It started out as a soft shower, and no one paid it heed. This was, after all, the Blessed Isle. We were used to a little rain. It made our island fertile and gave the leprechauns somewhere to hide their pots of gold.
By the end of the first week, the rain was coming down in buckets.
This made the frogs happy, at least, and gave the begrudgers something else to complain about.
After forty days and forty nights of constant precipitation, we mourned the loss of our Irish summer, and made ourselves comfortable for the long dark winter ahead.