Yesterday was, of course, St Patrick’s Day. The weather here in South Cambs very kindly helped us feel properly Irish by being really rather wet: this drought is becoming so severe, I’m thinking of laying in a stock of gopher wood! I haven’t started collecting animals yet, but it has crossed my mind. I have also found myself wondering why Noah failed to collect any plants for his voyage: what was he planning to feed his herbivorous passengers when the flood water subsided?
Anyway, back to St Patrick. Despite his associations with the Emerald Isle, the lad actually hailed from Wales (then again, as we know, almost anyone can play for Ireland). As a result, I’m sure he was thrilled (as was I, given my ancestry) that the Welsh won the Grand Slam on his special day. I must admit that I had no idea that Contract Bridge was so big in the Principality; do they use Blackwood, I wonder?
St Patrick is probably most famous, other than as an excuse for a drink or several, for banishing the snakes from Ireland. However, I fear modern scholarship would hand the credit for this particular feat to the consequences of the most recent series of ice ages – though I fear beatifying the Younger Dryas might be theologically tricky (I have yet to have any success with an animated mouse). Nonetheless, I do quite fancy the idea of raising a glass of something alcoholic – on the rocks obviously – to celebrate everything the Younger Dryas has done for us!
I did nothing particularly Irish to mark the day myself, though my lunchtime Spanish omelette did have a somewhat viridian hue given its significant spinach content (and as an added bonus, it also include a potato). For the purposes of blogging, I must try and do better next year…