Sideline Cut:Is there a more forlorn sight on this great earth than the Irish Snowman in early melt? Encase the sculptures in glass, I say, and call 'em Art. Lord knows how many people have toiled over canvas and foolscap down the years trying to find a way to evoke that elusive sense of doomed nobility the Irish Snowman commands simply by standing there, stumpy and misshapen and steadily dripping into oblivion.

Driving to see Connacht's rugby team play yesterday, we saw dozens of these creations decorating the gardens of the West, most no bigger than ornamental gnomes but twice as eerie. Some had the traditional accoutrements - the carrot for a nose, the coal-buttoned waistcoat - but most were hastily assembled, disastrously proportioned and haunting of expression, and all of them highlighted the novice and endearingly botched Irish touch in matters snowy.

Yesterday morning's snowfall was as brief as it was unannounced. The country looked gorgeous and picture postcard for about 90 minutes, then the rain - ever vigilant - swept in from the Atlantic, and as far as domestic tobogganing goes, that will probably be it for the year. It seems a terrible shame that we cannot transport Ireland to Alaska or wherever because no nation seems to greet a fall of snow with the inane enthusiasm we can muster.

Even the faintest covering of the stuff - as long as the land looks white - is enough to convince us we are living in Iditarod country. Had the snow managed to last until Monday, the schools would have remained closed and the GAA would have released a statement fretting about several O'Byrne Cup fixtures. Driving "conditions" would have been described as "hazardous".

By Tuesday, the newspapers would have been carried front-page photographs of Bertie ducking to avoid a curveball of snow fired by John Gormley or of Enda Kenny tramping through the Mayo hinterland in a Muscovite's furry hat. Flights ferrying GAA teams to their sunshine destinations would have been delayed for hours at Dublin Airport. Several forwards would have been put through the ultimate litmus test of accuracy, undergoing trials to see if they could, in fact, kick snow off a rope.

But the point is, we would have been out and about. When the snow visits the Emerald Isle, we turn out in ways not seen since the papal visit. To the last man, woman and child, we don scarves and hats and get out there to participate in some traditional midwinter fun and sport.

Of course, it is not quite the same environment as that provided by the snowfalls of northern Europe or Canada, where the stuff is powdery and dry and the atmosphere perfectly tranquil.

Irish snowfalls often come with the nastiest of winds and intermittent bursts of rain. Gloves or not, Irish snow has the power to raw and redden your hands within 30 seconds of contact, and shortly afterwards, a permanent numbness and astonishing pain - otherwise known as arthritis - set in. Parents are aware of this but never let on to their kids. It is an Irish rite of passage.

The snow remains incredibly harsh and icy so that the Irish snowball is a lethal weapon of frozen liquid generally studded with tarmac and other debris. Getting one in the face is about as pleasant as being belted by a sliotar from point-blank range.

Of course, landing one bang on the hooter of your friend's face, hitting that sweet spot between the furry hood of his parka jacket and the scarf over his mouth, brings about a feeling of transcendent joy. In best-case scenarios, it causes acute stinging and quiet, involuntary tears: more often, it causes eyesight damage that manifests itself through expensive and laborious sessions on the optician's chair for years afterwards. But because we are so insanely excited and grateful to be out there in the snow, we never complain at the time.

For deep down, we Irish fancy ourselves as snow people. We are willing to give things a go. Irish freeze-ups rarely last long enough for our lakes surfaces to solidify, and this is probably a blessing because there is no doubt it would lead to untold catastrophe. Tens of thousands would turn up at loughs like Cong and Allen to live out long-thwarted dreams of being, for just one glorious moment, like Torville or Dean.

The last census suggested the ratio of Irish ice rinks to Irish people is in the region of 1:635,000 but that fact has not stopped generations of Irish kids asking for skates and sledges for Christmas. In years gone by, we would improvise during frozen blasts, pouring hot water on the sloping paths and creating glassy and deadly little slopes upon which to perform arabesques or triple axels or that Irish speciality the skid.

Performed in plain brogues, the skid required no more than a game sprint toward the manufactured path of ice followed by a leap of faith onto the track, where the fun was in trying to prevent yourself from splitting your head or breaking an arm by falling over.

The likelihood of these calamities was heightened by the fact the ice would, without warning, "run out" on certain sections of the track, causing you to career forward like a sprinter bending for the tape only to find yourself back on the ice having lost all sense of balance and traction.

Failing that, other performers would, out of boredom or a desire to see bloodshed, trip you up as you careered past.

Everyone fell over, sooner or later, and inevitably onto that precise point where bottom meets spine, causing an acute, indescribable pain that would infiltrate the very core of your being. Over the years, many Irish boys arose from violent ice skids to discover their voices had broken.

During those rare occasions when Ireland is snowbound, it is possible to dream of the place as a budding stronghold of winter sports. Remember just a few years ago, at the winter Olympics in Utah, when Lord Clifton Wrottesley put ice in our veins with his thrilling performances on the skeleton.

The Galway peer may have learned his craft on the slopes of St Moritz but no matter: the sight of ski suits stamped with the Tricolour has become a feature of the modern winter Olympics, and the way things are going, we will win a medal on the ice quicker than on the running track.

If only we had the climate, we could excel, because our enthusiasm is unquenchable and we would trek across country or execute devastating slaloms without any of the daft yodelling the Scandinavians go in for. And if it turns out that the Cork hurlers are doing nothing this year, we could probably have an Olympic standard ice-hockey team trained up by April.

But we need what Met Éireann refers to as "a cold snap" of about 10 to 15 years to transform ourselves into a hardy nation of snow exhibitionists. We would reign supreme and our gardens would be filled with perfect snowmen.