This annual festival offers one last chance to have a bit of fun and craic before the winter closes in, writes Deaglán de Bréadún, in Tralee
Farmers in flat caps. Girls in designer-label sweaters. Lusty youths quaffing pints and eyeing up the talent. Winsome lasses pretending not to notice. Pounding music. Floats. Marching bands.
Yes, it's that time of year again. Like a bell that tolls the end of the holiday season, the Rose of Tralee Festival offers one last chance to have a bit of fun and craic before the winter closes in. It truly is the Last Rose of Summer.
The festival began in 1959 and some would say it needs to reinvent itself. But the compelling counter-argument is: Why change a winning formula? Probably some anthropologist could explain the human need, going back to ancient times, for a harvest festival where a queen is crowned and the populace in general lets its hair down.
The famous song about the Rose of Tralee begins with, "The cool shades of evening their mantle were spreading".
That's exactly how it is as we stand in Tralee's Denny Street waiting for the parade to arrive. Moms and Dads look relieved to have somewhere to bring little Johnny and Sinead: it's been a hard struggle keeping kids amused in the wettest summer for years.
Here they come. Everyone gets in on the action. Bikers first, roaring past. Then a slew of mini-minor cars. Then the floats, bearing Roses who wave regally to the crowd. They are having the time of their lives, smiling, radiant, exuding enough charm and grace to defrost the most hardened cynics. The male escorts in their tuxedos march alongside, attentive, protective, gentlemen to the core.
This is not your tacky Miss World beauty contest. Accomplishments mean more than physical attributes. There is not a bathing suit in sight and Hugh Hefner wouldn't know what to make of it, at all, at all. But Patrick Pearse, whose unsquinting head rests on a plinth nearby, would probably have approved.
Some of the competitor accomplishments are impressive, not to say formidable. The running commentary tells us how the Rose from Sydney, Australia, enjoys "scuba-diving, whitewater-rafting and canoeing".
The Limerick Rose, a fire officer by profession, flies light aircraft for relaxation. The Cork Rose is a karate expert, the Waterford Rose an assistant manager of the men's national volleyball squad and the New York representative plays American football when she isn't taking part in showjumping competitions.
Whew! After all that, we couch potatoes are grateful to hear of other Roses who are simply taking French classes in their spare time or just like "playing mixed netball and dancing the night away".
Some places are sending a Rose for the first time. Tamara Gervasoni is representing Italy and her mother hails from Longford. Luxembourg is also throwing its hat in the ring: Yvonne Linterr, originally from Dublin, represents the Grand Duchy. Philadelphia has not been represented before, which would come as a shock to Grace Kelly. Zena al-Nazer from Dubai was actually born in the Coombe, Dublin, and her mother is from Bantry.
The parade is over and the craic crusade disperses to different locations. The pubs are doing a steady trade: most of them have bouncers on the doors and it's all a little intimidating. There's lively open-air rock music from Picturehouse, appealing to the crowd in blunt terms to give the singalong some "wellie".
To mark the Elvis anniversary they sing Fever but I escape before Peggy Lee comes to haunt them.
Streetlife is plentiful. A bright-eyed evangelist from Belfast assures me my soul could still be saved, because the Lord "has all the work done".
Elsewhere, if you wish to "accessorise your wardrobe" you can get a temporary, four-week tattoo for €6, because it's "the new rage this season in Milan".
Somebody is wandering around with a placard carrying the message, on both sides: "Hello everyone from Seamus of Donegal."
Somehow you feel Seamus is going to have a good time in Tralee.