Where the thirst comes first and the horses come second

From high in the Millennium Stand at the Galway race meeting in Ballybrit, on the fringe of the Atlantic, there is a view like nothing else in this world.

Below is just about everything. Bars and restaurants, fast-food outlets, multicoloured balloons, a mini amusement park, stalls selling chocolate and ice-cream. And people. Thousands of people. It's the people that make the Galway races. Everybody is here. The great and the good, the small and the modest, the chancers and the conmen, the prim and the pious. Somewhere among them is the Taoiseach and most of the Cabinet. "God knows who is running the country," someone jokes.

Getting to Ballybrit is a trial. The traffic is obscene unless you can afford to fly. Helicopters criss-cross the sky all morning. It takes just three minutes to deliver the occupants from the city centre to the course.

Down below, the plebs line up in Eyre Square for the bus. It's a halfhour wait and the normally 10-minute journey takes over an hour. "You think they would know by now. They never lay on enough buses," a woman complains. The buses may be uncomfortable but they're a great place for chat. People exchange tips, compare fortunes and offer advice on the best places to eat and, mainly, drink. Frankie from Crossgar, Co Down, is singing the praises of a folk group, the Clare Celts, who are playing in town tonight. He tells a crowd from Belfast about them but then starts to worry that their repertoire might not suit. "I wouldn't want you to be offended. What part of Belfast are you from?" he asks. "Have you heard of the Wolfe Tones?"

Nearly every guesthouse and hotel in the city has been booked solid for a month. Some 180,000 people are expected at Ballybrit this week. Yesterday and today are the two busiest days. Warnings come over the public address system about pickpockets. Rumour is also rife that a team of Dublin prostitutes are in town. "We've spent half the day looking for them," jokes Gerry from Castlebar. The press room is chaotic and overwhelmingly male.

On previous occasions, VIPs like Gabriel Byrne and Eddie Jordan have dropped by. Nobody famous has been spotted this year, but it doesn't matter. Ordinary folk lunch on beer and burgers on the grass.

In the champagne tent, fresh flowers grace each table and Dom Perignon at £100 a bottle sits in silver buckets. Fianna Fail has a hospitality marquee that has become the social headquarters of the meeting.

You pay handsomely for the privilege of rubbing shoulders with Cabinet ministers, but the Taoiseach is out mingling with the masses, signing autographs, shaking hands, giving advice on the form and chatting to families. John O'Donoghue, Jim McDaid, Joe Walsh, Noel Treacy, Michael Woods, and Frank Fahey are all here. The betting is fierce at Ballybrit - £2.5 million flutters away in a single day. Monday was a punter's nightmare. The winners were all outsiders.

At Ballybrit, you throw away the form book. For the purist, there is a shortage of class; the quality of the fields pales into insignificance compared to Goodwood, which runs simultaneously

But then that's not what Galway is about. At seven days, it's the longest racing festival in the world. It's a week of eating and drinking, music and mayhem and screaming celebration. It's a hooley of awesome proportions. That's what makes Galway glorious.