Greetings, Season – Frank McNally on feeling vindicated by the early arrival of autumn

The annual disappointment that is August has been especially underwhelming this year, devoid of sunshine and with only the warm rain to suggest it's still summer. But the gloom has been a triumph for those of us in the February-is-the-start-of-Spring movement, much derided as we are every St Brigid's Day by those who claim to have science on their side.

After a slow start this year, February itself performed heroically, producing enough mild weather to convert even some members of the competing cult: the Branch Davidians (who think Spring starts with March, on St David’s Day), if not the vernal equinox crowd, who insist on March 20th or thereabouts.

But the sombre August of 2021 – complete, as I write this on Thursday morning, with a mist of mellow fruitfulness – has clinched the argument for this year. Even the silent “n” in Autumn has turned loudly autumnal of late. Meanwhile, speaking of silence, the one in Dublin was broken on Wednesday night by the sound of the season’s first fireworks, only 74 days ahead of Halloween. August is the new September now. On the plus side, Spring is only six months away.

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Exercise in Rinkmanship – Frank McNally on contrasting figures who did the skates some service

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Fighting Words – Frank McNally on the best and worst songs of the Northern Troubles

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Coarse Notes – Frank McNally on the drunken parrots of ancient Rome and other surprise language lessons

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End of the Line – Frank McNally on the dubious legacy of the last Earl of Clanrickarde

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Speaking of saints, today (August 20th) is the feast of one called Philibert who, as pronounced in his native French, sounds a bit like a cheese. Despite that, he gave his name in English to filberts, better known as hazelnuts, which on these islands ripen around this date. He must also be implicated somewhere in Filbert Street, the old address and stadium synonym of Leicester City football club.

St Philibert had a ship named after him once too but did not confer good luck on it. During the summers of the 1920s, it used to provide Atlantic pleasure cruises from the mouth of the Loire at Nantes. But 90 years ago in June, returning from the Île de Noirmutier, it was caught in a violent storm and sank with only eight survivors from several hundred passengers. They called it the “Breton Titanic”.

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The devout atheists who designed the French Revolution’s Jacobin calendar might not have been surprised by that disaster. They abolished all saints’ days in favour of a system elevating nature and agriculture, with dates instead named for plants, animals, and farm implements. According to their calculations, we are this week entering the year’s last month, Fructidor (from the Latin for fruit), in which the filbert does indeed feature, albeit under its much sexier French name: noisette.

Mention of Latin reminds me that August is named for the Emperor Augustus, whose lucky month this was deemed to be. As summarised by Brewer’s Dictionary, “it was the month in which he began his first consulship, celebrated three Triumphs, received the allegiance of the legions on the Janiculum, reduced Egypt, and ended the Civil Wars”.

On the other hand, history records that it was the month he also ran out of luck, eventually, in 14 AD. The exact circumstances, including the role of his wife Livia, are still debated.

But he died on August 19th (or the start of the Jacobin fruit month, as backdated), after eating poisoned figs.

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Another lesser-known French saint whose feast-day falls, or used to, this week is Guinefort. He is said to have lived sometime in the 13th century, near Lyon, although exact biographical details are scarce, which is not unusual for saints. What is unusual, and generally agreed, is that he was a greyhound.

The story goes that he was owned by a knight who went hunting one day, leaving the hound to guard his infant son. The hunter returned to find an overturned cradle and a dog with blood in its mouth. Thinking the worst, he slaughtered the innocent animal before finding the child safe and well under the cradle, with the bloodied carcase of a snake that Guinefort had killed in the baby’s defence.

If you think this story sounds familiar, you're not alone. There is a Welsh version too – with the dog killing a wolf instead of a snake – and I have a distinct childhood memory of an Irish equivalent. The difference was that in France it spawned a local cult, in which the dog became a folk saint and his grave the scene of miracles, despite church disapproval.

You’ve heard of the Dog Days of Summer, a quasi-meteorological phenomenon dating from Roman times, when the hottest part of the year was attributed to the ascendancy of the dog-star, Sirius. Well, the Dog Days ended traditionally on August 11th, or around the start of Irish autumn. But the Dog’s Day – feast of St Guinefort – fell on August 22nd and is said to have been celebrated as recently as the 1930s.