April came and went and the promise of summer was eagerly anticipated by all. Farmers studied the skies, pointedly looking west around sundown for any sign of the elusive ” shepherds delight”.
The monthly hope gradually morphed into a weekly fascination with the long-range forecast. TV presenters regularly carried the bad news. No change yet. By the middle of July, the frustration of the populace was palpable. It couldn’t be another year without a summer, could it? ‘What about the dolphins?,’ said one. ‘Didn’t your man say that the dolphins had arrived early into Dingle, signifying a good summer?’ Clearly no one had told the dolphin’s about their role.
Another said ‘Wasn’t there that New Zealand expert who said that the weather would pick up in mid-June? Whatever happened to his super-accurate sure fire guaranteed, scientifically-backed statistical prediction thing?’
Each year brings a new omen. Steeped in mythology, bad science or a mixture of both.
But year after year after year, one thing remains consistent.
No matter what happens during the so-called summer months.
Come September, autumn gets a grip. Not just some hint at what is to come. Oh no. Without fail, The cold seasons arrive bang on time.


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