Galway and its Races 



no one will have to tell the westerner how to enjoy 

 himself. If he loses he won't whine. The angry seas 

 of Aran teach one how to lose; they took his two boys 

 and left him an upturned, earless currach. 



I think the finest view of Galway and south Conne- 

 mara that one could wish to see can be seen from the 

 top of the new concrete stand. Leaning on the back 

 parapet and surveying the country from right to left, 

 one sees a plain of stone walls stretching away to the 

 hill of Castle Hackett at Tuam. Still further left, 

 pilgrim-trodden Croagh Patrick towers in silent sanctity 

 in the hazy distance. Then moving round, one's breath 

 is taken away by the purple miles of bog that race away 

 to meet the Corrib. The sun dances playfully on this 

 river-lake, the waters of which look like some giant's 

 broadsword half-buried in the foothills of the distant 

 mountains. Out beyond, the lights play fancifully on 

 the rugged majesty of The Twelve Pins, but their lofty 

 domes are shrouded in cloudy reticence. 



From the gable of the stand one sees Galway City 

 nestling between two clusters of woodland : beyond it, 

 the Atlantic and the dim outline of the Aran Islands. 

 Still turning leftwards, and directly beneath, one sees 

 the racecourse itself : a sweeping circuit of emerald 

 green whose dark bush-fences make a striking contrast 

 to the grey network of walls. In the centre of the 

 course stands the ancient ruin of Ballybrit Castle. Away 

 beyond, Galway Bay cleaves its way into the heart of 

 the countryside, between the far-off mountains of Clare 

 and the grey stone walls of Galway. Turning inland 

 once more, the dim shadows of the Keeper Mountains 



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