Alighting from Feda O’Donnell’s bus in Eyre Square, the city scoops them up into its bosom like some great hippy aunt, feeding them culture and craic and plenty of drink. No visit to Galway is complete for a Donegal person without observing an old school friend, now with dreadlocks and Palestinian keffeyeh, bashing away at a bodhran in some pub, a loyal mongrel snoozing on a rope at his feet.
That’s a great observation. They have the Celtic mysticism that the Atlantic gifts. Roscommon on the other hand don’t and are dull midlanders, not a true West of Ireland county. And it eats them inside.
A lot of tripe in there. None of us would be wearing anything that would highlight our political allegiances. Brian Feda must have gave him a bag of weed for a spot of publicity.
In fairness to the Rossies, they stick together. They’re noble and stoic.
Nothing like the Galway lads who’d fight and fleece one another at the drop of a cardigan.