The Irish weather is certainly reliable: It is either raining or about to rain.
We have been here for three weeks; it has rained every day. The ground is sodden. The banks leak ditchwater. The gutters overflow.
This, so far, is the wettest summer on record, according to the Irish Met Office. A big Atlantic low sits just to the west, sucking up big gulps of the oceans and spitting wave after wave of wet toward Ireland. A Met meteorologist is quoted in the paper saying, "There is absolutely no sign whatsoever of a move towards positivity."
Positivity? Is that what we call it now? Our forlorn hope of sun?
The gullies gurgle. The bothareens are rivers of slush. The slugs drown in the middle of the road. This is the weekend the outdoor music festivals begin in Ireland, with an extravaganza in Dublin's Phoenix Park. Punters are advised to wear wellies. Hip boots are more like it.
Oh, they will have fun, fortified with a dropeen of the hard stuff and a puff of this or that. On Monday we'll have pictures in the paper of happy kids dressed in mud and not much else. They're Irish. Shure, what would they do with sun?
Meanwhile, we sit in our cottage on the hill, looking out into the mist, listening to the rain lashing the slates. As long as the wind blows from the west and there's water in the ocean it seems certain to continue. That's the one positivity.