I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d piled into the car in Dublin after a cracking breakfast, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, only for me to take a wrong turn near Enniscorthy and end up on some narrow lane that felt like it hadn’t seen a tourist since the famine. Half an hour later, with the sat-nav having a proper sulk, we finally rolled into Tomhaggard near Kilmore, and blimey, what a first impression. The three-bedroom semi-detached cottage sat snug next to the owner’s place, all welcoming and tastefully done up inside, with space for our lot of six to sprawl out comfortably. Peeking out at the beaches just moments away and those countryside views, I was already plotting our walks.

First morning, the sun was out, bold as brass, so we laced up and headed straight for the coast path from Kilmore Quay. It’s a proper gem, that stretch – wildflowers nodding in the breeze, gulls wheeling overhead, and the Irish Sea sparkling like it was showing off. We wandered for miles, the kids charging ahead to poke at rock pools, while I lagged behind pretending to admire the horizon but really just soaking in the peace. The cottage’s lawned garden had been perfect for a quick kickabout before we set off, and coming back to that fully equipped kitchen for fish and chips (caught fresh from the quay, naturally) felt like the dream.

But oh, the weather – classic British holiday luck, even in Ireland. Next day, the sky turned moody, wind whipping in off the bay like it had a grudge. Our plan for a long beach hike from Cullenstown got binned; instead, we pivoted to a shorter loop around the local dunes, hoods up and laughing as rain spat sideways. It was bracing, that’s the word – cheeks rosy, wellies squelching, and a sudden downpour sending us scampering for cover under a cliff overhang. Turned out brilliant, though; we spotted seals bobbing about, and the kids declared it their best adventure yet. Back at the cottage, we dried off in the sitting room, doors flung open to the patio despite the drizzle, with mugs of tea and a cheeky nightcap by the fire later. Cosy doesn’t even cover it.

By midweek, the forecasts were all over the shop – one minute blue skies for a gentle ramble through the fields behind Tomhaggard, dodging sheep and breathing that salty air, the next a proper deluge forcing us onto the garden paths, splashing about like daft puppies. It made me reflect a bit, trudging home one soggy evening: we Brits (well, me anyway) are wired for this faff, aren’t we? Plans scuppered, but somehow the mishaps make the memories stick. Those hikes, rain or shine, stitched the holiday together – from exhilarating coastal strides to puddle-jumping larks. Wexford’s got the lot for it, and that cottage was the perfect base. Wouldn’t change a soggy step.