Summertime

Summertime in rural Ireland in the 90's was a magical thing.

One of my early memories was waking up to find 3 unconscious revelers in our garden after a heavy weekend at the Féile. As a small child, the appearance of these pilgrims made no sense to me. We were a couple of miles away from the festival - why did they make the trek to our humble yard?

But in an era without phones and fear, what else would you be doing?

If my memories of those summers had a soundtrack, it would be 'Sunny Afternoon' by The Kinks. Or perhaps the Bulmers ad from yesteryear influenced me more than I know.

The days were endless. Lazy cycles down the lane. Sauntering through the cornfield because it was the shortcut to Sinéad's house. Filling buckets of strawberries in the soft summer rain for a £1. Getting yelled at for climbing on bales of hay. The euphoria of a rarely-had '99. Lying on freshly cut grass, watching the stars twinkle as dusk faded into night (sometimes I lay on gravel, but even that was grand).

As I got older, the memories are both brighter and hazier.
Roaming the countryside with friends. Long summer nights in the beer garden, drinking ice cold cider. Planning adventures to far away places. The J1 escapades, with only a few hundred to our names. Sleeping under the stars, and becoming friends with strangers.

We didn't have much, but we had all the time in the world. And it was gorgeous.

Summer looks different these days. Fun is scheduled. Ferrying the kids from camps to playdates. Wrestling suncream onto furious red faces. Filling lunch bags with snacks that won't disintegrate in the humidity. Trying to get the garden jobs done, while we have a bit of sunshine. Endless days are a little less romantic.

But this evening, the sound of my squealing children playing in the garden pulled me to my past and my present. Watching them run barefoot across the lawn reminded me of my own idyllic summers.

I abandon the post-dinner clean up. Outside, the evening sun is waiting. The warm breeze rustles through the trees. The birdsong is broken by the roars of my children.

I whip out some Cornettos from the freezer. The rising decibel levels suggest that I have reignited the chaos.

Summers are less carefree now - those long days with nothing to do have passed. But there are pockets of bliss. My own little revelers are splayed out on the lawn, faces smeared with chocolate, shrieking with laughter.

I think I'll join them for a minute.

Aisling x