Off to Ireland tonight for the bank holiday weekend, and even though we're staying with my parents in their new-build home, you have to pack as if you're off camping - oilskins, sou'westers and a primus.
They live in the west of the country, not far from the Atlantic coast, and weather there is famously volatile and violent, like Mad Frankie Frazier. Even getting from the house to the car requires a change of shoes and distress flares when it's pissing down. You don't know rain until you've spent a weekend in lockdown with two pensioners in a bungalow in rural Ireland.
It doesn't help that there's nothing to do when you can't leave the house. Irish radio doesn't matters any either. It's so bad and bleak, it's resembles one of Samuel Beckett's less accessible and least successful stage pieces.
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