There is a little beach about five miles outside Clonakilty that is my happy place. On days when I am far away feeling stressed, I close my eyes and imagine the sand between my toes and diving into the waves.

Back in the 70s, my grandparents had a caravan on the hill and my mother spent her summer days there. So when we were children, it is where we went with picnics and buckets and spades; and as a teenager, I spent summer days there with friends.

On the day I got married, I walked that beach in my white wedding dress holding my husband’s hand and now with young kids, we pack up the car every summer and make the nearly four-hour journey there.

Red Strand is my happy place.

In recent years, we have been lucky with the weather but what is it with this summer? We arrived down last Saturday and first thing Sunday morning, my four-year-old was shouting for all the world to hear: “Time for the beach.”

And so my husband and I were paddling in the water at 10am. My little one-year-old was starting to discover the joy of the waves and I even felt brave enough to go for a dip.

The fact that it was cloudy and overcast didn’t stop us but then the sea mist turned to a drizzle. ‘It’ll pass’ we reasoned – sure we’re wet anyway. But that drizzle soon turned to rain.

And we found ourselves like characters in that typical Irish holiday, walking up the beach in wet clothes in the pouring rain, children bawling and us unsure if they were upset because we took them out of the water or because their skin was white with the cold.

Wet summer Sunday

What followed was a wet summer Sunday – cosy clothes, sport on the telly, a game of cards.

The rain eased up but we turned around as soon as we arrived at the playground as it started spitting again.

Around 5pm, Dad declared it was a day for the ‘high stools’. Colouring books and crayons were packed and when we arrived into O’Donovan’s pub, aka Fishers Cross, we realised every local and family on holiday in the area had the same idea.

We clicked glasses to what had to be one of the most Irish August Bank Holiday Sundays.

In the interests of being a responsible parent, I stayed for an hour but in that time, the kids were delighted with life. Fishers Cross is run by Denis and Marie O’Donovan and it is a rural pub full of character.

You always end up having a chat with someone sitting beside you or while standing at the bar; a euro bet is commonplace to add some competition at the pool table; and because we’re used to Dublin prices, our favorite game is, “Guess how much that round cost me?”

“You know it hasn’t changed much since we were kids,” I said to Mam last Sunday. Quick off the bat, she replied, “Sure it’s still the same since I was a child” – and that is part of its charm.

However, I’m conscious that busy days like this are very important in rural pubs to see them through the dark, empty evenings of winter.

There is no food served in Fishers, but they have an array of crisps that would put a small shop to shame. And in a clever move a few years ago, a pizza truck set up outside. With that, dinner was served and my kids went home with full bellies and mouths covered in tomato sauce.

When they were tucked in bed, my parents offered to babysit, so myself and himself walked down the country road once again for a more relaxed beer.

The music was kicking off, the rain was starting to come down again and we were lucky to get a seat (acquired because the lads we were talking to earlier were heading home). We clicked glasses to what had to be one of the most Irish August Bank Holiday Sundays.