Yes to an Irish heatwave!
Yes to the glorious panic that takes hold of Ireland during that brief paradise when the nation gallantly attempts to cram three months of summer activity into one furious outdoor-cooking wave-chasing sun-seeking 48-hour spell.
Yes to the look of joy on the faces of the good folk at Met Éireann as they get to ditch all those cloud and rain emojis, plaster the map of Ireland with sunshine badges and essentially shout ‘Bombs Away!’
Yes, to the heady rumour that Ireland’s all-time highest temperature, those 33 degrees recorded back in 1887 in Kilkenny, where they are always that one step ahead, might be overtaken this weekend – and maybe at the moment when the Cats take the field for the hurling final.
Yes, to the sound on an entire national economy spontaneously downing tools for the weekend and deciding to hit the beach.
Several months have passed now since the spell casters at Met Éireann began to promise that the dreary, cold days of June and early July would be banished. A hot spell was inevitable, with soaring temperatures due to a heady combination of jet streams mixing with the backdraught from the Twelfth bonfires and the rising poll ratings of the Shinners.
For too long there’s been a conspiracy that the Irish do not have skin-tone or the temperament to thrive in 30 degree summers; that it somehow suits the national soul to live for 362 days of the year under that perma-drizzle that doesn’t so much fall as sit in the air causing an unbroken blanket of greyness running from the banks of the Shannon to the Beara Peninsula.
Well, look at us now! Look at the miles of traffic snaking along the narrow roads leading to the supreme beaches of Keem, of Rossnowlagh, of Dog’s Bay.
Listen to the sound of 10,000 parasols going up on Saturday morning in front of pubs and cafes across the 32 counties. Listen, too, to the early morning sounds of the rugby game down in New Zealand, where Ireland may be about to make history against the All Blacks early on Saturday morning.
And win or lose, its still only eight degrees Celsius in Wellington.
Observe the nation at play on Quay Street in Galway or downtown Killarney. By lunchtime Saturday, every outdoor seat and park bench will be taken by the Ireland Outdoors, sun-cream lathered, Ray-Ban’d to the gills, pale as Eskimos crew ready to give this heatwave lark their very best shot.
Promise Ireland even two days of unbroken sunshine and the place turns into a massive Glastonbury – except the tickets are free
Check out the myriad colours of the midland plains or the jaw-dropping beauty of Connemara or Donegal or West Cork set against a Hawaiian seascape and argue then that high weather does not suit Ireland.
Salute in acknowledgment as the true Irish eccentrics – those who drive convertible cars – get to live their Don Henley moment. Hear an old classic – a Pet Shop Boys or a Neneh Cherry – banging out from some beer garden and remind yourself that this is not the worst country in the world.
No, those continental summers we hear about in mainland Europe – months and months of azure skies and high heat – are wasted on the moody French and the Spaniards who only come out after five o’clock anyway. They do nothing with them. Promise Ireland even two days of unbroken sunshine and the place turns into a massive Glastonbury – except the tickets are free.
“It’s a beautiful day, the beaches are open and people are having a wonderful time,” declares Mayor Vaughan in Jaws and it could become the official motto for Ireland this weekend.
The sun may not grace this land very often but, when it does, Ireland knows what to do with it. Which is to go absolutely bananas.
Weekends like this prove the point that it’s not sunshine that doesn’t suit the Irish temperament. It is work. The drudge routine and necessity of the nine-to-five work interferes with the instinctive national genius for having a good time doing nothing.
It is during these rare heatwaves, which slow everything down and clear the skies and make everyone just a little bit dreamy and when we can actually see the landscape for what it is – that is when Ireland remembers what it is about.
And, as always, sport is a part of the backdrop. Whether the Ireland rugby team win or lose in New Zealand early this morning, only a matter of hours will pass before the third day of the Open cranks up.
There is something wonderful and absurd about the fact that this island has produced five Open champions in the past 15 years alone and that as the tournament celebrates its 150th year in St Andrews, there is a chance that Shane Lowry or Rory McIlroy will come good again.
And it has become clear, over the past few months, that McIlroy is one of the most interesting Irish sports stars this island has produced: a mercurially brilliant talent, at once polite and outspoken and fearless in criticism of the fellow professionals who have jumped at the mega money offered by the Saudi tour.
After the ice-cold winter hurling final of the pandemic comes this vision: Kilkenny and Limerick, the old regime and the new order, facing one another down on the hottest weekend of the year
And in Croke Park, the women’s All-Ireland football semi-finals promise two more cracking games.
So Saturday will fly by in a haze of 100,000 burnt barbecues, a record-breaking run on the iced ciders and slowly turn into one of those nights when it actually stays warm long after midnight.
But then comes Sunday and the All-Ireland hurling final. In mid-July! After the ice-cold winter hurling final of the pandemic comes this vision: Kilkenny and Limerick, the old regime and the new order, facing one another down on the hottest weekend of the year.
It’s hard to know whether the GAA should stick with the pre-match national anthem or just stick on Good Vibrations and be done with it.
And what a moment. A full house in Croke Park. Match programmes used as sun visors. Even the buskers melting. Spare a thought for the supporters on the Hill and on the exposed slopes of the upper Cusack.
And spare a thought for the hurlers asked to perform – while wearing helmets – in the full heat of the afternoon. The unchanging hauteur of those black and amber stripes. And this is not the Limerick of Angela’s Ashes. This is a new time.
The sound of championship games on the car radios on the beach is one of the great sounds of a true Irish summer. But never in July for an All-Ireland final. And then, if McIlroy or Lowry are in contention or the Claret Jug on Sunday tea-time, Ireland will have its day of Sundays.
So brace yourself for the brief, wonderful Irish summer. Those above in Leinster House haven’t figured out how to tax you for having a good time – at least not yet.
Be cool. Make the most of it.
Because they say it’s gonna be lashin’ by Wednesday.
