Little joy from the west of Ireland's summer sun

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'The summer sun was sinking low
Behind the western sea
The lark's loud song was pealing sweet
But it brought no joy to me.'

A brighter future lies just over the horizon. It's hard to reach, though.

So go the opening lyrics to the Irish ballad, The Woodlands of Loughglynn.

It was a favourite of my late Uncle Jackie's. I suspect one reason why he liked it so much is that Loughglynn is a neighbouring village to his — and my — birthplace, Lisacul, with the latter in the parish of the former. So for a man who lived most of his life in England, the song probably made him feel that bit closer to his west of Ireland origins.

Lamenting the death of Irish rebels fighting British colonial forces in the War of Independence, the song's tone is understandably melancholic.

Farm friendly

As I write these words just a few miles from those same Loughglynn woodlands, watching the summer sun sinking low — and slowly — with the sweet song of various birds for background music, the tranquil scene brings little joy to me, if not quite no joy.

This is not, thankfully, because I'm mourning lost comrades in arms. It has more to do with my reminiscing about what were more hopeful bygone times.

For despite all I've done and seen over the last 20 years, returning to where I grew up, the land where I dreamt of a fabulous future, leads me to dwell on all that I haven't yet achieved, and perhaps never will.

Such feelings are even more pronounced when I find myself engaged in the same tasks on the family farm that I carried out in those days when I was dreaming big. What has me back in this scenario is a sense of filial duty together with some gentle persuasion from an exiled elder sibling to lend a hand in his stead.

'There's a certain novelty in returning to the mid-summer chores after a long absence, but being a farmhand indefinitely?'

The various farming tasks themselves aren't the problem; some of them I enjoy, specifically those that I can do on my own, that is to say when I'm not taking direct orders from my 'you're doing it wrong' octogenarian father! The real roots of my melancholic mood in this environment are due to my own uncertainty. Or, to put a more positive spin on it, my employment flexibility and relative independence.

Climate change

Now, this uncertainty is independent of place — I very much have it in my adopted country of Colombia, too. However, it seems more manageable, more tolerable there. There's also the feeling that my life in Colombia seems rather surreal, as I've explained here before. Ireland provides something of a reality check: there are those unwanted 'What do you do in Colombia?' questions, for one. 'Various things' tends not to satisfy the inquisitors. Come on, just ask me about Colombia's climate; I can deal with that one more easily.

Mentioning climate, or more specifically weather, my first July in Ireland in 16 years has, fortunately, coincided with a long dry and fairly warm spell. I certainly wasn't expecting to be basking in the west of Ireland's summer sun. It's usually buried behind thick, cantankerous cloud.

Indeed, as something of a sun worshipper, were Ireland like this most of the time — mid-20s in degrees Celsius with the long daylight hours and not a mosquito in sight (the cumbersome horsefly's bloodsucking attempts are easily thwarted) — I'd almost be tempted back to live here. Almost.

Yet, I know only too well what the standard is. Navigating the colder, darker seasons is one negative; the usual inglorious summer weather another. And then there's the what-would-I-do-in-Ireland question.

Lending a helping hand on the family farm isn't a long-term solution. Nor would I want it to be. Yes, there's a certain novelty in returning to the mid-summer chores after a long absence, but being a farmhand indefinitely? The thought of that brings little joy to me.
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