Rio 2016 Diary: A wet and woeful Wednesday

 

It was a generally early start today, down to the prospect of two semi finalist crews out in the rowing, which is an hour's bus journey away. It was a miserable, drizzly morning in Rio - very Irish. And it turned out the weather would set the tone for the day. 

 

Stepping down off the bus at Lagoa, I caught sight of Denis Walsh, Shane McGrath and Johnny Watterson heading the other way. "Well, lads....", I said. "Called off!", they replied. Seems for the second time this week, the weather called a halt to the rowing, so Jennings, Lambe, O'Donovan and O'Donovan would have to wait another 24 hours for their semi-finals. And so, we would be destined to return to Lagoa the next morning. Hopefully to some action on the water this time, as opposed to just a personal drenching. 

 

On the bus back to base, I discovered that Mick Scully of the Mirror is also a big Super Furry Animals fan. It's a pleasant diversion from the constant Miss Selfridge soundtrack that organisers here pump at every turn. 

 

Golf is a funny one. Its presence here has been questioned within and outside the sport, and with that in mind a first trip to the Golf course. On the way, we see just how unprepared parts of Rio still are. The entrance to the venue itself seems a tad slapdash. But the grand plan of the placement of the course is evident with the large, gated homes adjacent to it. 

 

Vincent Hogan and myself get the chance to sit down with Seamus Power, the man who is here because others aren't. And what a gracious figure he cuts - genuine, confident and embracing the challenge of rubbing shoulders with the Kaymers, Garcias and indeed Harringtons of this world. And above all - despite the American tinge to his Waterford accent - he is truly proud to be representing his country. 

 

So too is Harrington, explaining just why golf is here. To grow the sport in so-called "lesser" countries. Harrington speaks with a conviction and authority that makes you believe every word. Maybe golf can prove the doubters wrong this week. 

 

The celeb spotting is ramping up, by the way. After seeing Lars Ulrich's Dad, Torben at the tennis the other day, I pass the BBC's Swimming team by the media restaurant. Mark Foster is disgustingly handsome but they all seemed lovely. 

 

It's a solitary gig though, this. Calling home helps ease the feeling of being alone, but distance can still get the best of you. So, cheers to the steward who tried to perk my miserable face up on the way out. It worked, briefly. So too did the waft of summer rain off the plants near my apartment, which reminded me of the smell of Kildalkey lanes on my childhood visits to Meath. 

 

The waft of waste from the canal near the apartment bookended the day though, following closely from another defeat in the boxing. This time, Joe Ward undone by a strange Ecuadorian, and some stranger refereeing. Four boxers already out and two yet to begin their campaigns - there's a touch of the Hurling Championship off all of this.