Saturday, the 1st of August - the final day of the Galway Race Festival. Well, Saturday was to be my day at the races, but as one by one my three prospective racing companions bowed out, my heart was sinking. It isn't much fun going to the races on your own, but for a dedicated Galway races fan it's far worse if you don't go at all - racing enthusiasts will understand. At any rate, I was rescued last minute by my sister who offered to meet me and provide some company.

Oft-celebrated in song, the races are eagerly looked forward to by owners, trainers, jockeys and punters alike. The City of the Tribes opens her arms and embraces the hordes (and I mean hordes) who seek shelter and sustenance throughout the week long carnival of equine excellence.

Leaving myself with very little time to spare I shouldn't have been surprised to find myself stuck in a line of traffic which stretched the full length of the quincentennial bridge. And naturally the line beside mine was moving faster. It brought back childhood memories - the quincentennial bridge didn't exist then, but I remember the queues along by Lochatalia, near Galway docks, and the men in their big Mercs who used to jump the queues and try to rejoin them further on. We always went to the races on the Monday and Tuesday evenings when the mood would be relaxed and gently expectant, an aperitif to the grand spread of racing delights to come on Wednesday and Thursday.

The Compaq Galway Plate (it was strange not to see the familiar Digital sponsorship logo), with a pot of £65,000 for the winner, attracted huge crowds on Wednesday, while on Thursday a splash of glamour was added to the proceedings as the girls competed in the fashion stakes for the highly-coveted prize for Best Dressed Lady.

I parked my car and as I walked across the field the various sounds of racing came to meet me: the familiar voices (at least they always sound familiar) on the PA system, mingled with the cries of the hawkers and the screams from the rollercoaster, all beckoning me to hurry. The meeting of urban and rural, Dublin's Moore Street and Corrib breezes, feels natural and stimulating.

I bought my race card (£1.50) and a biro (30p), thinking ruefully of the 4 biros on the passenger seat of my car. I was just in time to place a bet for the first race. Taking a quick look at the prices being offered by the bookies, off I trotted to the tote.

I love watching the bookies. Using binoculars, mobile phones and hand-signals, they communicate with colleagues who obviously give them the information they need to set the prices. A quick wipe with a damp cloth, the scrape of chalk on slate; this is the bookie's browser.

"The horses are about to leave the parade ring." This announcement is the signal for punters to make their way to the grandstand from where the races are viewed. We watched while the horses were led into the starting stalls and we waited for the commentator's obligatory "The white flag is raised, aaaaand...they're off!" Magic. The growing excitement is palpable as the race nears its conclusion and the crowd goes wild when its favourite wins.

As any veteran racegoer will attest to, Galway rarely disappoints. From the pleasure of viewing the horses at close quarters in the parade ring to the euphoria of seeing your choice first past the winning post, a day's racing is constantly exciting from first to last. And next year, there will be an extra day added to the week, extending the Festival to the Sunday. As they say - "You haven't lived if you haven't been to the Galway Races!"