After yesterday's glorious thrashing, today was the day for energy-saving mode. Not because we're old — well, Dad is a bit — but because sometimes you have to appear relaxed so that fate doesn't suspect you have a plan. We got up without rushing, had a leisurely breakfast and let midday catch up with us before starting the camper. I call it siesta philosophy.

About thirty minutes by car and we arrived at Ballyhealy, a beach that smelled good but looked so-so. Lots of stones, not much spark. The canine inspection was brief: two sniffs, three sighs and experience filed under "beaches that exist and that's that".

So we continued north. We went through Wexford, which seems like a city that thinks it's bigger than it is, and Dad went into a shopping centre to hunt for treasures. He came back empty-handed and with a face that said "at least there was a toilet". I didn't ask, out of empathy and mental hygiene.

The plan improved when we got to Curracloe. We parked in a natural area where someone, with a lot of bureaucratic skill, had closed off half the car park with a two-metre barrier and a stick, leaving the other half open. I interpreted it as a test of human intelligence that didn't go well. We ate there, each in his own style: he with cutlery, me with attitude.

Then we set off on the day's walk: beach plus reserve, a winning combination. Curracloe Beach is one of those beaches that never ends, not even with GPS: wide, clean, with sand so fine it's a shame not to bury something. I ran as if I'd signed a contract with a dog food brand (although we all know that won't happen). The ball was flying, I was flying after it and the wind was styling my hair like a short-statured rock star.

On the other side, the Raven Nature Reserve: dunes, forest, paths that smell of fox and ancient history, and trees that look like green guardians of the sandy kingdom. Dad walked like a happy human, I marked every corner like a minister of olfactory territories. No scorching sun, but beautiful light and perfect air so you don't sweat or pant.

When our legs were satisfied we went back to the car. Sleeping there is not allowed, and although I offered to pretend to be a deterrent sign, Dad said it was better not to tempt fate.

Half an hour more by car and we arrived at the Paddy's Rock car park. The name sounds like a maritime cliff, but in reality it's in the Forth Mountain area: hills covered in heather, paths between ancient rocks and views that look like they were made for druids with a dog. No coast nearby, just the silence of the low forest, clean air and the smell of earth that keeps secrets. Beautiful area, nobody around, no cars, no humans, no curious sheep. Just us parked like discreet kings among stones and bushes.

Perfect for our last night on this island of broken castles, endless beaches and tour guides who talk more than the seagulls. I'll sleep with the ball nearby and my nose alert. Tomorrow... well, tomorrow will be another bone that we'll gnaw on.