Living in Ireland necessitates holding onto a certain amount of illusion. It’s what keeps us going, helps us thrive. The climate isn’t overly harsh. Immersing oneself in the ocean can be rather enjoyable. The development of the main children’s hospital is more a question of when, rather than if. You will be greeted by a bus in due course. And that call confirming an appointment with the family doctor anytime from now until May 2025 will come eventually. Adjusting to the vibrant noise and less than stellar water pressure of electric showers is a minor inconvenience that can even transform into a comforting experience. The documented incendiary attack on asylum seekers’ dwellings is the work of a minor few – Ireland isn’t a nation tainted by racism.
It doesn’t get better or worse in Ireland, it’s always comfortably moderate or “grand”, if you will. With a protective cover overhead, it could easily vie for the title of the world’s best country.
The greatest illusion, which also happens to be my favourite, is our collective shared pretence of summer. Our mass collusion that we have transitioned to a warmer climate simply because we don lighter apparel despite the persistent grey skies, is impressive. Planning an outdoor cook-out with certainty is a rarity at best. The label of ‘convertible car owner’ is a mostly ceremonial title, given the scarce opportunities to fully utilise it.
Yet, we persistently anticipate and relish our summers. The Irish summer is less a season and more a state of being, one that doesn’t depend on mundane things like temperature measurements, clear skies or annual manuals for its advent, unlike the oversimplified definitions in other countries. Our signals are more nuanced, but if you pay close attention, the true harbingers of summer will softly reveal themselves.
As for Dublin, it’s brutally honest – unyielding towards posers, desiring to remain unfiltered, akin to New York. Summer is heralded by the sight of young girls shivering in their summer dresses.
They’re bracing themselves against the cold in beer gardens, crossing their arms over their bodies in a bid to contain warmth within their layers of fake tans. It seems they refuse to let matters like changing seasons govern when they can parade their stretchy Asos, Pretty Little Thing or Shein garments. If they did, their adored cut-off tops and sun dresses would be confined to obscurity. They would remain unseen, languishing in plastic bags strewn across their bedroom floors. Their rotating wardrobe would halt, leading to a fashion drought, and possibly, fashion fatalities. Hence, they defy nature, offering their sensitive skin up to the chilly winds in their choice display of imaginative, flirtatious, corporate enchantress or mafia matriarch attire. They resemble contemporary druids, performing arcane customs to ensure the cyclical progression of changing seasons. Once they choose to groom their feet for open-toed shoes, we know the warmer days are close at hand.
This situation is paralleled in adult life by the summer bride who opts for airy floral patterns and strapless gowns for her bridesmaids. Whichever blue lips or goosebumps that ensue can be magically removed in Photoshop. These individuals keep the Child of Prague working incessantly on rotational duties from May to September until he resembles a haggard picture of Ben Affleck having a smoke.
Congested sidewalks
Suddenly, setting foot outdoors becomes a challenge, with oneself unwittingly swept off one’s feet in a stream of brightly hued backpacks and identification tags, pulled in by a perpetual riptide of Spanish students on English language exchange programmes. One might feel trapped in this multilingual labyrinth. “Can I move in with you?” one might desperately inquire.
Adopting less than ideal positions whether standing or seated.
In Ireland, discomfort is something of a customary activity. One might wish it to be an Olympic sport. This notion is particularly evident in summer, as the Irish populace flock to public houses to enjoy their drinks in the open air. This practice often involves standing on hard pavement, engaging in light-hearted banter, and shifting their weight from foot to foot. A limited number of establishments possess an outdoor area where one might catch the fleeting burst of sunlight that momentarily illuminates everything, akin to the phenomenon at Newgrange. However, despite this, the preference remains for congregating outside at any indication of sunshine. Alternate venues offering outdoor seating are usually dismissed as a nonsensical notion. The lively atmosphere, or “buzz”, is unmistakably here, where a multitude of individuals are seen awkwardly loitering, clasping their beverages with warming palms.
Retail shops like Penneys devote entire sections to items such as straw beach bags which are known to dig into our shoulders, and bikinis destined never to be soaked, given our hesitant approach to venturing beyond ankle-deep water. Yet, these items are purchased year after year, fuelled by our audacious hopes.
Al fresco dining in the hot season often translates to providing an assortment of simple foods in outdoor settings, owing to the excessive heat that hinders cooking. When served a boiled egg, some lettuce, and a mini quiche, we would likely dub such presentations ingenious had they been prepared by someone like Heston Blumenthal.
There are also the chaps who are convinced that it’s warm enough to stride about bare-chested. It seldom is, but credit is due to their relentless optimism.