El Dorado. Babylon. Avalon. Arcadia. Elysium. Xanadu. Rainbow Road. Berghain. Minas Tirith. Funkytown. All fabled lands of lore, paradises of antiquity. But none can compete with the twin life-affirming pillars of loads of Pubs + abundant Supermacs that can be found only in Galway City.

The city of Galway, located in the Whesht of Ireland, is a key center of pilgrimage in Publican Enemy lore. For it was here in the year 2002 AD, from whenst I legally purchased my first pint of Guinness ever!! in Garvan’s on Shop Street. I remember this epochal event distinctly for two reasons; #1. My palate at that stage was more accustomed to the finest, cheapest scrumpy, or at a push, a vintage bottle of the house Smirnoff ice, so I struggled with the complex notes of the pint of plain, thinking it to be rank, foul, and gross in nature. And #2, as an Arts student clad mostly in corduroy, I only had enough money for one pint, so I had to nurse it until the bar man came over and, I quote verbatim;
” if ye don’t want another pint lads ye can f*** off cause yer taking up a seat.”

So I return on the eve of my 40th year, wearing slightly more expensive corduroy, to the city which more than any other shaped and moulded me , pushing the limits of what Irish pubs could be. Usually I don’t write about Irish pubs from the motherland, as this will only prolong my experiment ,instantly doubling the number of pubs to visit and forcing me to have to go to places like Macroom and Bray over French Polynesia or Northern Mauritania . But for Galway, I make an exception , citing poetic licence , seeing as its been 20 years since I last lived here and it is , without doubt one of the finest cities in Ireland. (Or the “Emerald Isle” as only British people insist on calling it ) .

Galway always had the ratio of 11 pubs per man, woman and child; some of them long standing titans of the night time game, but on returning it somehow has even more new pubs , all within strolling distance , giving succour from the harsh wind and sideways rain of the Western Atlantic. The ease at which you can saunter from venue to venue without the need for public transport is a godsend, recalling that this time last year I spent 75 mins on a train in London just to visit a pub south of the river. Some of these are Galway’s greatest pubs, which puts them in the reckoning for greatest Irish pubs in the world by my calculation. Those we saw this weekend are my fav picks ; there are others of note but these ones are mine.

Neachtain’s may autocorrect to ‘naughtiness’ when you’re trying to type it on Whatsapp, but this pub is a classy affair. Looking resplendent in its purple frontage, the inside is a pub that has grown organically labyrinthine . No Irish Pub Ltd could ever replicate its charms, even with an unlimited budget for old books, rusty milk churns and faux vintage whiskey ads. Take that, Irish Pub and Grill, Abu Dhabi! The place is made up of snugs , which fit max 4 people at a go; which means everyone is in on the conversation, scheming and fermenting, cheek by jowl. They have a fine selection of Beamish, Murphy’s and Guinness , the holy trinity . Tourists love it, locals frequent it , I love it. Outstanding stuff from this Literary pub. It gets busy, but once you’re settled into that snug-life, there’re few finer spots on earth.

Less showy but not to be outdone, is Freeneys which not only offers a fine selection of flick knives for sale but is also an amazing pub for cramming in 20 people with no frills drinkin’ and with a fire on full blast to keep you needing to hydrate yourself. Just a grand pub with a fantastic pint.

Next up , the Crane. The Crane is widely renowned as one of the finest Traditional Music pubs in the land, but this is elite level trad with Bouzoukis , not some fella looking like a Peaky Blinders extra singing ‘Tell Me Ma’ . We go in at about 3pm ; it’s quiet , just the odd tourist who has strayed from the woolly jumpers and stuffed sheep tat shops of Shop street into a darkened throwback where the shutters are drawn at noon. I spill some of my pint on the beermat, where it turns to solid cream. Just outside in the small Crane square is the house where anywhere between 5 to 25 of us lived for at some point over 2 years at University, where we return again for a group photo including 2 Sicilian street waifs we adopted from that time.

Lastly, a new addition. The Salthouse wasn’t around when I was in Uni, but its extensive range of local and international craft brews is impressive. Years ago, i would have gone mad for a Belgian 8% shitkicker , but like many, I now am happy with a pint of Guinness. Maybe its a money thing- you don’t want to take a gamble and fritter away hard earned cash on an overpriced sour cherry & gooseberry top fermented IPA. Anywho, the Salthouse is cosy and rammed, but they very kindly allow us play a few tunes at the end of the night, joined by musical luminaries such as my Dad on the banjo. The staff are absolute legends, and they even indulge us by allowing a late night drunken rendition of Teenage Dirtbag well past closing time. We stumble out into the Galway night, with only the option of 20 pubs around us in a 10 metre radius to choose from . Galway remains undefeated as the best City in Ireland and worth its entry into the sacred annals of Publican Enemy lore.

Many thanks are owed on this trip - Ma, Pa, Brendan, Ian, Micko, Rick, Dave Dara,Tommy, Chiara, Betty, Eoghan, Neev, Pato, Mafaldita and of course Arabella Day .