I had a bit of a moment the other day. With an hour to kill before a meeting in town I drove to Salthill, walked across the car park to the Prom and stood on a rock on the sea wall.
The early evening air was cool and clear. There was not a breath of wind. Under the fading light of a clear blue sky the water in the bay lay perfectly still, a silvery sheen pockmarked by bobbing bunches of seaweed.
Climbing down the rocks I walked along the beach, until I was beyond Palmer’s Rock. The sun was sinking behind a massive wall of dark cloud, towering high into the west, rising from the horizon until it occupied a third of the sky.
As the sun disappeared behind this vast grey barrier, a line of gold lit up along the cloud’s upper edge, a shimmering rim of brilliance running across the entire opening of Galway Bay.
In contrast to this dazzling line of light, the wall of cloud below turned black. Had you just arrived as a stranger in the place I stood, you might well believe that this water vapour was in fact stone; that Galway Bay was a lake, edged by mountains high and mighty, from Black Head to Bearna.
Even though I know a cloud when I see one, something primal deep inside me double checked to make sure that this black monolith was not a tidal wave, rushing to consume us all.
No. Nothing as dramatic as that. So calm, in fact, that the ocean’s edge became indistinguishable from the beach. As the tide edged out it left a glistening shine on the sand, while dusk’s light bounced off the motionless ocean, appearing as a blend of mercury and mirrors.
Despite the roar of traffic in the background and the hordes walking along the Prom, I still managed to find my own space and peace down there.
Staring at a tiny lump of sand, watching as the water lapped over it and receded, waiting, watching, waiting, watching, wondering when will come that moment when the tide might turn.
It’s what I do; what I did that evening and have done everywhere I’ve lived in the West of Ireland. I watch the tide and drift into peace.
Neither Mindfulness nor Meditation, and yet equally both, I have no desire to put a label on it.
I stared for hours at the sunken rocks of Bunowen Bay and the dunes of Doonloughan when I lived in west Connemara. For years in north Mayo I've watched the tide turn along Ross beach, and lost myself many a time in the utter splendour and endless beauty of Kilcummin back strand.
Yet all these natural wonders and altered mental states were only the precursor to my moment. As is often the way, my mind used tide-staring as a trigger to my past.
Adrift within the calmest moment the Atlantic seaboard could ever offer, I suddenly felt lost at sea, washed overboard by a freak wave of emotion.
Replacing my physical vision with a reel of memories, my mind ran a major film event in front of my eyes, showing me reruns of many of the varied events in the last 34 years of my life that have played out on Salthill Prom.
The night in August 1992, when I sat there on the rocks with my new-found friend, as we decided to stay; to try and find a home and make a life here in Galway.
The day when, seven years later, having failed in and fled from America, I stumbled along the Prom, searching for stability, soaking up familiarity.
The night in 1993 when I fell out of Vagabonds and sat on the sea wall with my beautiful date, stole a kiss, sipped whiskey from a naggin, felt thrilled at the opportunities the night ahead offered, and then dropped my house keys into the deep dark void between the rocks.
The day I walked to Gentian Hill believing I would never again take a step without back pain, and the day when I realised it was gone.
The countless out-loud talks I’ve had with myself, like the crazy guy you don’t want to sit next to on the bus. Open dialogues that escape my mind, transforming into voice, in your space and face, as I walk alone along the Prom.
Back in 1992, a few days after my decision to try and build a life in Galway, the weather finally changed and my jaw dropped. Up until then, fog and low cloud had obscured the Burren, so great was my joy when for the first time I saw the sensual purple hills of County Clare.
Thousands of walks along the Prom: my lifeline; my mental health; my physical saviour.
The Prom lifted my spirits, clearing my head of the detritus of everyday life. Along its length I spilled my emotional angst, vitriol and bile, so that by time I returned home my mind was free, my spirit cleansed, my body alive and tingling.
Meteorological marvels have sometimes allowed me to make out smoke rising from a chimney far across the bay in Ballyvaughan. A beam of sunlight picks out a field of rich deep green above Bell Harbour, and when the light shimmers and glows in just right way, all three Aran islands can float into view, vibrating as melting mirages in the distance.
I was silly to be surprised by my moment. I had not been to the Prom for many months and was foolish to underestimate my love for it and Galway Bay.
My heart was almost washed away by the flood of memories. My soul lifted like a kite in the wind, tears swelled in my eyes.
Having paid my respects to the Prom and my past I gave thanks, turned around and walked on.
©Charlie Adley
16.07.2026
