Yesterday, on a damp, misty early June evening in the West of Ireland, we braved chill and midges to dine in the garden. The atmosphere was hazy and relaxed, being outside smoothing the usual awkward edges of being à la table for an occasion. Those from sunnier climes would balk at our hardy effort, each of us tightly wrapped in cardigans, hats and scarves, with wooly blankets over our knees. The menu was fittingly wintery: Boeuf Bourguignon for the carnivores, Leek and Coolea fritters for me. 

In Ireland we appreicate the fact of being able to sit outside so much, that we forget to complain about the misery that comes with it. Every one of us last night were exceedingly grateful that it wasn’t raining too heavily, that it was fairly bright, that the wind was mild enough to let us enjoy our meal in relative tranquility. An unequivocally less enjoyable experience than the warm, class  alfresco affairs of our civilised European neighbours, we in Ireland are graced with the ability to squeeze such life out of what little alright weather we have, that our rare outdoor meals are rendered precious, joyful, and special occasions. 

Yesterday, we had a truly Irish al fresco dining experience – in all its miserable, happy glory.