I thought the last few days in a country were for sleeping, loafing around, and smelling other people's arses in peace, but no. We woke up in one of the coolest places we've ever been. Silence, views, the smell of damp grass and rosemary, not a human snoring nearby. I did my first wee with the elegance of an Irish lord, and Dad Edu stretched like we'd slept in a five-bone hotel.

We went for a walk from the car park, two kilometres or so, but mine count as four because my legs are short, and I get distracted sniffing everything. We reached a rock with a cross planted on top, very dramatic, very "Jesus was here but left because it was windy". The views were so beautiful that even I stopped looking for imaginary rabbits for a whole minute. Then we went back to the car with that feeling of "wow, we've made it".

We left after midday, without rushing but without pausing, like retired greyhounds. We were heading for Rosslare, but Dad wanted to make a curious stop at Carrigfoyle Quarry. It's normally closed with a barrier at 2.1 metres, and our car is exactly that plus my ears. But surprise: open because there was a maintenance truck inside. We entered stealthily like diesel ninjas.

And what is that quarry? Well, a quarry that filled with water and now looks like a deep, calm, and quite mysterious little lake. I sniffed it properly: it smells of wet rock and weird stories of humans throwing stones into the water when mobile phones didn't exist. It was pretty, but Dad was thinking about the barrier as if it was going to fall at any moment and leave us trapped forever in the kingdom of boring trucks. So, we had a quick look and left before paranoia closed the way.

Next stop: Rosslare. Dad parked right in front of the launderette at a petrol station where there was an industrial washing machine roaring like a striking dragon. There we put the dirty clothes, and he started chatting with a slightly strange but nice guy. He lives there in a tent because he can no longer afford his flat. And by then, he had more beer than blood. I liked him: he said "hello doggo" and winked at me as if we shared pirate secrets.

After an hour and a half, clean clothes and half folded (the other half rolled around the camper like escaping croquettes). We barely moved a hundred metres to the SuperValu, that supermarket that seems to charge you a tax for breathing inside. Dad bought the essentials to eat now and survive the 18 hours on the boat: bread, some cold cuts, bottles of water, and surely something that smells awful but that he calls "strong cheese".

From there, another mini trip by car, to a car park next to the memorial of the Aer Lingus 712 flight. I heard "aer" and thought of ears, but no. It was an air tragedy in 1968: a plane flying from Cork to London fell into the sea, and 61 people died. The memorial is sober, grey, and silent, as if the wind had stayed there to remember the people. Dad stood there pensively for a moment, and I sat next to him, because sometimes the best thing is to accompany without barking.

Then we ate in the camper, Dad finished folding the clothes and prepared the sandwiches for the boat. At seven, we went to the port, which is two barks away because Rosslare is so small that if you sneeze, you leave the town. Quick check-in with the car and twenty minutes later, we were already on the Stena Line ferry. I thought we'd have to wait for hours, but no: this was faster than me when I hear the cheese being opened.

We got out of the car in the garage and went up to the pet-friendly cabin. There are a lot, like 40 or 50, all the same: bed, bathroom, table, strange beds and a sign saying what you can't do. The "pet-friendly" is more "Stena-friendly," because they charge extra, enough to buy me a hundred sausages. Details: dogs can't get on the bed (I went up first, with my four paws on the pillow), they can't go around the boat except to a terrace at the stern where there are artificial grass carpets for us to pee and poop. I, of course, did mine next to it. One has dignity.

Oh, and we can't stay alone in the cabin either. On the other side of the hallway, there's a chihuahua that barks every time someone breathes. They may have locked him in a backpack by mistake, who knows.

We left a little before the hour, at 20:45 instead of 21:00. The boat set sail for Cherbourg, in France. It's about 18 hours of open sea, where I will see a lot of water and zero seagulls inside the cabin. During the crossing, you pass through the Irish Sea, then the channel, and finally the bay of Cherbourg. I don't understand much, but I do know that things move and that when the boat vibrates, it feels like my belly is being scratched from the inside.

Dad used the private bathroom to cut his hair, tidy his beard and shower for half an hour. I looked at him like he was a pirate hairdresser. Afterwards, he left me alone for a while and went to explore the boat. He came back saying that it looked like a ghost cruise ship: hardly anyone on board and almost everything closed. Dimmed bars, a dead disco, a ghost cinema, and the shop gave the impression of having been looted by low-cost corsairs.

Tonight, we're not sleeping in the camper, but on the boat. I haven't decided which bed I'm going to conquer first, because if I can't get up, I train and jump better. Dad keeps the sandwiches as if they were gold, and we have water, a blanket, and my soft toys.

So, I close Ireland with my snout held high: green hills, cold-damp beaches, nice humans and beer everywhere, although I didn't taste a single drop. Tomorrow we'll arrive on French soil, and we'll see what madness awaits us. If there's another memorial, another quarry, or a forbidden lake, I'll be there, ready to smell, comment, and pee where I shouldn't.

And now... to snore in a sailor's style.