‘Can we not go there this summer,’ said my daughter. This was less a question and more a protest that she really didn’t want to stay on the same British beach for the third summer on the trot. ‘I’d like to go to Ireland,’ she said firmly. ‘My great-grandmother was from there and I want to see what it’s like.’
Hmmm… the Emerald Isle (which I’m a fan of), an engaged child (always a good holiday omen), a little family history (I could do some last-minute research, perhaps). I booked the flights pronto before she could change her mind. I was taking my girl to Galway and hoping not to hear that irritatingly catchy song by that not Irishman.
Luckily for us, The Dean — following the success of its hotels in Dublin and Cork — had just opened in Galway city. It’s a ‘destination’ kind of place, and why wouldn’t you head there? Design freaks will warm to the multi-textural, maximalist interiors: think gold, popping colours, exotic florals, Mediterranean ceramics and all sorts of eclecticism. Foodies can dine decadently (and deliciously, we discovered) at rooftop restaurant Sophie’s, complete with terrace and wide-screen views of Galway Bay, while there’s an outpost of NYC burger and wings eatery Elephant & Castle downstairs. A DJ pumped out bangers —and I mean pumped — the Friday night we dined there.
Since it’s the rooms you really want to know about, ours was a proper party slumber pad featuring super-squashy beds, rain shower, a record deck with Marshall amp and even Johnny Cash and Irish hero Christy Moore on vinyl. It was tempting to lounge there in bed and leave the ‘Feck off and don’t disturb’ sign (nice touch, The Dean) on the door all morning. However, we had serious tourism to do.
Irish friends had implored me to visit the Connemara region, a short drive away on County Galway’s western edge. ‘It’s Wiiiild!’ they’d roar. Horseback riding seemed appropriately poetic for this, so we hopped on a couple of shaggy-hooved beasts at family-run equestrian centre Diamonds of Renvyle. In minutes we were splashing along a white-sand beach, elemental crags and moody mountains looming all around.
Surely this is the sort of thing reserved for flinty-eyed Salma Hayeks in movies, I thought, marvelling at my daughter’s hair billowing in concert with her steed’s mane.
Talking of screen legends (now, don’t argue Dougal), remember the shipwreck on the opening credits of Father Ted? A gentle 20-minute ferry took us to Inis Oírr, the smallest of the Aran Islands and plenty more inviting than Craggy Island, where we rambled along the blustery shoreline to that actual vessel, a behemoth of rusting iron dramatically perched on the rocks.
Back in Galway, we refilled on awesomely comforting seafood at long-time stalwart Oscars. The diminutive city also offered one of the most charming post-prandial experiences of my life; live music seemed to emanate from every bar-room doorway as we strolled through the Latin Quarter and (less touristy) West End.
Oh, did I mention family matters? Well, after a tip-off and a quick phone call, the next day we were standing in the farmhouse where my grandmother was born with newfound cousins Frank and Martin (a zillion thanks to them both). The luck, charm or generosity of the Irish, who knows…
