Coming out of your shell
Nothing much is happening outtside Moran's of the Weir in Clarinbridge but there's an air of exxpectancy. The little stage festooned with Guinness ads looks no match for the rain that is threatening to fall. The odd drinker wanders, pint in hand, out of Moran's to watch Festival Commmittee members anxiously walk to and fro. The action is still in the dark, crowded interior of the pub. By Eamonn O'Dwyer
Then, something happens. The coaches arrive. Four long CIE tour buses disgorge some two hundred American and Japanese tourists onto the quay. A four-piece ceili band, including an unlikely tenor saxophone, starts up as the visitors immediately begin taking pictures of everything around them. A little group of Irish dancers, bright-eyed boys and girls in Bard Failte costumes, are soon surrrounded by a swarm of picket cameras and super eights. The dancers oblige by launching into a little impromptu set.
Soon a Bord Failte woman is singging Galway Bay as the various guests and dignitaries crowd onto the stage. Guest of honour Hugh Leonard blinks through his cigar smoke. Something is happening.
The routine whatGalway speeches are interspersed with song and dance. But the pictures are what matter. An American voice to a local press photographer who's standding in front of the stage: "Hey, fella, how about moving over?" Local press' photographer to American tourist:
"Hey, fella, how about going back to America?"
The Mayor of Galway prepares to formally consume the first oyster of t:-IC season. But wait. Jack Leonard of Guinness Group Sales seems to be in trouble. Knees bent, one arm jabbing the air in front of him. Eventually he gets it out: "The tray, the tray ... "
Beside the stage, perched on a welllmanicured bush, is a tray holding six half pints in Guinness glasses. Guinness Group Sales have been sponsoring the Oyster Festival for twenty-seven years. Calm, and the upmarket image of Guinness, is restored as the tray is brought forth to wash down the presstigious oysters.
A couple of hundred people, mainly small farmers, fish the oysters around Clarinbridge. It's seasonal work and for many of them a necessary supplement to their meagre standard of living. The conservation laws are strict. December is the only month in which it is legal to fish for oysters. Poaching is common. The fishermen are paid £ 12 a hundred by the dealers and hoteliers. The same oysters then grace the palates of those who can pay £3.75 a dozen. The two hundred per cent mark-up is not unncommon in our hotels and restaurants.
A large marquee has been erected in the field beside Paddy Burke's of Clarin bridge for the afternoon of oysters, seafood luncheons and drink. Danno Heaslip, prominent Galway auctioneer, stands at the entrance checking the tickets. Elsewhere, uniformed employees of Connaught
Security roam the grounds with a watchful eye. This time, they're not taking any chances.
Last year one festival-goer, noticing in a moment of clarity that everyone around him seemed more intoxicated 'it than himself, calmly swept half a table of food into a plastic refuse sack and disappeared. That evening marked an exceptional local participation in the festival.
At £12 a ticket for this afternoon's revelries and £65 for a four-day ticket, which also buys you two dinners and an Irish Coffee reception, it's not surrprising to find that the festival-goers consist in the main of Galway business people and tourists.
The marquee is beginning to fill. At one end a band plays. At the other tickets are exchanged for oysters and" smoked salmon. Between the two the word Guinness appears in various sizes some ninety times. At the bar in the middle of marquee four barmen are busily dispensing the stuff free.
A portly man bends forward, bum in the air, to avoid dripping juice on his large expanse of shirt-front as he sucks an oyster from its shell. A lively woman engaged in conversation behind him reaches her punchline,
steps back, and bumps him sharply-in the rear, causing him to splutter and suddenly straighten up. He extracts the entire shell from his mouth. He good-naturedly waves away her apoloogies and sadly dabs at his front.
Around us wafts the smell of money, the aura of successful commmerce. The elegant women and the well-groomed men are talking a little louder and a little faster than before, fuelled by bottles of champagne at £8.75 a throw. It seems to be splashing and bubbling forth everywhere as people vie with each other to fill the glasses around them. It occurs to me
to acquire a glass and hold it vaguely out in front of me. Can such largesse allow for discrimination?
At 5 pm there is a siesta - a eupheemism for an official cessation of eating and drinking. Three hours later, at Sprn , amid the swish of evening gowns and the tinkle of long-stemmed glasses the final blow-out will commence.
The three hundred and ninety guests relax in the huge banquet hall of the Great Southern. Dinner is over, Hugh Leonard is giving his speech. With eight courses of food and assorted wines and liquers gone down he is assured of an appreciative, relaxed, and all but immobilized audiience. After the funny stories his voice assumes a more serious, almost confiidential, tone.
" ... and you know I looked up the word festival in the dictionary. And it means a celebration. And in the hard and difficult times we live in it's important to celebrate. It's an act of faith in our survival, our future."
It's half three in the morning and the dancing is over, legs no longer have the strength to dance on tables or anywhere else. The four-piece band, replete in red pullovers with the word Guinness written across the chests, have played the national anthem, to which all but the very drunk managed to stand.
Downstairs, a woman in a pink Lady Di gown is leaning against the reception desk, staring forlornly at the aspirin in her hand. She is waiting for a glass of water. She's been running ahed of the hangovers since Thursday - but they've finally caught up. "And I've no one to blame but myself", she moans. The Galway Oyster Festival is over for another year. •