Spray-tan-orange heels in flip-flops, packs of topless men on Dublin streets, kids in swim-suites who throw themselves into the balmy 10 degrees of the Irish Sea? Can only mean one thing: March has arrived in Ireland.
Early spring usually is the “time of hope”, as hubby likes to call it – those blessed couple of weeks who see the relentless wind whipping the country die down and people basking in the sun until they turn lobster (which usually takes appx. 30 minutes).
This year, Ireland has been spoilt by a particularly nice “heatwave” of 18 to 20 degrees and sunshine, and that for days. Like every year, a mild spell that would not even raise an eyebrow elsewhere, lets media get into overdrive, both in euphemistic headlines (see below) and feeding the hopeful nation signs of an impending great summer (like swalms nesting in certain trees, Funghi the Dingle dolphin showing his nose in a certain angle, and other dead sure signs). Just before, like every year, in an equally cruel and foreseeable twist of fate, the weather turns into a windy, rainy and autumny mess … until next March.
It would be tragic, really, if it would not be for the Irish, who really know their shit when it comes to appreciating their glimpses of summer. You think that ad below is exaggerated (even if made in UK)? It really isn’t. While people from Central Europe never stop complaining about their horrible and unreliable summers, a long history of no-shows and disappointments have made the Irish masters in seizing their opportunities for sun long before others even notice them.
So now excuse me while I hold my pasty face into the sun (next to a topless man, of course). Typing up this post pretty much cost me half the summer …