Margaret and Jim’s guesthouse provides a breathtaking view, that is, if you can get a clear glimpse through the constant blanket of rain. It’s rather unfortunate to know the glorious landscape of west Cork is just beneath us, with its stunning sea cliffs and long stretches of beaches, yet our vision is blocked by the relentless downpour. Our Bavarian tourist friend, on her sixth visit to Ireland, was used to lush, warm, 36 degrees weather back home. She’s been travelling along the Wild Atlantic Way, but this weather has been a persistent damper, though she still commends the hospitality of the locals.
In the evening, as remnant hurricane winds rumble through the chimney, we sit snug by the glowing hearth in Denis Nolan’s tavern, looking up the world’s sunniest holiday spots. The next day, the storm raging on, we discover a hefty garden pot had been downed by the gales outside the guesthouse. No sight of swimmers either, due to the vigorous waves that kept lashing against the closed shores. The threat of an incoming storm named Irene looming.
Summer this year, if it can even bear the title, has been less than gratifying. It’s a true distortion to even associate it with the traditional concepts of summer, given the cold, the wind, and the perpetual rain. The fair skies replaced with a canopy of dreary greys and the incessant sorrowful dribbling of clouds. All colour drained from the carefree season of summer fun, leaving behind wardrobes of unworn t-shirts and shorts in vibrant hues, that remained untouched. Ireland’s famous green seems to be overshadowed by the pervading theme of grey.
The persistent absence of sunlight poses a risk to our health come winter, as a deficiency in Vitamin D can lead to bone-related issues forcing the country’s populace to queue up in doctors’ offices. There are already symptoms of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) developing prematurely in individuals, thanks to the months we’ve had to endure of rain sinking into our bones. It pierces deep when you have build up expectations of bright sunny summer nights only to be let down. The existential dread endures, pinting a bleak image of what’s to come.
A German holidaymaker gleefully commends the Irish locals, albeit expressing she couldn’t establish her life in Ireland due to its bleak summer months. This sentiment is widely shared. The menace of potential legal outcomes, in response to the recent prohibition forcing students into 51-week leases by landlords, hangs heavy in the air. People now ponder on the inevitability of switching on their heaters as reverting seems arduous once it commences. The adverse influence of social media on the psychological well-being of the youth cannot be ignored anymore.
For several years, we dwelt in deep anxiety over the likelihood of climate change, anxiously anticipating its consequential havoc on nature: the vanishing ice caps and burning forests, relentless droughts and sweltering heatwaves, verdant fields turned barren wastelands and tropical islands swallowed by the sea. Its unforeseen impact on the Irish mindset, however, particularly remains unnerving. The psychological toll of shattered summer expectations may likely extend beyond personal disappointment into a national quandary. Approaching the end of a summer devoid of fulfilling experiences, the Irish dreads the impending winter, hoping against another poor summer next year.
The question persists on how to reminisce about the summer when there were hardly any cherished experiences to capture. How does one cling to memories of the sea’s characteristic salty taste on lips, the pleasant sensation of sunrays on the skin, the unique aroma of the road tar melting in the heat, and the mesmerising visual of dawn breaking before the moon bids farewell on a fine June night, when they appear to be growing increasingly elusive? Will such joyful summer experiences make a return or are they doomed to be distant fragments of the past due to the earth’s degrading state?
Despite a seemingly never-ending rainy season that appears to have disregarded the typically warm summer months, it’s no longer satisfying to solely rely on swapping plastic dustbin bags for reusable alternatives. Or to opt for public transport over our cars, aiming to help those in distant lands experiencing extreme heatwaves or cyclones. Climate change is no longer a problem “over there” – it’s at Ireland’s front door. Our seasonal patterns are in chaos. September feels more like July, and the Christmas season could be overly warm. The Gulf Stream, once responsible for our coastal mildness, seems to now shove back the sun’s heat as though it were a large scale factor sunscreen that could be packaged and sold.
Such alternations of wetter summer months and milder winters were forecasted by climatologists for Ireland. And while we were in endless debates about the need for flood protection, agriculture diversification, and a trustworthy, eco-friendly public transport network, climate change stealthily crept in. In recent years, there have been countless pictures depicting homeowners forced to navigate floodwaters in canoes and electricians precariously balanced on poles restoring power after storms. Those inspecting the 680 buildings damaged in Midleton last October might have taken some cold comfort from the knowledge that things could have been worse if the tide had been high. Mary Robinson, our leading advocate for climate issues, this summer suggested a new levy on unnecessary corporate air travel in our increasingly digital world. This recommendation, however, seemed to go unnoticed.
But, ironically, we, as a nation, are infatuated with the weather. We possess more signs of brewing rainfall than Spain has delayed plans. If the cattle rest in the fields, rain looms. If smoke wafts at a slant from chimney tops, expect rain. When gulls venture inland or mountains appear closer in view, the likelihood of rain increases. Discussions about the weather are a national obsession. Sadly, it seems we’re all bark and no bite.
A vacationer from Bavaria perceived the inhabitants of Ireland as naturally suited to handle the persistent gloominess of their weather. She was referring to “the craic”. Different northern European nations have developed unique philosophies to bear through the extended interval of dim light. The Danish adopt hygge, while the Swedish practice lagom and the Finns embrace kalsarikännit, meaning “pants drunk”. This is much akin to the craic notion of “live, feast and make merry for our end might be tomorrow”. Fatalism is vital; after all, what can one do? This approach is sometime referred to as denial in layman’s terms.
During the day of departure, Margaret steps out of the kitchen to bid farewell. “The weather hasn’t been too bad during your stay,” she states without a hint of jest. As we drive off, the car windscreen wipers working their hardest, we chuckle. After all, what can one really do about it?