It was March in Ireland. I was living in a little corner of the south-west of the country.
In county Kerry, in one of the fingers of land stretching out into the Atlantic. I had washed up in Dingle two winters before and stayed, embraced by the warmth of the people I met, the music, the laughter, the otherworldliness of the place. Indeed, it was a world of its own.
When the clouds sit heavy on the mountain, there’s no sun in Dingle.Credit: Warwick McFayden
But this March, a cloud descended upon me. It descended upon everyone, resident and visitor. It was the month without sun, literally.
One morning, the grey clouds arrived and they did not leave, content to nestle into the hills of Conor Pass behind the town, to slumber above from horizon to horizon. For 31 days, not a patch of blue was seen. It did not rain. Was that a cosmic joke?
In its lowering of the vault of heavens to a mere grey shroud, it entered into the hearts and minds of all. It was a low depression transmogrified from the weather charts to the bloodstream. And of course, at night, there were no stars. How can that be? No lights in the night.
Coming from the wide open skies of Australia, it was like a dismal weight that sat upon my shoulders. It affected your outlook, not only outwards, but within too. Even my Irish friends, who were far more inured to this, were feeling it. Were we not coming out of winter? Was this not supposed to be the start of spring? It was a desperate time.
To an Australian, living in Ireland showed me that the constancy of its weather is held in its vagaries. But with the lows, as any weather watcher knows, there are highs, and when a break in the clouds did eventually come, such joy, such lifting of the spirits. It was as if blue sky had never been seen before, and that yellow orb, why, here was the sun. There was dancing in the streets. Well, almost.
This memory of March in Ireland came in, if not through the bathroom window, then the front door as I opened it one morning last week and was met by the surly breath of heat and humidity. My shoulders slumped.
If I wanted to live in Queensland or Darwin to sweat in their humidity, I’d move there. I don’t. It’s a sad thing that reminding yourself you live in Melbourne just doesn’t cut it any more. Depressions of low pressure are bringing the tropics south. Tropical Melbourne? No, it’s too bizarre.
I grew up in Newcastle, so I know clamminess, and the torpor heat and humidity inflict on body and soul. Sure, you can be acclimatised to it, just water off a Novocastrian’s back. Up to a point.
Ash Barty competes in the Brisbane-like heat in 2022.Credit: Photo: AP
When drops of sweat form at night on your skin, your hair wet, when a shower gives respite only for the length of the shower, when the air wraps tight around you and murmurs, “try to breathe this, 100 per cent humidity”, then you’re thinking: “I’m drowning.”
But not in Melbourne. Surely not in Melbourne. Moving to this city was an escape from it all. Summers were hot and dry and humidity free. Once. The northerlies would blow in, the grit from the tram tracks would swirl into your hair and eyes. Your head would feel like it was being baked in the oven. But you wouldn’t be sweating. Not a drop would run down your neck. Then along came La Nina.
Two years ago, Ash Barty reported after a match at the Australian Open: “The conditions were really different tonight. It was humid. This is Brisbane weather.”
Indeed, and if I wanted Brisbane weather, I’d move there. I don’t.
The two experiences of Ireland and Melbourne – between cloud and water in the air – reveal how much weather is companion to mood, and how much we are the environment. The thing is: will we take the weather with us when we go, or will the weather have that last laugh?
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Weathering the grey and humid: when Irish skies aren’t smiling and Melbourne is a sauna
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13.01.2024
It was March in Ireland. I was living in a little corner of the south-west of the country.
In county Kerry, in one of the fingers of land stretching out into the Atlantic. I had washed up in Dingle two winters before and stayed, embraced by the warmth of the people I met, the music, the laughter, the otherworldliness of the place. Indeed, it was a world of its own.
When the clouds sit heavy on the mountain, there’s no sun in Dingle.Credit: Warwick McFayden
But this March, a cloud descended upon me. It descended upon everyone, resident and visitor. It was the month without sun, literally.
One morning, the grey clouds arrived and they did not leave, content to nestle into the hills of Conor Pass behind the town, to slumber above from horizon to horizon. For 31 days, not a patch of blue was seen. It did not rain. Was that a cosmic joke?
In its lowering of the vault of heavens to a mere grey shroud, it entered into the hearts and minds of all. It was a low depression........
© The Age
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