That very morning, I awoke and the basslines from down the beach pounded through my skull like a culchie banging a drum in Croker. I arose and my long hair had absorbed the sand to give me the look of a young, sunburnt Rod Stewart.
The only thing to do was head for home and so, half an hour later in the middle of Wicklow, shoe less, penny less and wearing only a pair of tennis shorts, something triggered and I realised those trips hadn’t been duds.