The Irish are fighting global warming with such spectacular results that they should be the object of our admiration on the matter. “Freshly” landed at Dublin airport on July 11, 2023, I am struck by the contrast in temperature between the 35° that reigned in Grenoble and the 19° encountered after only 1h30 of an air-conditioned flight. So what are the secrets of our Celtic neighbors to so easily obtain the temperature demanded by our French President in the event of a power shortage?
First of all, it is clear that they are few. Driven out sometimes by the English, sometimes by famine, sometimes by both, the Irish spontaneously engage in population reductions whose positive effects are multiple: reduction in consumption, waste, emissions… These natural decreases obviously prevent their climate to deteriorate like in Africa where it is so hot, or in Asia where the humidity is unbearable.
In addition, they practice gender separation several times a week: often, in the evening, the men go to the pub to discuss the latest technologies in the fight against global warming to music, while their wives indulge in the joys of household activities. It is easy to imagine that this does not promote the harmony of couples or the birth rate, but contributes effectively to this salutary decrease, only jeered at by the Pope, the bankers and the orthodox economists.
Then, we must note this thick layer of cloud that the Irish maintain with care throughout the day above their cities and their countryside. It is “no passaran” to the sun and its devastating effects. No foreign tourist has ever brought back from Ireland the age-old pictures of sunsets so common elsewhere. Only the local tourist office, helped by graphic designers from the European Union, manages to retouch the landscapes to repaint them in Provençal blue and attract the most credulous begnassous. In contrast, beautiful starry nights are not uncommon; the Irishman still needs to rest, but only after sunset, so as not to take any risk of good weather.
Another of their secrets is the downpour, rain interrupted but not always. In the heart of summer, it can rain for several weeks, which delights the little Irish children who wade through the streets and fields. This propensity and this ease to live under water are, it seems, not unrelated to their poor qualities as sailors. It is enough to be convinced of this to observe the hallucinating number of wrecks appearing on the nautical charts of their coasts. Failing to sail far, the Irish sailor sails deep.
It is fascinating to closely observe the ancestral know-how of these craftsmen in bad weather, a know-how that has unfortunately disappeared from our Breton coasts, where it only rains on idiots, and not all of them. About forty years ago, when Brittany was beginning its climatic shift by attracting only second-rate drizzle, my brother had tried the Irish camping adventure for two weeks during which he was disgusted forever a tent holiday. Exhausted by the lack of sleep and the resistance to the penetrating cold of the ambient humidity, rinsed twenty times a day by icy showers, he had almost starved himself to death in the face of the superhuman effort that had to be made to survive. to supply food in any way impossible to cook on his stove exposed to this hostile nature. Emergency repatriated, he had to undergo a period of drying and assisted feeding for forty days, before returning to a more or less normal life. Since then, he has a subscription and a timeshare residence for the Seychelles, champion in all categories of immaculate skies and boiling waters…
If you can afford it, don’t let your sailboat winter in the land of the green-white-orange flag; its pretty lavender blue would be blanketed in slippery mossy greenery, thick enough to grow vegetables in after just one season. Instead, favor the air-conditioned, humidity-controlled hangars that are abundant in the United Arab States. Your winter outing will be facilitated by the absence of mould. But when it comes to permariticulture, who are the champions?
Who hasn’t seen an Irish girl walking smiling down a small coastal path swept by the wind and the rain, dressed in a dripping skirt and T-shirt, will never understand the Irish phlegm, so famous throughout the world. world. She has understood that the best oilskin would only be a weak bulwark against this liquid envelope pulverized by a wind to dehorn the sheep, and gently makes fun of the grilled larvae piled up on the beaches with no other occupation than to “reinflate the batteries” .
Finally, you are probably wondering how the inhabitants of a small pebble lost in the North Atlantic can command the celestial forces? The answer lies in four words: harp, fiddle, folk song. These local specialties, entrusted to the natives, immediately trigger the wrath of heaven, so sensitive to the muted and delicate music of the Mediterranean regions. The songs of rattles, dyssonances and other arrhythmias immediately cause driving rains, violent winds and the escape of tourists in search of exoticism. Have any scientists worth their salt mentioned this lethal weapon against global warming to you? Irish folklore!

Jean Paul