Four seasons in one day. More like four versions of winter in one day most of the time. If you’re sick of the predictable coming and going of the seasons, then move to Ireland, where it’s like a lucky dip every week.
Currently, it’s supposed to springtime, but it feels more like winter. Well, in reality it is like winter. 3 degrees. Hail, cold, flu. Longer days though to enjoy the grey skies.
Didn’t Ulster’s loyalists once say: “Better the blue skies of Ulster over the grey skies of a Republic”, or something along those lines. I’d say it’s worse again up in Ulster than it is down south. None of us have blue skies. Grey, greyer, greyest.
Who knows if we’ll get a summer. Isn’t that the thrill. Not knowing. I haven’t been in extended sessions of warm sunshine for years. I don’t know if I even put on shorts in Ireland in 2016 outside of playing 5 a side football.
Ducks in Australia or Spain or California must be doing their utmost to get visas for Ireland. The weather is the main attraction. You’d wonder why the migrating swallows bother coming back for more punishment year after year.
Mediterranean folk in Ireland can’t help but laugh at us going on about our “summer”, while they’re wrapped up waiting for it to hit 30 degrees. Sometimes it does. It did one year in September.
We got a good auld burst of it another year for a week. A week. I remember it lashed rain on every other bank holiday weekend.
Winters are long slow drawn out periods of drizzle, darkness and grey skies. Sometimes it snows for a few days and the country stops functioning. Mayhem. Bring back the sun. The sun comes back. Sometimes it doesn’t rain for a few weeks and country stops functioning. It’s too hot. The farmers complain. The fields are drying up. It’s melting. A bit of rain would be grand.
Clothes shops with “spring/summer” collections in their windows. Shorts and muscle vests. For Ireland. 3 degrees. End of April. That’s global warming.