"Well then, girl, once we get out of this, we’ll go take a drink, eh?" Pat’s eyes fairly light up at the prospect of a heartstarter: a shot of brandy with a generous slug of port to take off the edge.
I look at my watch. It is yet to make 10.30am.
I settle back in my seat and wait as the riot of coloured horses mills about our bus as they lumber toward the fair green.
The Ballinasloe International Horse Fair and Agricultural Show, County Galway, Ireland, is one of Europe’s oldest horse fairs. Its formal charter was issued by George I in 1722, but its unofficial history dates long before this time.
It’s said this is where Napoleon bought ‘Marengo’, the horse he rode at Waterloo. Many European armies once found their mounts here, while the Belgian and French buyers for horsemeat still attend, as do the knackers. Scandinavians come for the coloured horses that can winter comfortably in their harsh conditions, and more recently, the fair has strengthened its reputation as the place to find good horses for eventing and showjumping.
The fair runs for nine days each October in Ballinasloe, a market town of 6,000 people in east Galway on the main Dublin-Galway road that stretches across the country. Ballinasloe is 95 miles from Dublin, give or take an hour during the Horse Fair when the horses are driven into the main market area.
These days, over 70,000 people visit Ballinasloe over the course of the fair.
Traditionally, it was ‘a show for rest cattle, sheep, pigs, draft horses and ploughing’, and for the first time in many years, the Sheep and Ram Fair has been revived, though the small turn out reflected Ireland’s currently very depressed sheepmeat market.
There are jousting displays and lunging competitions in the show ground, and the final day sees the All Ireland Foal’s Competition. Other highlights of the fair include the attendance of horsewhisperer Randy Lewis, the Horsedrawn and Vintage Parade, sheepdog trials and the lunging competition for three-year-olds held on the first Sunday of the fair.
Last years’ winner Gerard Moran of Co. Galway and his bay 16.1hh filly ‘Coevers Dream Delight’ also won the Fillies competition. Such famous horses as ‘Leapy Lad’ and ‘Coolmore Hill’ have changed hands here at Ballinasloe. Last years’ winner of the Gelding Class and runner up to the overall champion was a dapple grey whose dam, ‘Cruising’, was the runner up in the 1999 World Showjumping Championships. It is estimated about half the horses sold here will end up in England.
The fair runs for nine days each October. Traditionally, it was ‘a show for rest cattle, sheep, pigs, draft horses and ploughing’, and for the first time in many years, the Sheep and Ram Fair has been revived. Other highlights of the fair include the attendance of horsewhisperer Randy Lewis, the Horsedrawn and Vintage Parade, and the Best turned out Horse on Fair Green. There are jousting displays and lunging competitions in the show ground, and the final day sees the All Ireland Foal’s Competition.
We finally get off the bus and head for Hayden’s Gateway Hotel. "A grand hotel, yuh, grand hotel," says Pat as he leads me into the foyer. All the furniture has been cleared away, replaced by miles of thick grey plastic taped over the carpet. Not yet 11 am, the pub is doing a roaring trade.
Cloth caps and khaki wellies are the uniform of the day. Pat looks dapper in his Sunday best: tie, cardigan and an ancient tweed jacket, finished off with sturdy boots. A farmer from Co. Westmeath, he has been coming to the fair for the past 25 years, and his father, in his 80s and still an active horse trader, has never missed a year in the 70 years he has been coming.
We march to the bar and he orders his firewater. I sense I have disappointed him with my girlish request for a glass of cider, please.
With no time to waste, we down our drinks and amble out onto the street. All the shops are closed and boarded up save the pubs and takeaway stands. In their place are the omnipresent stalls of fairs the world over: fairy floss vans, shooting galleys, cheap sportswear tents and row after row of horse vans selling anything remotely connected to horses: bridles, saddles, plaster of Paris figurines of noble thoroughbreds eagerly coveted by young girls, leather conditioner and, the gimmick of the day, long, lurid purple riding crops. The last-named are eagerly snapped up by young boys, and the air sings with the whistling sound of the wielded crops.
Ploughing through the town whose population has tripled overnight, the main street takes a turn, and suddenly opens out onto the fair green, where most of the trading takes place. Every available space is crammed with horses of all shapes, sizes and colours; grey, dun, roan, white, and, overwhelmingly, the distinctive piebalds favoured by Ireland’s ‘travellers’, like gypsies of old, an ancient breed of nomadic horse traders.
Aside from the piebalds, the most well-represented breeds are the Irish Draught mares and foals, Hunters, and the famous Connemara and Shetland ponies. Around the fringes are clumps of asses, shaggy little beasts that are fetching, it is whispered, up to £300. "Ach, couldn’t give ‘em away five years ago," mutters Pat dolefully, thinking of all the money that has slipped through his fingers.
Many of the horses are well turned out. Plaited tails swish the heavy air, glistening haunches jostle against each other as wee girls try to show their pony’s gait to hard-faced potential buyers. Tiny, tiny foals butt against their mothers, stumbling over the muddy ground. In amongst the children’s ponies and hackers are some exceptional beasts – strong Irish hunters with powerful shoulders that stand well above the rest. These proud horses have rings of admirers, and their handlers look disdainfully at the rabble, occasionally muttering sums under their breath to only those they deem ‘real’ buyers.
A grubby boy astride a piebald tears past us, his legs are stuck almost out at right angles across the creature’s broad back. He is flailing the horse with his purple crop, urging the gentle beast to plough through the sea of horseflesh and buyers. Everyone moves aside complacently, used to this common sight. The boy and horse stumble over an embankment into the area where travellers’ caravans have all been set. He pulls up outside one of the flashier vans and disappears inside, rattling the sign that advertises Madame Gray (‘true-born Gypsie’) and her expertise in the supernatural arts.
Back on green, the ground is a churned up mess of mud and dung, cigarette butts and bits of old rope. The ‘oulfellas’ are shaking their heads in the manner of all farmers, saying prices are down and it wasn’t like last year. Pat grunts in agreement "Ah, come on then," he says, and leads me into another grand pub, the Emerald, and toasts us in that black drink of the nation, "May we be alive this time next year."