We are a country that is completely consumed with weather. It’s the national pastime, a constant source of conversation, an obsession. Our traffic light warning system is in constant flux from status yellow to orange to red and we love a good weather event. We worship at the altar of Jean Byrne, are smitten with Gerald Fleming’s cheeky wink and stalk weather apps more than we stalk our ex’s on Instagram.
When it comes to our climate, we are a nation of eternal optimists, and never is this more evident than during the summer. Every May, as soon the air temperature reaches a single degree above arctic levels, every town across the country will be full to the brim with young men strutting around like bare-chested peacocks in tracksuit bottoms. They have a bag of cans from Lidl in one hand, a fishing pole in the other, and dream of endless summer days getting sozzled in the park with their teenage mates. And who can blame them?
We all harbour fantasies of a long, hot summer and all the possibilities that might bring. Visions float through our minds of 99s topped with chocolatey flakes that melt faster than we can devour them, evenings spent lounging in the garden with the barbecue cranked up, and days where the coral pink sun doesn’t sink below the horizon until 10pm. We brave the sunshine without the sun factor and allow our pale Irish complexions to gently bake until we resemble a delicate shade of lobster red. We camp out in beer gardens, breath in the salty sea air, and experience the simple joy of wearing dresses without tights. There is no end to the pleasures of summer, except this year in Ireland, there has been absolutely no summer to speak of.
Irish weather is our one true love that leaves us broken-hearted time and again. And summer is not unlike an emotionally unavailable boyfriend who promises that he’s going to show up, meet your friends and dazzle them with his wit and easy charm. We look forward it, have fingers crossed that it will go well but he never shows, leaving us dejected. We want to believe next time he will make an appearance, but bitter experience tells us otherwise.
Irish weather pulls much the same trick. We have a wedding, a festival or any number vaguely outdoorsy events that require a sprinkling of sunshine. We check the weather twice daily with hope in our hearts, we light a candle and pray to the weather gods for sunshine. But what we get instead is 13 degrees, blustery showers, and a biting northerly wind. We are surprised that we’ve been served up another dreary summer’s day, but we really shouldn’t be, we’ve had a lifetime of disappointment and climate catastrophes.
This year we didn’t even get a Leaving Cert heatwave, the only two weeks of the year that you can almost certainly guarantee the weather will be scorchingly hot. In fact, the temperatures were worse than ever. Over the past fortnight, I did two things I promised myself I’d never do in June, light a fire and turn the heating on. I have been frequently been wrapped up in my oversized winter jumper, my favourite sandals are gathering dust in the back of the wardrobe and as I write this it’s grey, rainy and bloody cold. This is not summer, it’s winter, just 3 degrees warmer.
When will this misery end? When will we get to wear a summer dress? Weather gods, why have you forsaken us? Take us back to the heady days of last year, where there was a drought, a heatwave, a hosepipe ban and the mercury hit 32 degrees. If somebody, anybody could give us just a week of warm weather we promise we will stay in Ballybunion. Ireland, we won’t cheat on you with sexy Spain or her sultry sister France, Ballyfermot will do us just fine. Evelyn Cusack, can you find it in your heart to lift the country and bless us with some glorious sunshine? A nation holds its breath.
