A cool creamy pint of Guinness. You can’t beat it. I suppose that makes me a stereotype Irish male.
A cool creamy pint while watching your horse win. Better still. That makes me a stereotype Kildare man. A love of national hunt and a disdain for the flat means I’m a north Kildare stereotype.
But here’s the snag - I love the rain. I’m Irish. I’m supposed to hate it. I’m supposed to bitch about it constantly. Even when it’s not raining. I’m supposed to say shur anything’s better than the rain when it gets so hot that I’m sweating like a priest in a playground; when it gets so cold that monkeys are pleading for welders; when it gets so windy that a tinker’s wife can rest easy; when it gets so foggy that nose tips are the horizon.
On Saturday evening I had a winner, a cool creamy pint, great company and it was raining. Heaven on a high-stool.
The problem was we couldn’t reach consensus what kind of rain it was. If the Inuit can have 40 words for snow (which they don’t by the way) then we should have at least 20 for rain.
It wasn’t a cold, icy or sleety rain. That was obvious. They are for winter which is when the heavy, pelting, driving, bucketing rains comes. It wasn’t a sudden shower because there were more than one. It wasn’t a continuous downpour because it took breaks. Probably a union thing.
It couldn’t be a spring rain as it’s now summer. But it wasn’t a proper summer rain either. That’s a warm rain. We volunteered someone to stay outside for 10 minutes to verify this scientifically. We wanted to tie a thermometer to his wheelchair but couldn’t find one so it wasn’t as scientific as we hoped. But we trusted Peter’s judgement.
Anyway, summer rain can be sub-classified into light, drizzly or dripping and it was none of these. Sub-sub-classes of these like misty and combinations such as light drizzle were automatically ruled out.
And it definitely wasn’t a sun shower because the sun hadn’t appeared in over a week. We didn’t have to even consider a hay-maker. That’s light, warm, short and sweet like a barmaid’s birthday kiss.
It wasn’t a depressing rain. We had all had a winner or two. And a pint or two.
The only thing to do was put Peter out again. Just for 5 minutes this time. His wife was collecting him shortly. We checked him with our vast array of scientific instruments - fingers, betting dockets, phase-tester. He wasn’t electrically charged. He wasn’t too warm. He wasn’t too cold either. Well not that cold. But he was wet. Very wet. Betting dockets stuck to him and turned to mush instantly. So that was it. It was wet rain.
That was that solved. Better still, we all (except Peter) decided we actually do like the rain. So I may actually be a stereotype after all.
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PS I loved this post. Food for thought for the remainder of the day.. or should that be drink?
I’m sweating like a priest in a playground; when it gets so cold that monkeys are pleading for welders; when it gets so windy that a tinker’s wife can rest easy; when it gets so foggy that nose tips are the horizon.
Ha!
It’s 3am here and I’m too tired for anything other than a hearty ejaculation of joy at the above. Don’t worry, I practice birth control.
Hear hear! Though I do now have to rewrite a piece on rain I’ve been writing - for two months now such is my love of rain.
Lashing, was it lashing?
Grannymar - Drink. Monday is the new Friday, therefore it’s the weekend.
Sam - Practice makes perfect. Keep at it. Practising, I mean.
Eolaí - Opps! Sorry about that. Maybe you could do one on wind: A lazy wind, a sneaky breeze, the wind to blow a tinker … etc. Oh, it was nearly lashing, but not quite. Sort of halfway between a lashing of rain and a lasheen of rain.
Love the rain as well when the searing sun disappears and the clouds open up. It’s so good for your skin. Look at those people who live in places with little to no rain. They have faces like terra cotta and look 10 years older than they are.
Did you have Grandad in mind when you wrote this?
I love auld Oirish expressions for crappy weather, like..
‘Grand shoft weather’ Or
‘Hair-curling weather’ Or
‘Drelly weather’ (Dry but bring wellys) Or
‘Tis a grand day the day sure!’ Or
‘Tis lovely weather if you’re a duck.’
You can’t bate Oirish optimisim.
God, I’d love a good rainstorm. A real lashing, horizonatal, windy, take-your-breath-away, water-gets-in-your-ears, daisy-shredder storm. Wash the dust off the old soul.
Medbh - I never thought of the skin thing. Maybe we should bottle it and sell it. Oh, hold, Ballygowan do that.
Kate - Nope, I wasn’t thinking of Grandad, though I suspect he’s getting his fair share of rain in the Whesht right now. Don’t forget ‘T’will be a grand country when we get the roof on it’.
Sam - My favourite has to be a soft steady drizzle at dawn in summer. It’s like the fields and trees have showered and are fresh and ready for the day.
Just two weeks to go and I can be tasting guinness in the Irish rain too - ahhh can’t wait.
Shur twould be a grand little country if you could put a roof on her…
God I’d kill for a Guinness right now… thanks for starting me obsessing about things I can’t have on a Friday afternoon…
Conorín- I’ll try keep the rain going for ya.
Caro - You comment killed me yesterday. I read it just as I was heading out on job that I knew would take so long I’d not get a pint either.