THE WHOLE HOGGE With Jacqueline Hogge

IT MAY seem a bit of a cop-out to devote an entire column to the state of our weather, given that itâ€â„¢s a staple topic of conversation across all walks of life. But I think I might get away with it this week, by reflecting on the bizarre nature of our climate in the merry month of March that has seen our small island experience extremes of nature at both ends of the country. We escaped the worst of it here in the West, save for a particularly stormy night last week, when my compost and recycling bins were being thrown about the back garden by a howling wind that didnâ€â„¢t do me any favours when it came to settling children down for the night. Boy Wonder doesnâ€â„¢t scare easy but when bedtime came, he confided that he didnâ€â„¢t like the wind and asked if I could make it stop. I normally try to reassure them both with tales from my own childhood when it comes to things that upset or frighten them, but I thought it best to hold back on telling him that Iâ€â„¢m still not a particular fan of gale force winds. The phobia goes back to my own tender years when my bedroom was located in an extension to the main house that sported a unique skylight. Nothing as fancy as Velux was on the go back in the 1980s, well not in our neck of the woods anyway, so this contraption was dome like and seemed to my ten-year-old mind to be secured in place by nothing more than a couple of nails. On stormier nights I would lie, rigid with fear, under the duvet, convinced the wind was about to lift the perspex dome clean off the roof and hoover me up into the angry night sky with it. Of course, such a tragedy never unfolded, but you can see where Iâ€â„¢m coming from in my decision not to share such an anecdote with a three-year-old. Instead I offered to go out and put the bins in the shed, but was dissuaded by a concerned little man who was certain I would blow away up into the clouds, so we agreed I would lie with him until the bold wind went to sleep. Children in certain parts of Cork and their parents must be wondering what theyâ€â„¢ve done to deserve yet more flooding, which is becoming a seasonal hazard in recent years even if the seasons seem to be rolling into one. Blackpool residents would be forgiven for thinking theyâ€â„¢re stuck in Groundhog Day this past week as their homes and businesses have been washed out for the second time in nine months. Four feet of water engulfed properties in the village after heavy rain clogged a main drain in the village, leading to flash flooding and the rescue of two people trapped in an off-licence by the fire brigade. While the authorities tried to claim credit for the speed at which the waters receeded, once the blocked drain had been cleared, it was scant consolation for people who no longer have the comfort of insurance to fall back on in such times of distress. The blame game was quick to swing into action with those affected furious at the lack of an official flood warning, which they said would have given people time to try to protect their properties. Officials at Cork City Hall insisted the culvert had been checked twice on the night in question and found to be clear, and in an attempt to call off the baying locals, promised that the OPW were â€Ëœworking on a flood planâ€â„¢ for the Lee Valley. I imagine thereâ€â„¢s been a few interesting suggestions as to where such a plan may be shoved, as frustration grows at never ending bureaucracy stalling any meaningful action on the ground. While all this was happening, a far more tragic situation was unfolding on the east coast of the country. A major route into Dublin was closed because of flooding in the area and commuters had a much longer journey to and from their places of work. Yes, itâ€â„¢s galling to be stuck in traffic for any reason, but the hoopla surrounding the tailbacks on the M11 last week bordered on the comical. Of course the situation was undesirable, and Iâ€â„¢m sure affected the economy in some manner or other, but the inconvenience of having to navigate alternative routes and, shock horror, encounter congestion along the way is hardly comparable to the horror faced by those people in Cork who have to start again in business, or in their homes, after being wiped out for the umpteenth time in recent years. But then anything to affect the Dubs, or those living or working in the commuter belt, is significantly more important than what happens beyond the pale. Heading north, and the most extreme of the weekâ€â„¢s weather resulted in snow drifts measuring 18 feet that left 35,000 homes without power and up to 1,000 without water. People were trapped in their homes in the more rural parts of Antrim, with rescue workers forced to walk miles to reach those most vulnerable, as the terrain was too extreme to allow vehicular access. Schools were closed and airports shut as the utility companies struggled to repair power lines that snapped under the sheer weight of snowfall. Arctic blizzards and biblical floods separated by just over 300 miles, while across the Atlantic our commander in chief, the bould Enda was joking with his American hosts about the anti-ageing benefits of Irish rain. You couldnâ€â„¢t make it up. We might be sick of the constant cold and incessant rain that seems to be a permanent state of play on this island of ours. But while ever there are extremities as experienced over the past seven days, weâ€â„¢ll never be stuck for something to talk about.