Here's a bold generalisation. Geography and society are inexorably linked. And taking that theme of generalisations further, you could say that people who inhabit hot, sunny lands have a more relaxed attitude to life than those who don't. An extreme example might be to compare southern Italians with, say, the Laplanders. In Lapland order, law, and social cohesion are par for the course. Lapps are sensible people who plan for the future in a way that southern Mediterranean types do not. This may have something to do with the fact that in northern Finland if you don't make proper preparations for the very long winter you simply won't survive until spring. Hot climate denizens have no such worries - even in the middle of their very mild winters they can still pick oranges from trees. It's an easier life, and people don't need to try as hard. You can even see this effect in individual countries. Northern Spain is more industrial that southern Spain, and that's true of Germany, France and Italy as well. All of which might lead you to believe that there's a rule here - until you try to apply it to Ireland.

We may have a north/south division here, but it's not of the same variety. I'll venture this though - our division of cultural ethos runs east/west. Once you cross the Shannon the capital becomes distant not just in miles, but also in cultural hegemony. It may be just hopeless romanticism, but the West seems to embody a lot more of Ireland's traditional values than Dublin does. Time moves slower, people talk to one another, hospitality is still alive and well. I was in Galway this week, and all these ideas vaguely formed over the years were brought into sharper focus. Galway is a pleasing size, big enough that all the comforts of modern life can be found, but still small enough to be on a human scale.

My son Rocco and I took a gentle amble through its centre, along by the port then slowly up Quay Street towards Eyre Square. It's impossible not to find yourself making comparisons with Temple Bar. Narrow pedestrianised streets full of shops, bars and restaurants - but that's where the similarity ends. No drunks, no doorways running with urine, no vomit to step over. Quay Street is exactly what Temple Bar ought to be.

In the space of less than one hundred yards there I counted perhaps a dozen restaurants, all of which seemed to be busy and buzzing. We weren't in a hurry; we sauntered up and down the street until something about Pierre's seemed to exert a siren call on us. Inside it's a cosy bistro-style lay-out, simple wooden tables and chairs furnish it. Dark, basaltic stone walls with the patina of ages on them and large wooden beams complete the décor. We sat, basking in the warmth and read our menus.

The first job was to settle upon our drinks. No wine for Rocco, but the list had a couple of half bottles, so I chose a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc, while Rocco had a couple of bottles of Millers. It may be a short list, but it's well-priced with most of the listed wines clustering around the €20 mark. There was a jug of iced water on the table already, so there was no need to order over-priced mineral water. Such a simple thing to provide - a jug of iced water - you'd wonder why in most restaurants you have to ask for it.

For starters Rocco picked the seafood chowder from the specials menu, while I decided on the Galway Bay mussels, seeing where we were. The chowder was, to quote my son, 'absolutely delicious' and I agreed with him. Thick, creamy and with a hint of curry spices it was a well-judged dish. My mussels were cooked just right, and the simple sauce of garlic, cream and white wine was excellent.

Definitely a good start, we thought. For main courses Rocco had debated long and hard as to whether he was going to have the duck or a steak, explaining 'since we're on the coast, right next to sea where fresh fish is abundant and good, I really ought to to be choosing meat'. Very amusing, but when he heard from our waitress that there was a special of lemon sole stuffed with crabmeat, he went for that instead. Keeping up the fish theme, I picked the fillet of brill. Since Rocco isn't usually a fish eater he's more critical of it than natural piscivores, but his choice really won him over, as did mine. Both of them came with the fish lightly cooked and with a subtlety of flavouring that showed a deft hand in the kitchen.

Unusually for me and my dining companions, this time we both chose a dessert. Profiteroles stuffed with ice cream for me, and while Rocco debated choices our waitress told us 'the tiramisu is good, the chef's Italian'. That settled it. And Rocco ate what he thought was the best tiramisu he'd ever tasted, while I was less enthusiastic about my profiteroles, which were just a little chewy. We finished up with a couple of coffees and got the bill.

The bill confirmed what I'd been thinking about our east/west division. This was the sort of bill you might have got handed in Dublin five years ago before prices went insane. This well-prepared meal had come to us with a price tag of €76.90, which is £60 in old money. Good value, good food, good service - if you can think of anything else you need from a restaurant, let me know.