Richard Hogan: Cork and Kerry staycation was our best family holiday yet

This summer we decided to stick close to home. No twisting, no death march, no searing heat. Just beautiful old Ireland. And I have to say, it was one of my favourite holidays I have had in many years

A breathtaking view of Glengarriff Bay, Co. Cork, Ireland.

The summer of Ireland, that’s what my kids begrudgingly named this season.

Usually we go abroad on our family summer holiday to places like Spain, Italy, Portugal, or France. But this summer we decided to tour around Ireland.

My eldest daughter pleaded with us to take her to Greece or somewhere hot so she could work on her tan. I informed her, Ireland will be drenched in sunshine this summer.

You’ll be tanning to beat the band. I was met with side eye. That’s teenager body language for, I don’t believe you, with an expletive thrown in there somewhere.

With all the heat waves raging across Europe, I was glad to take a summer off from the annual, let’s take the whole shitshow on tour. Those old foreign holidays can be more stressful than anything.

The house you rented is tiny, miles away from a supermarket that you have to march to in the searing heat, like a death march. You are the only one who ventures out to get supplies for the family; it’s a bit of peace from living on top of each other, but you don’t admit that.

Your best ‘Prego’ or ‘Merci’ lashed out to hide you’re one of those bloody foreigners. Returning, with feigned exhaustion, you are met with unhappy campers because you dared return without a bar of Milka or some condiment one of them requested.

Monteensudder, Glengarriff. Pic: Denis Harrington

And then there’s the whole, get to the beach early so you can get the beds you want near the shoreline. But those pesky Germans are always there before you, their humongous towels condescendingly laid out on the lounger.

“They must come down in the night,” I tell my wife’s disapproving smile. Then you have to find a restaurant in the evening, before all the other savagely burnt Irish or sun novices get there with their lobster arms and gawdy shirts. If you have young kids, which we don’t anymore, you have to lug the buggies around cobble streets.

My eldest daughter used to walk at the front of the buggy like we were transporting a president, “We’ve got a sleeper,” she’d declare, which meant we could get food without a table being knocked over. Heat is no good for kids.

As my own youngest child said to me once in Corsica: “I hate the sun.”

Arriving back home, exhausted and broke, you smile at each other: “That was lovely.”

You both know it wasn’t, but you are alive, and that’s decent enough and also denial will help when you book the same ordeal the following summer.

So, this summer we decided to stick. No twisting, no death march, no searing heat. Just beautiful old Ireland. 

And I have to say, it was one of my favourite holidays I have had in many years. My children’s too. The voice that told me she hated the Corsican sun, offered “best holiday ever” as we drove back from Kerry.

The eldest didn’t quite agree, but she wasn’t vocally denouncing her either, which is teenager language for, “I kind of agree but don’t want to give it to you”.

I’ll take it.

Rosscarbery, West Cork, Ireland.

We started out in West Cork, swimming in the Warren Beach and having lunch in the Drip Coffee shop in Rosscarbery. The landscape is steeped in history and story.

It was a magnificent couple of days visiting the grandparents in Sams Cross, and a sneaky few pints up in the Four Alls. Hard to find a pub like the Four Alls anywhere in the world.

Then we moved on in our travels to Zetland Pier in Glengarriff. The most beautiful scenery you will ever swim in; the sky mirrored and shimmering in turquoise water.

The landscape of little islands and a hidden gem of a beach resting in a stillness brewed God knows how long. Time is different there. Everyone winks and nods at you, to keep this to yourself.

They’re worried more people will find out about the place, and it will be spoiled. Apologies!

Kenmare next, and two fabulous days eating and drinking in some of the best places on this planet. I love Kenmare. It’s a special place.

I can see why Americans lap up every little bit of diddly eye, those cute Kerry feckers know what they’re up to. Crowley’s and Florry Batt’s particular favourites. Mick the box, the Bono of Kenmare was around somewhere, but I didn’t see him this time.

We had a meal in Mulcahys, and had Pat Spillane, a member of Westlife and a former taoiseach for company.

Where would you get it, boy?

Our kids met up with their best friends, the Tuohys, whose grandfather grew up in Kenmare, which means we’re all practically from there.

The kids, six girls, just walk around the town together as a gang. No death march, just strolling around free from parents, living by their vagaries. Then onwards to Dingle. Over The Ring of Kerry. There is majesty to that part of the world. It is beautiful. You can see why it is named The Kingdom.

I have always loved Dingle. There is something in that small town that captivates the soul. The narrow streets, the bustle of everyone moving around to different pubs. The music in the air.

Dick Mack's, Dingle Co. Kerry

Dick Mack’s pub is one of my favourite places in the world to have pint. When I was a kid, Dick Mack himself made me a wonderful belt, which I still have.

We stayed in the Skelligs Hotel. The kids loved it, the pool and the scenery. The welcoming atmosphere in that hotel is special. Everyone around is smiling and greeting you.

As you turn off the road to the hotel, you can see why Kerry has such a tradition of winning All Ireland football finals. It’s in their DNA. The pitch lies in a romantic mist, nestled into the landscape of mountains.

The summer of Ireland is over, but I’ll be looking to do it all again next year, that is, unless the teenager gets her way!

Greece it is then.