I鈥檓 talking the last of the dying breed, old-style mid-80s, leatherette, metal-legged, scabby stools. Floor covering. Flypaper. And a car park.
The inside smells like the smoke of the outside. The outside smells like the stout of the inside. No meals beyond purple snacks. No board games except a group playing 45.
Not even any trad session requiring rapt attention and abittahushnow. You went to a funeral afters in a pub like this before. Don鈥檛 wait for someone to die this time.
Do something on the long days
Don鈥檛 let the long days pass without seeing the fullest stretch. Don鈥檛 be frontloading all your work and then take it handy in August.
In August, the days are already shagged. Do it now. Be out and about, glance at the clock at five to eleven and say IT鈥橲 STILL BRIGHT HAH?
It doesn鈥檛 have to be kitesurfing with the goys. A spin for no reason to somewhere with a view.
Bale sledding
This might be trickier to arrange but if you can pull a few strings or ropes, arrange to be pulled along on a square bale of straw by the tractor that鈥檚 bringing in the bales.
Not many people are doing square bales now. But they鈥檙e not gone the way of sugar sandwiches yet. There鈥檚 still a few knocking around.
And if you can manage at all, there鈥檚 nothing like a square bale sledding.
You may have been on the biggest rollercoaster in Dubai, or bungee-jumped off something that would give health and safety officers hives, but when you鈥檙e sitting on a bale and the rope goes taut, you’re jerked forward at 15 miles an hour, you can鈥檛 bate it.
I still miss it. And when I was towed, it was a dinky little Massey with no cab. The tractors that are going now would allow you to experience g-forces only space tourists get.
The sound of straw scraping on stubble. The edge of the bale against the back of your knee. The stubble scraping your ankles like a hug from your father when he was due a shave.
Morning town
The city folk might yearn for the wide open spaces in summer, but they have something we country people still crave: Town of a summer鈥檚 morning.
We鈥檙e fierce busy now, but do you remember going to town early and you only had 鈥渁 few messages鈥. Just wandering around the empty streets.
The cafes are open. Dunnes is open. You鈥檙e the first one into Waterstones. Okay, this is about Cork on a summer鈥檚 morning, but pick your own destination.
It鈥檚 a mini-city break for an hour. It won鈥檛 last. All the langers will be up soon. Taking up parking spaces. You can leave then, your few bits done.
There will be mud. There will be a hoor of day in August. You鈥檒l be slightly glum that 鈥渢hat鈥檚 it now, the days are hosed鈥.
You, the men and the mice staring at your best-laid plans in tatters. Not much time left in the summer now.
But THAT鈥橲 the time to go walking in the woods. Not in the sun with the fair-weather friends.
It鈥檚 never too late. Head out at 8. With your coat and wellies. Stay till it鈥檚 dark. Back home in time for the business end of the Rose of Tralee.
And at the end of the summer, you can look at your list and say 鈥 鈥渋t flew, but I remembered it.鈥