When it comes to friendliness and fun, I hold the Irish to higher standards than people of other countries. So when the chap at the car rental desk at Shannon airport was merely civil, I was disappointed – not only in him, but perhaps in his country, too. I felt let down. I mean, this was harsh, as he wasn’t remotely unfriendly, but I had expected more. On some level, I wanted to peer over the counter and see a furious stepdance in full flow below, even as his static top half tried to sell me extra insurance cover. But nothing. Where was this man’s craic?

I don’t think you should use that word if you are not from Ireland, but I ask again: where was his craic? He was Irish, therefore I needed more from him than simple efficiency. I appreciate this nonsense arises from me subscribing to a national stereotype as cheap as any other, but I would plead that there are worse prejudices to harbour.

Anyway, I was soon in Galway, where all my expectations, lazy or not, were met. Craic was in evidence everywhere. More craic than you could shake a hurling stick at. Possibly more craic than is strictly good for you. There was yesterday’s craic, in the shape of Galway’s colours fluttering everywhere after their appearance in the All-Ireland football final. OK, there was a droopy sadness about the flags, as Galway lost to Armagh – but no matter, because the next orgy of craic was hard upon us. For this is the week of the Galway races.

I was here for a couple of days to see a friend. I’m not much into racing, but he is very much into racing indeed, so off we went, along with what seemed like most of the rest of Ireland and plenty from elsewhere, too. Thousands upon thousands of men and women – pretty evenly split, it seemed to me – in a massive, apparently classless gathering of absurdly good nature. Everyone laughing, groaning, drinking, eating and shouting as one. Determined waves of rain swept over, as though they had been ordered in to keep the exuberance at safe levels. I was soon of the opinion that, on this Monday, on the first day of the Galway races summer festival, there was no better place to be in all the world. It was that good.

A particular thing kept happening, three words said to me over and again, which I found fascinating at first and eventually moving beyond measure. Many people were kind enough to say hello to me: some because they recognised me; others upon being introduced to me; a few because, in begging pardons squeezing past them in the melee, they heard my accent. And they all said, with feeling: “Welcome to Galway.” I heard it so often that I even wondered if there had been a tourist board campaign encouraging residents to extend this greeting. But, of course, there had been nothing of the sort. This was just a simple, sincere expression of pride and hospitality.

It’s a beautiful thing, this sense of place. I have pride in, and a clear sense of, where I’m from, but I can’t imagine saying words like this to a visitor, however welcome I wanted them to feel. I suppose I might say it if I happened upon a tourist in my neck of the woods, but – to my shame, really – I would say: “Welcome to Stourbridge,” or: “Welcome to Birmingham,” only with a slight tinge of irony. And I doubt it’s any different if you are from a part of Britain with a clearer sense of its own beauty, fame and worth – as Galway has. I may be wrong, but I can’t imagine someone from, say, Harrogate greeting someone with: “Welcome to Harrogate,” or: “Welcome to Yorkshire.”

If I’m right, and we don’t express ourselves like this, then we should. It’s enchantingly inclusive. It says: we are together, we are one and we are glad you are here with us awhile.