Life in Ireland requires at least some level of delusion. It is our sustenance and our survival. The weather isn’t that bad. The sea is lovely once you get in. The national children’s hospital will get built. A bus will eventually show up. The GP receptionist will call you back to say they have an appointment between now and May 2025. Electric showers are normal – relaxing, even, once you get used to the loud “BRZZZZZZ” sound and the water pressure best described as “impotent”.
Everything is always grand in Ireland. Not good, not bad, just grand. It would be the best country in the world if we could put a roof on it.
But our greatest delusion of all, and the one I’m proudest of participating in, is our nationwide pretence of summer. It requires a certain mass co-ordination to go along believing we have transitioned to balmy weather just because we have changed out of heavier jumpers into lighter jumpers. The sky is still a stubborn grey and you can never plan an outdoor barbecue with confidence. “Convertible car owner” remains the most redundant title in Ireland given how often you can gainfully use it.
But nevertheless we persist in looking forward to and enjoying summer. Summer in Ireland is a state of mind. You can’t rely on banal things such as temperature readings or blue skies or almanacs to tell you it’s here, like those other simpleton countries do. The signs are much more subtle, but if you study them closely you’ll see how true nature whispers the arrival of summer.
Shivering young ones in dresses
They are standing outside in beer gardens with their arms folded, gripping the tops of their shoulders hoping their layers of Bondi Sands and Sally Hansen will seal in any escaping body heat. They do not wait for the seasons to dictate when they can wear their bits of polyester elastic from Asos or Pretty Little Thing or Shein. Otherwise their cute crop tops or sundresses would never see the light of day. They would wither and die in their plastic bags on their bedroom floor. The crops would not be rotated, the harvest would fail and people would die. So they will summer into being by sacrificing their delicate skins to the hungry breeze as they go out in their best whimsical, coquette-core/office siren/mob wife finery. They are our modern-day druids engaging in pagan rituals to ensure the seasonal wheel turns. When they decide to get pedicures to wear an open-toe shoe we can prepare ourselves for better times ahead.
The grown-up version of this is the summer bride who has picked breezy florals and strapless dresses for the bridesmaids. They can always Photoshop the blue lips and goosebumps out of the pictures later. These people have the Child of Prague working overtime on swing shifts from May to September until he looks like that photo of Ben Affleck smoking a cigarette.
Clogged footpaths
Suddenly it becomes impossible to walk anywhere and you find yourself being carried up the street towards Christ Church in a tide of brightly coloured backpacks and lanyards, pulled into an omnipresent undertow of Spanish students doing an English-language exchange. You may never escape. “¿Puedo vivir contigo?” you ask.
Standing or sitting in undesirable locations
Being uncomfortable is a national pastime in Ireland. It’s a pity it’s not in the Olympics. But we take it to extreme lengths in summer when we will mill about outside pubs, drinking pints. Standing on concrete and shifting our weight from one foot to another while talking entertaining nonsense. Not many places have a seated area that might catch the sliver of light we get for 10 minutes that lights up the place like Newgrange. So whenever there’s a hint of sunlight we go and stand outside. We could try going to that different pub with outdoor seating but that’s a silly idea. The “buzz” is obviously here at this place and by “buzz” we mean many people doing a lot of awkward hovering about, letting our hot little hands warm our pint.
Shops
Penneys has a whole section dedicated to straw beach bags that will cut into our shoulders, and bikinis that will never get wet because we’re only going to get in up to our ankles. And every year we buy them because we dare to dream.
Summer dining
“Picky bits in the garden” – in other words, it’s too hot to cook, so here’s a boiled egg, some lettuce and a mini quiche on a plate. If Heston Blumenthal did it we’d call him a genius.
Lads with their tops off
They believe it is hot enough to walk around without a shirt on. It never is. But God loves a trier.