Village of Crazy Homes — Famed Irish Beauty Spot Doomed

Galway Observer, January 02, 1930

Introduction

Under these headings the "Daily Mail" of Saturday last published the following from its Galway correspondent.

Claddagh, one of the most, among many, famous beauty spots in Ireland, is doomed by a town improvement scheme of the Galway Urban district Council. For hundreds of years the cottages have been grouped picturesquely on the bank of the river Corrib, and although many are toppling, there is no look of dejection about them, for the gay walls smile under tawny thatches.

Walls of white, pale—blue, vivid orange, warm browns, bold yellows, and startling vermillion struggle exotically, reminiscent of sunny lands and palm—clad frames to similar pictures.

Here in the bracing west is the impression that an eccentric artist has sized an inspiration, and like a child has forestalled "town planning" by centuries. But his toy houses — the majority have only one room — are grouped without any pretence at forming streets or square, they just "happened" with that stroke of genius. No two houses are alike; every turn presents an unexpected charm.

Famous artists have tried to capture the fascination of the little village on canvas and linked the beauties with Spanish blood in their veins, and the mingling of two races has produced a form and deportment that have made the Claddagh women renowned. Tall, graceful women they are, with shawls covering their raven tresses, or the hooded Claddagh cape enveloping slender figures. Many of them are extremely poor, but poverty cannot rob them of queenly dignity nor magnetic personality.

The Future

In a few weeks building will start on the first 50 houses of the 250 that will banish the Claddagh's picturesqueness. The prospect does not please many of the inhabitants. Modern homes in exchange do not appeal as a fair bargain. The passing of their homes is a tragedy. One old woman told me with pride that she owned her one—roomed cottage and loved every stone of it, for it had been in the family for generations.

So in every cottage the battle of sentiment and progress is raging.

An old fisherman said: —

I cannot bear to think of leaving here for a new and strange house. Sure, the place will not be the same at all What would I be doing living anywhere else? And I that played on these cobble stones as a child, and my father before me.

It's peace I do be wanting, now instead of making changes.