Endless rain, underrated Cavan and what makes Ireland truly special

- Viktoriia Kantseva -

The day we arrived in Ireland, it was raining. Not the kind of cold, miserable rain that soaks through your shoes, but something softer — a warm, forgiving drizzle that touched our faces as we stepped out of the airport with our backpacks.

We didn’t have many things with us, but somehow it didn’t matter. The rain felt like it was washing away everything we had carried from the war — fear, uncertainty, exhaustion. It felt like a quiet welcome. And I remember thinking, this might be the best rain of my life.

It’s funny to look back now because the rain never really stopped after that. It rained the next day, and the next and probably every week since. But somehow, I never got tired of it. People in Ireland often joke that there are only two kinds of weather — rain and the few minutes before it rains. And maybe that’s true.

My Irish colleagues love talking about the weather, it’s the country’s unofficial national sport. If it rains, they say “Ah, it’s terrible out” If it’s sunny, they smile and say “Lovely day, isn’t it?” Weather talk, I quickly realised, is not just about clouds or sunshine, it’s a language of connection. It’s a way of saying I see you, without saying much at all.

I learned these phrases faster than any grammar rule. They became my first small bridge into Irish life. Of course, you can love the weather or you can hate it, but sooner or later, you simply accept it. The same way you accept that the kettle must always be ready for tea, that “a pint” can mean many things and that there’s a quiet beauty in the ordinary here.

What truly stole my heart, though, wasn’t the weather. It was the nature itself — wild, vast, alive. The moment we bought a car, we began to travel every weekend. The Cliffs of Moher were the first place on my list — I had dreamed of standing there and, when I finally did, it was like meeting an old friend for the first time. The wind was strong enough to take your breath away, the ocean below endless and loud. I stood there twice already and each time it felt like the cliffs were whispering the same thing: you’re small, but you’re alive and that’s enough.

We went to Sligo, to waterfalls and caves, to the ocean and later, to the mountains of Mayo. I still think about Croagh Patrick, the holy mountain. This time, I made it all the way to the top. The climb was tough, the kind that tests your legs and your thoughts at once, but the view was worth every breath. Standing there, looking down at the vast land below, I felt both grounded and free. It’s strange how silence at that height can sound louder than words.

I’m not much for pubs or parties. I admire the Irish pub culture — the music, the laughter — but it’s not my rhythm. Give me a quiet forest instead, the green stillness of Killykeen Park, the way mist curls around the trees in the morning. That’s where I rest. That’s where my thoughts finally slow down.

Sometimes I think Ireland has a special kind of magic — not the loud, tourist-brochure kind, but the gentle one. It’s in the way the fog rolls over the hills or how the lakes catch light like mirrors. It’s in the sheep standing calmly in the middle of the road, making you stop and wait. It’s in the people too — in their humour, their patience, their ability to talk about nothing and somehow make it meaningful.

County Cavan, where we live, is one of the most underrated places in Ireland. It deserves to be in every travel guide. Lakes that look like they belong on postcards, forests that change their colours every week, quiet roads where you can drive for miles without seeing another car. It’s not dramatic like Kerry or famous like Galway, but its beauty doesn’t need to compete. It’s calm, honest and real — the kind that stays with you long after you leave.

Whenever I visit new parts of Ireland, I always come home feeling grateful — not because I’ve seen something new, but because this country keeps reminding me to slow down, to notice, to breathe. The beauty here doesn’t ask for attention. It’s simply there — patient, steady, waiting to be seen.

So yes, after almost two years here, I still love the Irish weather — and maybe that says something. It’s not always easy, not always bright, but it’s honest. And I think that’s why I love it so much. Now if you’ll excuse me — I’ve just realised Halloween decorations are still hanging on my door and it’s already raining again. Time to bring them inside before they float away.