Drizzle blues

No Irish holiday would be complete without the day-locked-indoors-looking-at-rain-running-down-the-window-panes.
Today was almost one of them.
It never rained per se. The light of the sun never shone. It was one hell of a constantly drizzly dark dark cold miserable day.
Our fellow Scottish blippers call it a dreich day.
Some euphemism lovers in Ireland call it a soft day.
Mrs Raheny and I call it a shite-day-with-kids-going-mental-indoors-ordeal.

Except that the kids were good. We took them to have a look at the drizzle on the beach and they loved being allowed to travel in the boot (it does not take much to make them happy).
We watched drizzle form into droplets on the pegs.
Finnzy-Bob practiced the arduous climb of the corporate ladder.
Alain conducted experiments in Smithwicks/Guinness mix cloudiness scales.

And the kids got to eat yesterday's catch. For some bizarre reason, Mrs Raheny declined to eat this delicacy.

The day was dreadful. But the company, the conversation, the wine, the kids and the (most participants reckoned) food were excellent.