In Ireland it is the weather that breaks our hearts. It is the floods that triumph. As they say, where I live, it is either about to rain or just finished raining, or else it is actually raining.

Rain is absurdly constant; whether it is there or not becomes the foundation of our mirth, our joy and fun and bravery. The brash confidence that other nations display, knowing the sky will remain blue all day, is not available to us. Although the monotony of sunshine can dull a people’s imagination.

But in Ireland the weather is capricious. It toys with us. Even on a summer’s day, when the temperature rises above 24 degrees for perhaps an hour or so, the nation closes down and becomes emotional.

We cease to function rationally. We gush on television about the wonder of a blue sky or how the light and heat might be an indication of the apocalypse.

[ Depression came down on me like a terrible cloud. I thought it would never lift, but it didOpens in new window ]

I’m at my best in winter, just before dawn. More so when the nights are long and sunlight arrives only after breakfast. I love to mooch around a dark house. I wait for the light, put on leg warmers inside my trousers and thermal vests inside my shirt.

I run the tap water until it heats up. It comforts my face and beard. I don’t splash myself with the ice-cold water.

Always vigilant for the light. It’s the most exciting moment in winter. Every day I wait in this darkness.