The night in the car park was quiet, relatively speaking. The wind was still putting up a fight, but the trees embraced us like silent guardians and allowed us to sleep soundly. In the morning there was no rush, and that's a luxury: we had a leisurely breakfast, stretched our legs, smelled the humid mountain air, and set off after eleven, like someone who starts the day after dwelling on laziness.

Half an hour's drive later we found ourselves at the top of a viewpoint overlooking the famous Lough Tay. And I promise you that I have rarely seen anything so peculiar. From up there, the lake looked like a pint of Guinness served with the precision of an expert waiter. The water, dark like a freshly poured pint, and on one of its shores a clear strip of sand that looked like foam. It's no coincidence that it's called "Guinness Lake", as for generations it belonged to the Guinness family, the kings of Irish beer. The only problem was the wind: strong, cold, capricious, so much so that walking there would have been like playing fetch in the middle of a hurricane. So no walk, we just watched that natural spectacle and went back to the car.

More than an hour on the road later we arrived in Saggart. The plan was to stop for a bite to eat, but it soon became clear that there was nothing appealing, let alone suitable for a dog with my level of refinement. In the end, Daddy Edu and Uncle Joan went into a supermarket and came out with bags full of what they call "provisions" and what I call "things that don't smell like meat".

Luckily, ten minutes later we were in Corkagh Park, a huge and carefully maintained green lung. While they were chewing their food sitting in the camper, I was planning the route: sniffing every corner, marking territory with elegance and greeting every human who wanted to stroke my ears. We walked along wide paths that opened like avenues between meadows, very tall trees that creaked in the wind. We enjoyed the walk without rushing, letting ourselves be carried away by the calm of the place.

When the sun was already beginning to turn towards the afternoon, we went back to the car. This time on the motorway, straight and fast, with the roar of the trucks accompanying us. The destination was, attention, Ikea. Yes, Ikea. The paradise of Swedish meatballs, but paradoxically not for me. Daddy Edu and Uncle Joan went inside and came out very happy because they had had free coffee. I, meanwhile, waited in the car. Free for them, boring for me. Not a biscuit, not a nibble of smoked salmon.

The clock was already touching half past seven when we arrived at the airport. There came the least pleasant moment of the day: saying goodbye to Uncle Joan, who had a flight back to Barcelona. I gave him a good "see you later" lick and stood still, with that mixture of sorrow and resignation that we dogs feel when someone from our pack leaves. I saw him walk away with his backpack, while Daddy Edu stroked my head and told me that we would continue together, as always, pulling miles.

And so it was. We drove to a place that is almost home: the car park next to the Malahide estuary. We have slept there several times and each time it feels like meeting an old friend. The wind no longer blows with fury, it only murmurs softly among the grasses. There are about five more campers and motorhomes, discreetly lined up looking at the water. We parked, settled in and breathed a sigh of relief. The day has been long, with beer lakes, infinite parks, free coffees and goodbyes.