Rain, rain, go to Spain

‘Rain, rain, go to Spain. Never show your face again’. We all remember chanting the rhyme, with the magical hope of childhood, even if we edit out the remembrance of rainy days in summers past. The incessant, holiday-time rain of this summer is weighing down the spirit of even the hardiest home-bird here in Ireland. Even the trees are dropping leaves prematurely, unable to carry the weight of so much surface water. The branches of the leafiest trees are bent towards the ground like an old person carrying the burden of many seasons, showers and years. The waxy ivy leaves, by comparison, are shining and confident looking, sparkling in the occasional shaft of sunlight from their parasitical anchors in old masonry walls or wrapped around passing tree-trunks.

The crows line up on the chapel roof during a lull in the rain. Their heads are bent low as if in prayer to the God below. Their sodden plumage dreeps off the most recent shower as they meet in conclave on the ridge-tiles. They fly off, feathers unloaded, sheltering and roosting in at the premature fall of darkness. A resident wood-pigeon, plump and purple-necked, the bishop of the bird-world, scoops up drinking water and maybe some solid food as well, in its pale beak from the now semi-permanent puddles that are keeping guard along the avenue. The blackbirds and their mottled cousins, the thrushes, move in quickly between the showers to graze the mown lawn for an easy catch. What they lose in time out during the downpours, they gain in the ready supply of baby-food available nearby following the rain.

The parish cat has hardly moved for the past two days from her favourite cushioned chair in the enclosed porch. Only a passing blue-bottle tempts her into hunting mode or the patter of bird-feet on the Perspex sheets above. Cats famously do not like water, whether it comes falling from above or is accidentally fallen into. The only washing she gets is carefully administered as she performs her feline ablutions after eating, tongue-bathing her fur and paw-wiping her cat-face. She snoozes between meals, dreaming fitful cat-dreams, then stretching out and yawning conspicuously afterwards.

The potato-farmer seems happy enough. His dreams, as he props himself up on a grave-stone, are of high yields and tubers filling out as the rainwater easily penetrates the furrows of his carefully cultivated field. ‘Happy the corpse it rains on’ says a passing funeral-goer as the mourners negotiate narrow graveyard pathways, made slippy by the rainwater and the melancholy human traffic they carry. ‘Have ye no say at all with the man above?’ asks a teasing acquaintance. The skies darken and off-load their latest cargo in sheets of driven rain as we encircle the earth-wound that is the opened grave. A mushroom of umbrellas shoots into action; their kaleidoscope of colours and advertising logos defying the greyness of life lived under a blanket of rain-clouds and exile in this ‘valley of tears’.

The village has gone into premature hibernation. Rain has stopped play in the public parks and even the most-pampered dogs go unwalked. A sullen, sodden blanket has been thrown over the place, smothering all outdoor activities and all effervescence of spirit within. The traffic moves more slowly as visibility narrows and rivers of rainwater wash the cigarette butts from the pavements. Radio advertisements continue to tell us how precious water is and warn us not to waste it by watering our lawns - as if! Despite the high humidity and the general balminess of the weather, sitting-room fires are kindled and stalled heating systems are sparked into roaring action again as coats and clothes are dried out in time for the next ‘wettin’. ‘Rain rain, go to Spain…’

The full text of the rhyme apparently is, ‘Rain rain go away, / Come again another day. / Little Johnny wants to play; / Rain, rain, go to Spain, / Never show your face again!’ The origins of the words lie in the story of the Spanish Armada. During the reign of Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603) the English and the Spanish were in constant rivalry. This came to a head with the launching of the Spanish Armada in 1588. The Spanish ships, about one hundred and thirty in number, set out to invade England. They were repelled by the English fleet under the command of Admiral Lord Howard and the Armada was defeated. Only about half of the original number of Spanish vessels returned to Spain. The attempt failed because of the less cumbersome English fleet and partly because of the rainy weather which helped to scatter the Spanish fleet. Thus the origins of our ‘rain rain, go to Spain’ lamenting and pleading as we pack the summer suitcases and the Irish Armada heads for sunny Spain.