It is five to ten by the time we pull into Galway station. The night is damp and haunted by a chilling wind that only the Atlantic knows how to produce. The mercury can't be above six. Stepping off the train into the insipid light of the platform, we are greeted by a bleak and uninviting car park, crowded with taxis clamoring for our business. Trying to get our bearings we strike out into the night, moving between islands of light. At the first cross road we chance upon Eyre Square, the first recognisable point of reference and seek shelter while we orientate ourselves. After a false start (curse the lack of street signage) we spy a landmark name that jogs the memory. We drift toward it like moths to a lamp, only to be disheartened by the yet another featureless street. Spurred on by the rains steady but insistent tattoo we are pressed to continue. Through the haze we make out a word in Celtic script, and approach a battered orange door scarred by years of weary travelers pounding its boards seeking refuge. Finally we know relief. Claddagh. Home for now.
No comments:
Post a Comment