, we chatted long enough for him to tell me that even breakfast-free accommodation is not without challenges. “My biggest problem with the races is keeping clean sheets,” he said. I looked at him blankly, imagining various horror scenarios. “The fake tan,” he explained. “It’s impossible to get out.”
***
On the bus from Eyre Square to Ballybrit on Monday, the traffic was – as always in Galway – sclerotic. Our driver was no less frustrated than the rest of us as we oozed towards the racecourse at the speed of a leak in a molasses factory.
Peering ahead over the steering wheel, he periodically shared the latest bad news: “Nothing moving on the green light – there must be trouble somewhere.”
Ominously, three fire brigades passed us at one point, lights flashing. The driver stared after them into the distance to see which direction they took. “Did they turn or go straight on?” he asked a front-seat passenger. “They went right, I think,” the passenger said. We had to go right too, so this was not good. “Ah Jaysus, we’re f**ked,” confirmed the driver.
***
I always think the name Ballybrit sounds like it was invented for a TV sitcom, like Ballykissangel except that this series would set be in an Irish village full of posh English retirees. In fact, according to Logainm, the name is 500 years old, the earliest dated reference (to a “Balebritt”) being 1525.
But speaking of coincidental anniversaries, while sitting on the bus I noticed via Twitter/X that Monday was the 266th birthday of one Hudson Lowe (1769 – 1844), who was born not only in Galway but on the Eyre Square we had just left.
In other circumstances, Lowe might have left no impression on history. His fellow Anglo-Irishman the Duke of Wellington would later say of him: “He was a man wanting in education and judgment. He was a stupid man. He knew nothing at all of the world, and like all men who know nothing of the world, he was suspicious and jealous.”
So why was Wellington even talking about him? Because Lowe had been governor of Saint Helena in the years Napoleon (who was born two weeks after him) was prisoner there. And he imposed such a brutal regime that another Irishman, Napoleon’s physician and friend Barry O’Meara, called him an “executioner”.
Although only acting on orders, he was later blamed for the embarrassment caused to Britain over the mistreatment of their celebrity prisoner. Wellington thought he had been “a very bad choice” for the job.
***
I could get through an entire Galway Festival, especially when working, without ever having a bet. On the other hand, like many occasional punters, I have a weakness for coincidental names. So scanning the racecard for Monday night, my eye was drawn to Theabsolutegov’nor, running in the last.
If its jockey had been a Lowe or a Napoleon, I would definitely have backed it. Instead, rationality got the better of me and I didn’t (wisely, it’s still running). But passing through the betting ring before the Iggy Daly Easyfix Handicap Hurdle, I noticed there was a horse called “Jerrari” entered in it. And it so happened that I have a French friend of that unusual surname.
In my defence, this is as logical a reason as any to bet on a 20-horse handicap, with its countless permutations of form and weight, which you’d need to be a supercomputer to get a handle on. Jerrari was 12-1 at the time – far from favourite but not a no-hoper. So in my only bet of the meeting, I stuck a tenner each-way on him with the Tote. And sure enough, he romped to victory, earning me the price of two nights’ bed without breakfast, or nearly.
