The English media always makes a fuss of the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race. Less so than in the past, if the BBC coverage is typical . . . But, then, sport has enlarged its bounds. In Ireland an old codger used to regale anyone who would listen to him, with stories of the peace and curative powers of an afternoon paddling around in a scull, that wonderful light craft which you can hoist over your head without difficulty when entering or leaving the water. So he said.
There, among the swans and the waterhens and other aquatic beings, he could get his blood flowing by a few minutes energetic rowing, or, if he were in contemplative mood, simply paddle as quietly and sedately as a duck. A splendid sport, he used to urge on all his younger family members - and anyone else who would listen to him.
Heaven lay between the boathouse above Islandbridge and the bridge at Chapelizod.
"I suppose it's more built up now" he would say, "but a river is a river". Indeed, a river is some times a torrent. One of the great adventures - and this is where a comparison with the English equivalent enters - was when the senior crew, in training for longer runs, used to carry the boat down over the falls near the boathouse, and make for the Poolbeg Lighthouse. All in the interest of getting used to the heavy stuff like Head of the River races across the water.
Cold and wet, sitting in your shorts and singlet, as was the custom then. Now they have more complex clothing. They may even be better oarsmen.
But they don't have the memories. You haven't experienced rowing until your boat has sunk a few times. In the middle of the very wide part of the Foyle was one such occasion. The other was within a few yards of the banks down at what was then the Commercial Club, well below Butt Bridge. Sink is really not the word. You just become waterlogged as the waves break over the sides, and you sit in a few feet of water. All that wood can't vanish, especially not with the oars fixed as if they were floats.
But the best of all, the old codger selfishly maintains, was the solo potterings along the reeds and grasses of the river banks above islandbridge, alone or maybe with a friend. uncompetitive, easy and, of course lazy. indeed, the title of the song might serve as the text; "Those lazy, hazy days of summer."