Wood Quay is one of the few real neighbourhoods in Galway. The people have lived there for generations and managed to hold on to their homes despite the rampant developers. You stand at the bottom of Eyre Street and you can see the whole of the area, the park that is still green, still untouched, where the kids play hurling and, OK, frisbee, but hurling has the upper, for the moment, and just beyond it is Lough Corrib. It gives a sense of community and they have their own street carnival every year. They are fiercely proud of how they've managed to stay intact in a city of so many rapid and ruthless changes.

McSwiggan's is right at the beginning of the neighbourhood. A newish pub, it has somehow grabbed an echo of old Galway. The tree is right in at the back and yes, they built the pub round it. Now that to me is called having your priorities correct. And more of a rarity, the staff are all Irish. This is becoming more and more of an oddity.

It was just after twelve and the bar guy was doing pub stuff, a frenzy of glass-polishing, stocking shelves, but cheerful with it.

'Howyah?'

I acknowledged I was OK, ordered a pint and a small Jameson.

'Ice with that?'

I gave him the look. Was he serious?

He said, 'No ice it is.'

The pub smelled odd and he noticed me noticing, said, 'It's the lack of nicotine.'

Christ, he was right.

Then he added, 'Our showjumper got a Gold medal.'

I was delighted. I don't know shit from horses, but a Gold, the country would be on the piss for a month.

He let my pint sit before he creamed off the head – knew his stuff – and put the Jameson on the counter. 'I've a ticket for the Madonna concert.'

Almost like the old Ireland, telling you their business without you ever asking. I took a smell of the Jameson and instantly I was convivial.