Another camper van arrived in the car park at night, although it left early in the morning, like a bat fleeing before the sun. We woke up to a lot of wind and rain, the kind that makes the camper van wobble as if it were a ship in a storm. So we stayed inside, waiting, smelling Daddy Edu's coffee and the Dutch torrijas he prepared, called wentelteefjes. Bread soaked in milk and egg, fried in a pan and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. A champion's breakfast, although I only got a small piece.

We went out almost at one in the afternoon, when we couldn't turn around inside any more. In about fifteen minutes we arrived at the Brownshill Portal Tomb dolmen. We parked and walked there, about a five-minute walk in the rain. And there it was: a mass of stone that seems impossible that humans from more than five thousand years ago could have placed without cranes or excavators. The upper block weighs more than one hundred and fifty tons, which is equivalent to thousands of ox bones, and yet it is still there, resting on its stones as if nothing. They say it served as a tomb, but I suspect it was also a deluxe dog house for some tribal chief. We took photos, selfies, and I even tried to pose with my best "doggy archaeologist" face.

Another fifteen minutes of road and we arrived at Duckett's Grove. What a spectacle! One of the most impressive castles we've seen in Ireland. Although it is in ruins and you can't go inside, it is imposing with its pointed towers and moss-covered walls. It looks like something out of a Gothic tale, with ghosts walking through the corridors that no longer exist.

History says that the Duckett family had it built in the nineteenth century, with a neo-Gothic air that made them seem even more important. For decades it was a symbol of wealth, until a fire destroyed it in nineteen thirty-three. Since then it has remained as a stone skeleton, majestic even in its ruin. Some tell legends of ghosts in its empty towers, and I don't doubt it: surely some spectral cat walks around there at night.

Behind the castle are the gardens, impeccable. Straight paths, well-kept flowers and that air of a place that still beats despite the ruin. We spent more than half an hour there, smelling every corner (they with their eyes, me with my nose), until we went back to the car.

Then we had more than an hour of curves on narrow roads. Each turn was like being on a natural carousel, with bushes brushing the camper van. Finally we arrived at Glendalough and parked for free at the Brocklagh Resource Centre. Everything nearby was paid, so this place was like finding a hidden bone. We had lunch in the camper van while the rain outside continued to beat with its cold fingers.

We waited until it stopped raining and, almost at six, we started walking. We went up to connect with the Wicklow Way, one of the most famous trails in Ireland, which crosses mountains, valleys and forests for more than one hundred and thirty kilometres. We only did a piece, but what a piece: humid forest, trees that looked like green giants, and dream views. We walked for more than half an hour, until we reached the Glendalough Hotel.

It started raining again there. I could be on the terrace behind the hotel, so Daddy Edu and Uncle Joan took shelter with me. A very nice waiter, Portuguese, served them, who greeted them with a smile despite the downpour. I, from my corner, watched every table in case a French fry fell.

On the way back we took the road, about twenty minutes walk. It was almost night, so we decided to stay to sleep in the same car park. A place protected from the wind, perfect for dreaming of ruined castles, giant tombs and paths that never end.