Don’t ask me to wax lyrical about brisk walks through crunchy leaves, I hate the winter

Ihate the winter. I know that’s quite a controversial statement. I mean, who hates winter? There’s great television (okay, slightly better television), the party season is coming so there’s gorgeous clothes in the shops, and everyone has an excuse to curl up in front of a fire with a hot drink and a good book. Not to mention Christmas. Who doesn’t love Christmas? But here’s the thing: I love the summer. I mean, I don’t just like the long, generally warmer days – let’s not get too carried away now, this is still Ireland and no, I haven’t forgotten what July was like – or the fact that people are actually happier when the sun shines. Really, look it up.

It’s far more than that: I believe people are divided by the seasons and I am simply a summer person. For me, it feels like a sort of extended holiday. Because even if I’m not actually on holiday, other people are. Children, college students, an influx of tourists trying to escape the heatwaves abroad. The mood is catching – suddenly, the whole world seems more relaxed and far more, well, fun!

Of course, the light is perfect too. For someone who suffers from SAD (seasonal affected disorder), there’s nothing like the joy of drinking coffee on my small patio, or on a bench in my local park with the sun and a warm breeze on my face.

Even when some summers – like this one – throw a curved ball in the shape of 31 days of rain, there’s still the promise of ‘More

Actual Summer’. I know August is technically autumn, but the kids of all ages are still on holidays and I like to extend the season for as long as I can.

Which brings me neatly to where we are now. Don’t ask me to wax lyrical about brisk walks through crunchy leaves, or get excited about updating my wardrobe for the new season.

When I reluctantly have to swap my Birkenstocks for my winter boots, I’m not even going to pretend it brings me any joy.

There are excellent reasons why we hype up Halloween and Christmas – selection boxes and Jingle Bells at the start of November, anyone? – as the nights close in.

Tradition and religious beliefs aside, these are bright spots in our gloomiest months. They punctuate endless days and weeks of rain and cold and an alarming number of storms. Speaking of which, I have no interest in helping to name our upcoming storms. I know a distraction when I see one.

Because I’ve tried them, you see. Distractions. I’ve often scrolled through Instagram in search of the perfect house. Those winter-ready oases of calm and warmth. In these houses, fires crackle in beautiful fireplaces, lamps and candles glow in groups of three on little tables and there are always cushions and throws scattered across elegant sofas.

I’ve even tried to embrace it myself – bigging it up with different names, obviously. There’s the Danish Hygge, with its candles and coffee, Coorie (thank you, Scotland) with its er, snugness. I too have bought throws and lit fires – although I think lighting real fires is now officially frowned upon, so I’ll probably have to stop.

But here’s what nobody tells you. It’s a bit exhausting. Genuinely. In a real home, with real, messy people who watch sport and eat cereal with their feet up on the coffee table, or leave their shoes around the room, it can be quite difficult to keep it going. Or to even want to – I know when I’m being fooled.

Friends try to persuade me that there’s nothing nicer than snuggling up indoors when there’s a storm raging, or when the outside world is turning white, bewildered that I genuinely don’t like the darkest months of the year. But what if you have to go out in it, I ask. Like you know, to work, or even just to the shops?

Okay, well maybe you don’t want to go out in a big storm, they concede. I stare at them. Or even very heavy rain, they add. Hmm.

But there’s nothing more fun than walking in snow!

There is, I insist. In fact, pretty much anything is more fun than walking in snow. I have an almost laughable fear of it. Once, in my 20s, I slipped and fell badly – imagine a poor attempt at the splits – on my way to work, only to have a colleague stop and literally scoop me up off the pavement. In fairness, apart from my pride, I escaped fairly unscathed. But I’ve been ridiculously nervous about it ever since. My idea of a holiday from hell is anything that involves thermals and a set of skis.

But it’s almost here again, as regular as a birthday. I’m haning on gratefully to the last remnants of warm weather – unseasonably late this year – on my doorstep as the sun rises, and later, crossing the road to walk for a few moments on the sunlit path. Until next year.

The Last Saturday In July by Sharon Black is available now as an ebook and on Amazon