Caliban - Opinion and Righteous Anger

There's a girl who's very happy to be home tonight and that's Eloïse . Her toys lie strewn across the floor, she's been racing around on her wooden bike, and has been beaming from ear to ear since the moment she got through the door.

It was six weeks ago to the day that we embarked on our summer trip. That was long enough ago that I'm flicking the wrong light switches and looking in the wrong cupboards for drinking glasses.

We covered more than 5000 km over the last six weeks, 20% of that in the last three days, just getting home. It was a great trip, but, as good as it was, I'm also glad to be home.

Poor old Lucas . Before this trip, the furthest he'd been in a car was Schiphol airport. He probably didn't have more than 50 km under his belt when we left. Now he's seen Ireland and Northern Ireland, plus selected bits of England and Wales.

It was another long drive today. We took an earlier train than planned through the Channel Tunnel and made good progress from Calais into Belgium until an accident somewhere near Bruges slowed us down for a good half hour.

Lucas needed regular attention, but was nowhere near as fussy as the last couple of days, so we didn't have to stop as much en route.

Things started to choke up around Antwerp -- a lot of people were coming back from their holidays -- so that was as good a moment as any to take a break. We dropped in at a Quick, the Belgian variety of fast-food burgers, primarily to let Eloïse pee, but then she noticed their admittedly fantastic playing area and asked -- no, demanded -- to play there.

That sealed our fate. Bad burgers and a ninety minute delay ensued. Still, our little girl emerged as happy as Larry, having shaken off some of her energy.

The rest of the drive was dull and uneventful. The roads were busy, but thankfully there weren't too many caravans or other slow moving vehicles. We eventually arrived home at around 18:30 and Lucas woke up on cue.

Mountains of post awaited us, along with countless hours of television recordings. There's a lot of stuff to catch up on.

Eloïse goes back to peuterspeelzaal tomorrow afternoon and is very excited at the prospect.

Lucas , if only he knew that all of the driving was over for the foreseeable future, would also, I'm sure, be elated.

It really is great to get back. I've never really had a holiday before that I was glad to get back from; and that says nothing about the quality of this one, which was terrific.

Rather, it says more about the fact that, these days, we have a home we both love, plus a daughter who is also very attached to her home and belongings. I suppose we're a lot more settled these days than we used to be. After four weeks away from home, I didn't really feel it all that much, but in the last few days I've been looking forward to getting home. Perhaps that's just because I knew that's what we had planned for ourselves; I don't know.

Thanks to Fenella, Tim, Cameron, Willow, Lucy, Toby, Tony, Bernie, Ronan, Shane and Jason for making our stays with you such a memorable experience. I'm sure we'll be back.

I rather underestimated the leg of the journey from Opa Tony's house to Cardiff.

With more than a tinge of sadness, we left Opa Tony's around 11:00 and headed south on the N11 to Rosslare. In spite of a slew of slowcoaches on the single lane stretches, we made fairly good time and were able to stop off on the way in Ennischorthy (Inis Córthaidh) for lunch.

Our 15:00 sailing from Rosslare became our 15:45 sailing from Rosslare. I should have checked the sailing times before we left. Still, it wasn't a major delay.

The boat arrived in Fishguard at 18:00 instead of 17:00 and we were one of the last cars off, due to having been boarded in the last nook of the boat that could have a car stashed in it. The catamarans may be faster than the normal boats, but they're much less convenient for loading cars.

Anyway, we rolled off the ferry around 18:15 and began the drive to Cardiff, which was a good couple of hours away to the east. I began to wonder about the wisdom of my decision not to have us simply overnight in Fishguard.

Lucas , as is so often the case, gave our driving plans short shrift. With both lungs, he gave loud voice to his objections, forcing us off the road in Llanddewi Velfrey for a pub supper.

Rather unusually, Lucas wouldn't settle after dinner, so it was a very unpleasant, teeth-gnashing, mouth-foaming, white-knuckle ride, rife with interruptions, all the way to junction 33 of the M4, where our lovely Travelodge room lay waiting within the confines of the Moto M4 services area. We finally arrived at 23:00 with both children finally asleep.

Travelodge: I can't really recommend them. I would say you get what you pay for, but they're actually not all that cheap, so you don't.

The plumbing of the shower, when turned on, made sounds like a battle-weary submarine taking on water. There are no toiletries provided, either; a fact that didn't actually catch us unawares, as I'd read their FAQ when I made the booking.

The room was inexplicably hot and the window didn't open more than a slit.

Our family room was a joke. Eloïse 's bed was a lousy, uncomfortable sofa that didn't even pull out into a makeshift bed. Sheets and a duvet were provided, though, so we quickly made it up as a bed for her.

Mercifully, our bed was actually very comfortable, so we did get a good night's sleep, which is the most important thing after a day like the one we'd had.

A notice on the bathroom door informed us that we could opt to leave our used towels on the rack instead of on the floor if we were staying multiple days. This would be taken as a sign that we were happy to reuse our towels and didn't require new ones.

Tempting, though it was, to stay multiple days and explore all of the many attractions vying for our attention at junction 33 of the M4, we elected to continue our onward journey as planned.

Travelodge offers no breakfast, but it's just as well really, when you think about it. Besides, having slept at the motorway services area, we were ideally situated to choose between all kinds of other really bad food from renowned purveyors of haute cuisine such as Burger King and Costa Coffee.

Breakfast was predictably poor, but therefore also not a disappointment.

It was to be another lamentably bad driving day.

Lucas was not going to grant us the miracle of a multi-hour nap, the way he had when we had driven from Cornwall to Cardiff many weeks earlier.

The weather was bad, too; quite atrocious, in fact. It was to rain without abatement for the entire day. Not one moment, throughout the entire journey from Wales to the far south-east of England, did the rain let up. This made motorway driving conditions less than ideal at best, and really quite hazardous at various points along the way.

Somewhere just inside England on the M4, some tosser had jack-knifed the caravan he had been towing, leaving his car with its back end raised in the air and his caravan on its side with all of its windows smashed.

That little episode landed us in a traffic jam that took 50 minutes to clear, adding the better part of an hour to a journey time we already knew would be long.

Suffice to say, that there were to be many encounters with rest-stops, motorway services and petrol stations, all under the umbrella of Lucas appeasement.

We eventually rolled into Folkestone at 17:25, Lucas finally having slept for the last 150 km of the drive. Any doubts I might have had about whether we should have tackled the drive from Fishguard to Cardiff yesterday had long since dispersed, as I realised what a long day today would have been if we had also had to do that leg on top of everything else. I don't think any of us, least of all Lucas , could have dealt with the extra driving. Poor fellow.

Seven hours after our arrival, it's still pouring with rain and there's a strong wind blasting at the windows of our room. I hope things improve tomorrow, but the forecast gives little cause for jollification.

The Channel Tunnel is just 5 km from here. We'll take that in the morning and drive up towards Amsterdam in the afternoon.

Eloïse was certainly surprised to be met by Opa Tony again today. On the drive up from Kilkenny, she had started to talk about what she would do the next time that she saw Opa Tony, but little did she know that it would be the very same day.

It's been a lovely day, catching up with Tony, Bernie and my new brothers; the perfect end to a great trip, really.

Tomorrow, we head for home, which is a long way from here. With about 1200 km to cover, including a ferry crossing and the Channel Tunnel, we won't be getting home tomorrow (or even the next day).

We'll spend tomorrow night somewhere just off the M4 in a motorway services Travelodge hotel near Cardiff.

The next night, we'll be in Folkestone, just around the corner from the channel tunnel.

Sunday will be the final leg of our trip, as we cross through the tunnel and then drive from Calais to Amsterdam.

It's been a great trip, but I am looking forward to getting home and sleeping in my own bed. Eloïse , too, is looking forward to playing with her toys and returning to play-school.

This posting probably signals my last whiff of Internet access until we reach home.

The woman who ran the guesthouse we stayed in last night told me that Americans usually account for 70% of her business. This year, however, they stayed away in droves, because of the weak dollar. Americans literally can't afford to leave the US.

On top of that, it's been a bad summer so far. The combination of poor meteorological and economic conditions has badly hit Irish tourism. It's probably the same story all over Europe.

In Kilkenny, you could be forgiven for not noticing that tourist numbers are down. Tourists appear to be everywhere; and plenty of them sound American, too.

Kilkenny (Cill Chainnigh) is a delight. It's Ireland's smallest city, both by area and population. In terms of charm and appeal, however, it wins hands down from the likes of Dublin and Cork.

The main tourist draws here are St. Canice's Cathedral and Kilkenny Castle (Caisleán Chill Chainnigh), but whilst those are both very nice, the most pleasurable experience can be had for free, sauntering along the city's mediaeval streets, taking in the many nice buildings and the pleasant, unforced atmosphere.

In short, Kilkenny is the real thing. No tourist itinerary should be without it.

Tomorrow, it's back to Greystones (Na Clocha Liatha) in Co. Wicklow (Contae Chill Mhantáin) for one final day with Opa Tony, Oma Bernie and the three uncles. We've kept it a secret from Eloïse , who is going to be bowled over when we roll up outside their front door and she realises where she is. I daresay the family will be happy to see her, too.

And that will round off our Irish trip. On Friday, we'll drive south to Rosslare (Ros Láir) and catch the ferry back to Fishguard in Wales. And thus begins the long journey homeward.

I'd write more, but the battery on my laptop is about to peg out and I have to sit near the door to our room in order to pick up the wireless signal. Unfortunately, there's no plug socket here.

Here we are in Cashel (Caiseal Mumhan) in Co. Tipperary (Contae Thiobraid Árann). It took only an hour to get here from Cork, thanks to the recently opened M8 motorway. Even the extra weight of another Garnish House mega-breakfast couldn't slow our pace.

Cashel is a pleasant little town. There's not much going on, but it's small and has an undeniable appeal. It has more than its fair share of cosy little places to eat and drink, but since we're only here for one night, there's no time to explore them all.

After dumping our bags at the guest-house, we walked down the hill into town. Thankfully, the rain that had started in Cork and followed us all the way to Cashel had now subsided. giving way to very muggy air.

The Rock of Cashel (Carraig Phadraig) is more than worth a visit. It really does dominate the town, perched as it is, towering over the streets below.

The various buildings are in astonishingly good condition, which is surprising, given that most of them are around 700 years old. It's not hard to imagine the bishops, going about their daily duties in and around these buildings.

There are even bits of fresco remaining in places, although these are in very poor condition, indeed. Given their age, though, it's amazing that anything is left at all.

Dinner was at the wonderful Chez Hans, a restaurant in a converted church. The ambience is lovely, the food even better.

Tomorrow sees us drive to Kilkenny (Cill Chainnigh) in the county of the same name.

So, I was right. Cork (Corcaigh) is a bit dreary; a bit drab. It looks rather like I expected Limerick to look from reading about it, which is why we skipped that town on this trip.

On the plus side, we found fabulous coffee and hot chocolate at Ó Conaill's. We also managed to park the car for free in the heart of the city, because it's a bank holiday Monday here.

Really, the most memorable thing about our stay in Cork has been the Garnish House, the place where we're staying. More specifically, their breakfasts are deservedly legendary.

You start with the house speciality, porridge with honey and Bailey's Irish Cream. Next up is a full Irish, an omelette or any one of a large selection of cooked offerings.

If you clear your plate of that lot, they come around with pancakes and maple syrup. I haven't even mentioned the big basket of toast and scones, nor the large selection of juices and cereals. They even have goji berries here.

They even whip out the chocolate cake and scones for you when you arrive. I could barely eat dinner yesterday evening after the welcome they laid on for us.

At least if you come to Cork, you won't starve.

Tomorrow, we head to Cashel (Caiseal Mumhan), site of the allegedly dramatic Rock of Cashel (Carraig Phadraig).

Ennistymon (Inis Diomáin) is a bit of a dud. The Cascades are worth a look, yes, but there's not much else to do in town. It's probably the dullest location we've stayed in on this trip.

Which isn't to say it's completely without merit. As stated above, the Cascades are nice and it's as good a stop-over location as any other, but I can see no reason anyone would choose to stay here a second night.

The grand surroundings of our hotel gave rise to expectations that the interior experience would dismally fail to meet or even approach.

The Falls Hotel is a bit of a shambles, really, which is a great shame. Given its grandiose setting, it could be fantastic, but the reality is sadly otherwise.

The Falls needs some love and attention. The air-conditioning in our room didn't work and the western exposure meant the sun had been heating up our room all afternoon. With sunset around 21:50, it would be quite a while before our room dropped to a pleasant temperature.

We called down to reception, of course, to have someone look at it, but the woman they sent upstairs knew less about air-conditioning than we did. I asked her instead if we could have a fan and, several minutes later, she emerged with a fan that had less cooling power than one of those AA-battery operated hand-held pen-like affairs. It would have been more effective to stand next to the flapping wings of a butterfly.

As the evening wore on, a smell began to emanate from the bathroom. By midnight, the smell had reached stench status and I began to suspect that the previous occupant of the room may have been a murderer who had buried his latest victim somewhere in the bathroom. It was too late to do much about it, though, and the smell was nowhere near as pungent in our room, so I ignored it and went to bed.

The next day, it became clear that the source of the malodorous bathroom lay somewhere down the drain of the shower. Turning on the water provided relief, which was handy, because I needed to shower. God knows what's going on down that drain. A dead body surely can't smell much worse.

At breakfast, the restaurant staff were running around like headless chickens. Our waitress asked us if we wanted tea or coffee and then disappeared behind the cooked breakfast counter to dish up sausages and bacon to guests.

When I enquired with another woman where I could find slices of bread, I was told that toast would be coming out with our coffee order. She was then informed by our now former waitress, who was within earshot, that she had passed on our order for coffee to a harried looking young man by the entrance to the restaurant. He said that he had given our order to "a lady", however, so the woman I had addressed with my enquiry now went into the kitchen and emerged a couple of minutes later with some toast, which she placed on my tray, stating that she didn't know which table to take it to.

My tray, by the way, was sticky and dirty with the spillage of its previous lender. Dirty trays were being taken from the breakfast tables and placed back at the front of the cooked breakfast area for new guests to use. No bastard was giving the things a quick once-over with a dishcloth first!

Let me tell you about the orange juice, too.

It was being served in shot glasses. Well, 'served' is the wrong word, because you had to help yourself from one of those vat-with-tap affairs; not that I mind that one bit, you understand. What bothered me was the shot glasses. I mean, we're not talking the lovely freshly-squeezed, mucho-Euro per glass variety of orange juice here. No, I'm talking about your common-or-garden, bargain-basement, pasteurised, no-pulp, watery old shite; the kind of stuff that you'd urinate within an hour if you were to eat a few fresh oranges.

And that's what they gave you shot glasses to conserve. Really.

No item too trivial to blog about here, but you'd probably already noticed that.

Anyway, I complained and got €40 knocked off the bill. The hotel manager turned out to be the hapless restaurant manager from downstairs, who I had last seen replacing our original waitress on the cooked food counter. You know things are in disarray when one character is trying to man at least three posts simultaneously.

He made the kind of remarks that one has come to expect from people in the service industry, such as, "It's very hard to please everyone", to which I replied that I'd be very surprised if any of his guests were pleased by a foul-smelling room.

As Sarah would say, "What-ev-urr."

The drive to Dingle (An Daingean) was very scenic. To avoid a large amount of inland dual-carriageway that would take us close to Limerick, we took a ferry from Killimer to Tarbert, which knocked quite a bit of time off our journey.

I had expected Dingle to be charming, but sleepy; rather like Roundstone (Cloch na Rón). It turned out to be a joy, however. The drive down the Dingle Peninsula (Corca Dhuibhne) was a pleasure from start to finish, throwing up one lush, green, undulating landscape after another.

The town of Dingle, too, was as lively as it was lovely. In the heart of Gaeltacht country, the streets were bustling with tourists and locals.

I was smitten. The place has a nice atmosphere and hasn't sold out to tourism, although it clearly thrives on it. Indeed, we had trouble finding a place to eat and eventually had to settle for an unassuming little pub, which turned out to serve up delicious Guinness-and-beef stew.

As a home owner and someone who's interested in the housing market in general, it's impossible to resist looking in estate-agents' windows when I'm out and about; especially when I fall for a new place the way I did for Dingle.

The have some beautiful properties for sale around Dingle. Robert Mitchum's former home is up for grabs and very nice it looked, too. Prices are reasonable, at least by Amsterdam standards -- and they're positively giving the stuff away if Dublin is your frame of reference -- although I'm sure the born-and-bred locals would beg to differ. One can only wonder how much the holiday home market is serving to erode the Gaeltacht nature of this area, too.

The next day, we stayed as long as we could in Dingle, having lunch at Bee's Teas, before heading off for Ballinskelligs.

We would have really liked to see the area of the Dingle Peninsula west of Dingle itself, but there was no time. We also missed the Connor Pass.

At this point, we have enough missed locations on our list to enable a second tour of Ireland's coastline. I can't help but wonder if we've approached this all wrong. Perhaps we shouldn't have concerned ourselves with getting Eloïse back to Amsterdam for the start of the new school term and instead should have stayed in Ireland for the whole of August, too.

On the other hand, why try to see it all on a single trip? We still have the entire interior of the country left to see; not everything of interest is dotted along Ireland's coastline. And, with new-found family in Ireland, it's reasonable to assume we'll be back again, so there will almost certainly be future trips over here.

It's just that, the longer you're away, the more travel becomes your lifestyle; your perception changes and it becomes what you do on a day to day basis, not merely a break away from what you normally do. It feels completely natural now to be on the road every day, which is funny, because when we're at home in Amsterdam, planning for a trip, I feel so heavy with inertia that I wonder whether we'll ever actually embark on the trip. It just feels like so much work to prepare. Then, you hit the road and suddenly, it feels like the life you were meant to lead each and every day of your life.

Ballinskelligs (Baile na Sceilge) is located about half way down the famous Ring of Kerry loop, which is a 179 km circuit of the Iveragh Peninsula (Uíbh Ráthach). It provides the most stereotypically Irish-looking views of Ireland, from the perspective of a stereotypical touring coach passenger hoping to see the Ireland of their mind's eye.

Speaking of which, I must spare a few moments to burden you with my dichotomous views on Ireland's roads. From an environmentalist's standpoint, I love them. Virtually the entire island is connected by narrow, single-lane strips of tarmac. How wonderful that Ireland's lush, green landscape has not had to make way for swathes of ugly, car-carrying asphalt.

Unfortunately, though, I have to drive on these bloody things, too. From the standpoint of someone who sometimes has considerable distances to cover, sometimes had a screaming baby in the back of the car or at least a baby who might wake up and scream at any moment, and someone who cut his teeth on narrow, winding country roads, driving here is a bane.

Tractors, coaches and over-laden lorries carrying bales of hay all serve to get my goat. Far worse, however, are the hordes of car-renting tossers who are either too timid or talentless to overtake the aforementioned obstacles.

You can easily spot them, driving along with number-plates that start with 07-D or 08-D, denoting that the car was registered in Dublin in the last couple of years. That's where they all pick up their hire car before making a beeline to wherever I happen to be to get in my way.

You can sit behind these people for what seems like an eternity before an opportunity presents itself to safely overtake sometimes several of them in a row, plus whatever farmyard vehicle they happen to be trailing.

Still, rant aside, the environmentalist in me wins the day. I'd rather suffer the woes of the Irish road network than have the government add more of them or widen the ones they already have. May the needs of the car driver long remain subordinate to the preservation of nature and the control of pollution.

And so we found ourselves in Ballinskelligs, a mere speck on the map, but a speck with a very scenic beach, which Eloïse enjoyed immensely.

Ballinskelligs, too, is in a Gaeltacht area, although sometimes you can't quite be sure that you're hearing actual Irish as opposed to very heavily accented English.

The Ballinskelligs Inn, where we stayed, was, as the name suggests, also a pub; Cable O'Leary's Pub, it's called. The Lonely Planet guidebook suggests that the place had unreliable hot water and bad food. Right on both accounts!

Actually, the hot water supply, whilst iffy, was no worse than at many other places we've stayed, but rarely does a guidebook mention this detail. And it was only my starter and dessert that were really bad; my main course was actually quite tasty.

The next day, we drove along the second half of the Ring of Kerry. For the record, the scenery and views to the east of Ballinskelligs are definitely better than those to the west. In other words, the second half of the ring when going anti-clockwise is the more breathtaking by quite a margin.

That said, much of the Ring is actually not that spectacular. Large chunks of it weave along narrow roads with high banks of shrubs and bushes, so there's not much to see. When the road opens up, however, which is most often along the stretches that follow the coast, the views are simply stunning.

With the Ring of Kerry behind us, we arrived in Killarney (Cill Airne), a nice enough town, but unremarkable aside from its fortuitous proximity to other interesting things. We slowly ambled around town and then took Eloïse to a playground.

On any given day, Eloïse requires that we visit any or all of the following:

• a church
• a beach
• a playground
• a place that sells ice-cream

Most days, we manage at least one of those. Why a church? you may wonder. Because they have "lovely things", she says. When I enquired what kind of lovely things, she told me "benches where I can sit down and read my books."

And so to today.

This morning, we went to the Killarney National Park and took a boat-trip across the Lough Leane (Loch Léin), right next to Ross Castle (Caisleán an Rois). It was a pleasant way to spend an hour, but the scenery wasn't all that striking. The high point was when the boat passed close to Inisfallen Island, where the remains of a 6th century abbey can clearly be seen.

Just as we arrived back on land, the heavens opened and we rushed back to the car. We drove back to Killarney and had lunch in town.

After lunch, we started the drive to Cork, but Lucas clearly wasn't in agreement and so this leg of our journey soon became hellish.

En route to Cork, we turned off and headed for Blarney (An Bhlárna), site of the famous castle, itself home to the even more famous Blarney Stone.

Once there, we paid the exorbitant €10 entrance fee, walked to the castle and ascended the spiral staircase. Amazingly -- it's a bank holiday weekend here -- there was no queue to kiss the stone, so we prostrated ourselves, pursed our lips and joined the ranks of countless other idiotic tourists.

After a walk through the Rock Close gardens, it was time to head to our hotel in Cork.

My first impressions of Cork (Corcaigh) aren't great. It looks a bit grim and grey at first sight, but we'll know more tomorrow when we go exploring. We're staying in Cork for two nights, which is a relief after four consecutive one-night stays.

The drive today was from Galway to Ennistymon and carried us past the famous Cliffs of Moher (Aillte an Mhothair). Naturally, we stopped off there to walk along the cliffs, take photos and grab a quick bite to eat.

It was a lovely sunny day today, at least in the morning. The cliffs were at their best and the Aran Islands were clearly visible across the sea.

Just before reaching Ennistymon, we passed through Liscannor (Lios Ceannúir), a town where Sarah stayed about ten years ago when she was on a long weekend break with a colleague. We found the B & B and pub that she so fondly remembered, but the pub served no food and so we continued to our final stop for the day.

Ennistymon (Inis Diomáin) doesn't have a lot going on. The main attraction comes in the shape of the rapids of the River Inagh, called the Cascades. These murky brown waters roar quite impressively past the town, forming a nice backdrop for a couple of hotels and eateries, ours included.

We're spending just one night here. Tomorrow sees us travel further south to the town of Dingle (An Daingean), located on the peninsula of the same name in Co. Kerry (Contae Chiarraí).

Dingle is located in a Gaeltacht area, which should be a fun experience.

We've made it as far as Galway (Gaillimh) and we're at the end of a two day stay here.

The drive from just outside of Donegal Town to Roundstone (Cloch na Rón) took us past some fantastic scenery and into the heart of Connemara (Conamara).

It also took us past the majestic Kylemore Abbey, where we certainly would have liked to stop if we'd had more time. That remains for a return trip.

Roundstone is a lovely little town with a picturesque harbour. We stayed at the equally lovely St. Joseph's B & B and had dinner at O'Dowd's Restaurant, who served up some very tasty fish.

Roundstone and the surrounding area turned out to have problems with their water quality. This has apparently been the situation since at least March, which is when residents were first informed.

The problem is that there are trace quantities of cryptosporidium in the water. Other than diarrhoea, this stuff's not going to do you much harm, but the advice was to boil water before use, even for brushing teeth. Thankfully, the landlady of our B & B had laid on bottles of boiled water on each landing.

Roundstone is on the edge of an Irish-speaking region and, sure enough, when we left the next day, it was only a few minutes before we passed the unmistakeable An Gaeltacht sign at the side of the road, denoting that we were entering an area where Irish is the primary language.

It was another beautiful drive. As usual, we went out of our way to take a scenic route along the coast.

Galway is a breath of fresh air after Dublin, the only other large city we've been to in the republic. It hasn't yet sold its soul to commercialism, although one has to wonder whether Galway isn't also destined for chronic dilution by the tsunami of globalisation (or the voracious appetite of the Celtic Tiger, if you prefer). The city has already swollen past its borders and partially subsumed the adjacent Gaeltacht area, which means that house prices are rising and native Irish speakers are having to leave the area and settle in other, invariably English-speaking areas. This is obviously bad for the indigenous language.

Cities all over the world are afflicted by the same plight. It seems that anywhere worth living is, sooner or later, destined to become a victim of its own success, as people and commerce flock to it. Galway is very strongly affected, though, and is Ireland's fastest growing city. It's not hard to see why.

Anno 2008, Galway is still a lovely place, full of charming little cafés with terraces from which to bask in the sun (assuming you see any), and pubs galore, most of which play host to traditional Irish music most days of the week.

It's really busy here this week, because the Galway Races are taking place. It's the busiest week of the year for the city and finding a hotel was quite hard.

The weather remains hit or miss. We've had a couple of good soakings over the last couple of days, but we don't let it dampen our spirits.

Tomorrow, we leave for Ennistymon (Inis Diomáin) in Co. Clare (Contae an Chláir).

We now have the rest of our trip mapped out and hotels reserved for all but one night of our stay. We've also booked our return ferry crossing from Rosslare to Fishguard and our tunnel crossing from Folkestone to Calais.

This aspect is, without a doubt, the single biggest pain in the arse of determining one's route on a day by day basis, as opposed to planning and booking the whole trip at home before one's bags are even packed. It can take a lot of research and many phone calls to book just a single night's accommodation. That's what you get for wanting a dynamic holiday, smack bang in the middle of high season.

I suspect we won't have Internet access again until 3rd August, but we may get lucky in the interim.

We've been on the road for a month now, but to me, it feels like much less. I definitely don't feel as if I've been away from home for some 30 days. Another dozen or so and then we'll be back in Amsterdam, the school summer holiday behind us.

Like the weather, Lucas continues to be hit or miss on this trip. Sometimes, we can drive 300 km with nary a peep out of him. Other days, 75 km is a painful, drawn-out activity.

Eloïse has taken to calling Lucas the grunt-rabbit. We have no idea why. Similarly, she has started calling herself the toverschaap (magic sheep), me the hippopotamus (but since today, the elephant), and Sarah the froggie. We have no idea which, if any, associations these names have for her.

Since I last wrote, we've covered quite a bit of ground.

After leaving Belfast, we drove north, continuing our anti-clockwise tour of the island.

The northern coast is lovely. As soon as you leave Belfast, you arrive in Carrickfergus (Carraig Fhearghais) and find yourself on the coast. The scenery only gets better from that point forward.

We stopped at the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, a 20m long, 1m wide construction that spans the chasm between the sea cliffs and the tiny island of Carrick-a-Rede. It's a must-see/must-do kind of experience.

The views along the 20 minute walk from the car park are stunning and, even though you'll probably need to queue to cross the bridge when you get to it, it's well worth braving the hordes for.

That evening, we stayed at the Causeway Hotel, located right next to the cliffside walk that leads to the world-famous Giant's Causeway (Clochán na bhFómharac). There was no time that day to see the causeway, though; the plan was to spend the night in close proximity, thereby giving ourselves a good chance to get down there ahead of the masses the next morning.

The plan worked. The Causeway Hotel could have been a better experience; the rooms are in need of some attention and the same could be said to apply to the table service. It's a grand old building, though, with the potential to be a fantastic place to stay, rather than just a place to stay.

Anyway, the cliffside walk to the Giant's Causeway the next day afforded us fantastic views of the causeway down below. Even by the time we got down there, it was only busy, not yet swarming with people.

When the left the hotel's car park to continue our journey, attendants were not letting any more cars enter the causeway car park, because it was full to bursting and new cars were arriving every minute. If you don't get there before lunch, you're too late.

The weather had turned, too, and it had started to drizzle. Our cliffside walk and time on the causeway had been in the sun, a rare treat on this trip.

Lunch was in a fabulous little place, just up the road in Ballintoy (Baile an Tuaigh) harbour. I think it was called Roark's Kitchen. I had a delicious Irish stew there, followed by a delicious piece of lumpy bumpy, a creamy cake.

At the end of the day, we arrived in Derry, a.k.a. Londonderry (Doire). There was some kind of international youth football tournament going on that week, so we'd had a hard time finding a hotel. Consequently, we were staying a few kilometres out of town.

We didn't get to see Derry until the next morning, but what a lovely surprise it was.

Derry is a charming walled city, with a very chequered history. From the Siege of Derry to 1969's three day Battle of the Bogside, this city has seen a lot of strife. Like Belfast, it had a more or less recurring spot on the evening news when I was growing up; and what was being reported, of course, was never positive.

I wanted to drive over to the Bogside district, so I set the sat-nav for the junction of Fahan Street and Rossville Street and off we went.

As with the Falls and the Shankhill in West Belfast, what immediately strikes you is how close the Bogside is to the centre of town. almost all of what was the Bogside at the height of The Troubles is now gone; only a gable daubed with the slogan You Are Now Entering Free Derry still stands.

Plaques abound here, many placed to mark the death of someone murdered by the British Army on that very spot. All too often, the plaque's text details the shooting of a child.

Murals abound here, some placed by the IRA, but most these days painted by the Bogside Artists. These murals are very striking and a real treat to behold. Most of them commemorate key events during The Troubles, such as Bloody Sunday and Operation Motorman.

Bloody Sunday is the notorious day on 30th January 1972 that the British army opened fire on unarmed civilian demonstrators, murdering fourteen of them. Many of them were shot in the back as they attempted to flee the mayhem. Six of them were aged only seventeen. This is the subject of U2's well known song, Sunday Bloody Sunday. No-one was ever held accountable for the shootings.

The Bloody Sunday Monument subtly commemorates this tragic event, which not only directly caused the death of so many innocent people, but also indirectly caused the death of many more, by causing the ranks of the IRA to swell with new volunteers.

Just across the street is a stone monument to the IRA hunger strikers. It's H-shaped, representative of cell block H, which is the infamous wing of the prison where the inmates were held.

I spent quite a bit of time at the Bogside Artists Studio, talking to one of the artists. He was quite the raconteur and regaled us with eye-widening tales of his life during The Troubles. One can only try to imagine what it must have been like to see what he saw and experience what he did.

That was our last day in Northern Ireland. The next day, we crossed back into the republic and headed north west to Dunfanaghy (Dún Fionnachaid), a small town right on the coast of Co. Donegal.

Dunfanaghy is beautiful; there's no two ways about it. New houses are being built everywhere, as demand for the views around here must be high. Who knows if they're actually being sold any more, though? The housing slump has supposedly hit Ireland very hard.

The next day, we drove south along a long and winding route that took us over the amazingly beautiful Glengesh Pass and to the breathtakingly sheer Slieve League (Sliabh Liag) cliffs, the latter of which are quite reminiscent of parts of Iceland and the Faroe Islands (which is hardly surprising, when you think about it).

This long, long (or so it felt) drive brought us to the outskirts of Ragh(e)y, a small place just outside of Donegal Town (Dún na nGall). We're staying at Coxtown Manor, a hideaway recommended to me by my good friend and former office-mate, Peter. This lovely old manor house is charming, atmospheric and, above all, quiet. It's set well back from the road and is a veritable oasis of tranquility.

The place is run by a Fleming, so the food is an interesting mix of Belgian and Irish cuisine. The room rates, however, are overpriced for what you get; and dinner yesterday was a drawn-out affair, at which we were severely under-dressed, although no-one seemed to care. Eloïse ended up going to bed far too late, so we opted out of dinner this evening and had it in Donegal Town instead.

Our bed, too, creaks and squeaks like a rusty hinge and the Manor's Web site misleadingly suggests that all of the rooms have Internet access, which is most certainly not the case. I have to sit in the bar in order to post this entry.

But the Internet is not why we're here and it's only for a couple of nights, anyway. Mostly, we just need sporadic access in order to book hotels a couple of nights ahead. Don't forget that we're in high season on this trip, and booking hotels just a couple of days in advance in the most popular regions of Ireland is proving tricky.

Tomorrow, we drive on through the counties of Sligo (Contae Shligigh) and Mayo (Contae Mhaigh Eo) to the small town of Roundstone (Cloch na Rón). It's a long drive, which will place us squarely on the west coast of Ireland.

We feel that we're moving around Ireland too quickly to be able to do it justice, but we've opted to do that instead of touring a smaller area more intensively. After all, we don't know when we'll be back.

Another reason for the pace is the weather, which hasn't been great. Today was sunny again, but we can count the sunny days over the last few weeks on one hand. Most days see some rain, but it's mostly confined to passing showers. We're thankful for small mercies; we could be rained out completely. We're more or less used to the cloudy days and mild temperatures. Today's 21°C or so felt several degrees warmer to us.

So, it's with regret that we can't spend at least a few nights in each county, including the inland ones, where far fewer tourists are found. We would have also liked to get out to the Aran Islands (Oileáin Árann) and some of the others, such as Tory Island (Toraigh), but the weather is too unpredictable and you need a few days on these islands to do them justice. That's time we simply don't have, as we do need to get back to Amsterdam some time around 10th August.

Still, that leaves us with another couple of weeks to take in some more sights, so we have little to complain about.

It's been a good stay in Belfast; mostly dry.

Tomorrow, we move on and head to the famous Giant's Causeway (Clochán na bhFómharach).

We'll overnight in the area and then move on to Derry (Doire) (a.k.a. Londonderry) for a couple of nights. We'll probably have no access to the Internet until at least after Derry.

The drive from Dublin to Belfast took most of the day, due to a long stop in Brú na Bóinne.

Brú na Bóinne is one of Europe's largest and most important megalithic sites, and contains 60% of all the neolithic art known to exist in Europe. As such, we just had to stop and take in the two sites that are open to the public, namely Knowth (Cnobha) and Newgrange (Dún Fhearghusa).

A small bus takes you back and forth from the visitor centre to each site. At Knowth, you get to go on top of the main mound, whilst at Newgrange, you actually get to go inside the main one. You can visit just one site, but I recommend going to both if you have the time.

You do need plenty of time, though. We didn't leave the visitor centre until about 18:00, which meant that it would be 20:00 before we reached Belfast (Béal Feirste) and the Ten Square Hotel. The road ahead was mostly dual carriageway, but also included fairly long sections in which it receded to single lane traffic.

A few kilometres outside of Belfast, we joined the M1 and that brought us speedily into the city. Given the lateness of the hour, we opted for dinner at the hotel's own restaurant, the extremely popular and loud Grill Room. In spite of the noise, I recommend the restaurant, as the food and service were very good. The atmosphere was really nice, too.

We knew we'd be arriving in Belfast in the evening, which is why we've booked three nights here in total. That effectively gives us two complete days in which to tour the city.

And so to Belfast, a city whose very name, as I was growing up on the British mainland -- a place that may as well have been a million miles away -- conjured up images in my mind of war-torn streets patrolled by British soldiers, burning cars, children killed by plastic bullets, dereliction and despair.

Not now, though. If you never left the city centre, you might never suspect what went on here until just a few years ago. You don't have to go far, though, to find the smouldering remains of a feud that is merely dormant, not dead.

We took one of the now famous black taxi cab tours of West Belfast this morning. Our taxi was actually white, but it didn't seem to have an impact on the quality of the tour.

The first thing that strikes you as an outsider is just how close the troubled Catholic and Protestant neighbourhoods actually are to the centre of the city. From the town hall, you could walk to them in half an hour; 45 minutes tops.

Even if you felt inclined to walk, however, or had your own vehicle like us, taking a taxi is definitely the better option. It may also be the most expensive option, with tours at around £25 - £35, but what you're paying for is not the view from the car window or the opportunity to get out and take photos. No, the unique selling point of the tour is that the background to the troubles is contextualised in a way that only a local could. You get the facts, the background and the perspective of someone who lived through the troubles on either the Catholic or Protestant side of the fence.

And I'm not talking about a figurative fence, either. As soon as you head west from the centre, the ominous and forbidding peace lines loom up as a backdrop to the houses. It's an utterly bizarre sight.

Then, just as you're thinking about what it means to live in segregation on one side of the wall, you realise you're on the Falls Road (Bóthar na bhFál), the main thoroughfare through the west of the city and the very heart of the republican Catholic community.

The taxi stops and you find yourself looking at republican murals. Many of them relate directly to the conflict, but many of them pledge solidarity with other groups seen to be similarly oppressed, such as the ETA and the Palestinians.

Further on up the road, a mural depicting the unmistakeable face of Bobby Sands looms up on the right. It quickly becomes apparent that the mural graces the side of Sinn Féin's headquarters. The Irish tricolour ripples in the breeze.

A right turn and just a few metres up the road lies one of the gates through the peace line. Through that opening lies the neighbourhood of the loyalist Protestant community.

The gates that allow passage across the peace lines are all closed after dark, which supposedly allows each community to sleep more soundly, knowing that the other is locked in for the night. It's a fragile sense of security, though, because the peace lines merely draw a line between the two communities. It's still possible to go around the walls where they end.

It's another world on the other side of that gate. Unions Jacks fill your field of vision: on bunting banners across the Shankill Road (Bóthar na Seanchille) and on flagpoles affixed to people's houses. The Ulster Banner and other such flags are also prominently flown.

The reason for all of the flags and the red, white and blue painted kerb stones is the recent 12th July celebrations. The decorations typically remain in place until the end of August.

Driving around the side streets off Shankill Road, the surreality deepens. Mural after mural appears before you, some mild and poignant, others quoting Oliver Cromwell's calls for the extermination of Catholicism; and a few glorifying the murderous careers of deceased (of course), prominent loyalist thugs.

It's impossible for me to understand the maniacal hatred that leads anyone to glorify such figures.

Who is the oppressor and who is the oppressed? Are the IRA terrorists or freedom fighters? Is this terrorism, an ethnic conflict or a guerilla war? There seem to me to be few facts here, merely opinions.

Before you know it, you're back in the centre of Belfast, sanity has returned and all that lingers is a profound, saddening state of disbelief that ordinary men and women let it come to this.

The final balance: 3524 dead.

The rest of the day was spent walking around Belfast. It's a nice city, rejuvenated by large development projects that have regenerated large areas of the city; due in no small part to huge EU cash influxes. It seems they have spent the money wisely and it's all I can do to try to imagine how the city must have looked just ten or twenty years ago.

Tomorrow's our last day in Belfast before moving on. We haven't yet decided what to do tomorrow; nor, indeed, where we'll go when we leave Belfast.

One thing's for sure: this has been the highlight of the trip so far for me. What I saw and heard today brought to life a conflict that had always been very remote to me. I now feel affected by it, albeit it in a very small way compared to the people who actually lived through it.

After charming Dalkey, Dublin (Áth Cliath) was something of a disappointment. It's clearly a great place if you're looking for effervescent nightlife, but if you're there hoping to find breathtaking architecture on every corner or an abundance of pleasant walks through leafy scenery, well, then I hope you like nightlife, too.

Dublin is expensive; bafflingly so. I can see that the nightlife would be very appealing to some, but I see too little else to justify the stratospheric price of accommodation there. It really is extraordinarily expensive.

Incidentally, Ireland, in general, is very expensive; due in no small part to the high rate of VAT. About the only thing that is cheaper here than back home is petrol, priced at about €1.35 per litre.

We stayed at the Shelbourne, a luxury hotel in the heart of the city on St. Stephen's Green. The room, 370, was very comfortable, with a kingsize bed and enough room for a roll-away bed for Eloïse . The bathroom, too, was very nice.

If you fancy a splurge whilst in Dublin, I can highly recommend the Shelbourne. The staff are friendly, there are free cakes and lemonade at reception -- nice while you're checking in -- and the prices are reasonable, given the grandeur of the surroundings.

More or less my only complaint with the hotel -- and it's one that I have with a great many hotels these days -- is the extortionate price of WiFi. At €20 for 24 hours, they really are taking the piss. That's half a month of DSL in most countries.

Given that every major city now has many cafés that offer free Internet access, it's nothing more than a convenience to be able to access the Internet gratis from one's hotel room. In that regard, it's high time that hotels offered free access as a courtesy. Some do, of course, and ironically, it's usually the cheaper ones.

My one other complaint about the Shelbourne: it has a very stupid concierge. I'll spare you the details.

We spent most of our two days in Dublin just walking around the city, getting to know it.

Trinity College has some nice architecture, but we didn't fancy queueing or paying for a chance to file past the Book of Kells in lightning tempo. Therefore, we remained in the grounds outside.

The River Liffey is uninspiring, as are the buildings that line its banks. There's really very little one can say about it.

Dublin's architecture failed to capture my imagination. The aforementioned Trinity College is a notable exception, as is the Irish Bank, but even the Georgian buildings around St. Stephen's Green and the surrounding areas (such as Merrion Square) fail to impress; their flat, featureless brick walls failing to find redemption in the less austere and brightly coloured doorways.

One thing that's hard to fault about Dublin is the food. We atre very well throughout our stay. A notable plug goes to The Farm on Lower Dawson St. for its delicious organic food, although the desserts were surprisingly lacklustre. Not everyone agrees that the food is good.

A better bet for dessert is Busyfeet, whose sandwiches make them a good bet for lunch, too. To wash it all down, a cup of their cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso is heartily recommended.

For dinner, I recommend Odessa on Dame St., whose comfortable couches and dim lighting will have you completely relaxed by the time your food arrives.

It seems as if every building in Dublin now plays host to at least one person loitering outside, smoking. This has the effect of turning the city into one gigantic concrete ashtray. Every time you take a step in any direction, cigarette smoke fills your nostrils. It's as if the anti-smoking laws have turned the city inside out: you now have to enter a building to avoid the smoke. The streets and especially the café terraces are now the preserve of malodorous nicotine addicts.

It's good to see the capital city of any country, but it will come as no surprise to you to learn that I wouldn't want to live in Dublin. If only it were more visually attractive, I could forgive it most of what else is wrong. The truth is, though, that it's just too much of a concrete jungle. There is too little greenery and the busy, traffic-clogged streets are too reminiscent of London. Driving through Dublin can be hellish, as we discovered today when it came to leaving.

Apart from a few pedestrianised areas, the streets are also very unfriendly to pedestrians. Many busy junctions have no pedestrian crossings, and many others are burdened by traffic lights that require the patience of a saint. Almost everyone crosses on red, because waiting for green means needing a haircut by the time you get to the other side.

On the way out today, we drove along Merrion Road, through the well-heeled area of Ballsbridge. I had seen a few multi-million euro homes in an estate agent's window and was curious what that kind of money buys you in Dublin. The answer: not enough.

Again, it's hard to understand the appeal of Dublin, which must be huge to justify such monumental housing prices. I don't see it myself, but perhaps I just need to spend more time in the city, perhaps in the company of locals, who can show me a side of the city I'll never know as a tourist.

I wouldn't rule out a return visit, but it won't be high on my list.

I meant to mention this.

I spotted this on the side of a firm's van, while we were driving from Penryn to Cardiff.

Hyperbolic advertising has long since departed from the realm of the reasonable claim, but this tops everything, don't you think?

"Passionate about your laundry"? When? Before cleaning it? Whilst cleaning it? When sniffing it? After it has been cleaned?

Even one's own missus or mother is not passionate about our laundry, so how can some group of hired hands claim to be, just because they've been given the thankless task of getting the skiddies off our grundies for financial gain?

'Passionate': It's one of those once precious, yet now awful words that have been hijacked by the business world and redefined to mean 'someone who actually gives a shit about the job he's doing and takes pride in delivering a high quality product'.

Admirable, but it's hardly passion, is it?

I really don't like the idea of someone being passionate about my laundry. It makes me fear that my smalls may come back more in need of a wash than when I entrusted them to the other party's care.

Ugh.

Today, we went back to where it all began for me: Dún Laoghaire and St Michael's Hospital, the place where I was born.

From there, we drove to Sorrento Road in Dalkey (Deilginis), the site of the family home at the time I was born; and therefore the first house I ever lived in.

This is the very house that my father, Tony, came back to 41 years ago, expecting to find my mother and me still living there, as we had been doing. Only, the family had recently left the house without trace and it would be another 41 years before Tony finally managed to track me down again. Bizarre.

Tony was with us and it was quite an emotional moment for him to stand side by side with me outside that house.

Tony directed us around an area known locally as Paddywood, a play on Hollywood and the home of Ireland's rich and famous, including Bono, The Edge, Enya and Van Morrison.

The sun shone pretty much all day, which was perfect for enjoying the views across the sea from Dalkey.

Later in the day, we visited the Church of the Assumption, which is the church where I was christened.

We're heading off for two days in Dublin next, after a fantastic stay with the new family here. We probably won't have any access to e-mail whilst in Dublin.

The last couple of days have brought better weather.

We went to the beautiful historic site of Glendalough (Gleann Dá Loch) yesterday, which was basking in glorious sunshine. Glendalough is the site of a glacial valley, but there are also monastic ruins, lakes and other interesting features.

Parking took a while, as the site is incredibly popular with locals and tourists alike. Eventually, though, we did manage to park and then went to visit the ruins. Afterwards, we walked to the upper lake, which was flanked by beautiful, tree-studded hills.

Today was overcast, but very warm. We went to the village of Avoca (Abhóca), which rose to fame as the setting for the old BBC drama series, Ballykissangel.

The village itself isn't terribly interesting, but it's also the site of the oldest working woollen mill in Ireland, owned and run by the Avoca company, a.k.a. Avoca Handweavers. We had a good lunch at the mill's café and bought a couple of lamb's wool throws at the shop.

After the scenic drive back, we took Eloïse to Greystones beach, which she had been patiently asking for all day. A quick trip to the playground finished off the day and we returned home to a lovely dinner, prepared by Oma Bernie.

Our trips out and about have only spanned a few hours each day, leaving the larger part of the day for chatting and getting to know my half-brothers. Eloïse , too, has revelled in getting to know her uncles. She has warmed to them very quickly and loves to kick a football around the lawn with them.

Tomorrow will be our last day here for the foreseeable future. On Wednesday, we'll make a short hop northwards to the Irish capital, Dublin, and continue our journey there.

Penryn to Cardiff was an unpleasant drive in torrential rain. It literally didn't stop for a single moment. There was an accident on the M5, too, which slowed us down somewhat, but we arrived in Cardiff (Caerdydd in Welsh) in good time anyway, at about 14:15. Lucas slept the entire way.

Once at out hotel, we checked in and then went out again, to see what we could of the city. It continued to rain all afternoon, I'm sorry to say.

The next day, the weather was better, so, after a hearty breakfast, we went to the very well preserved Cardiff Castle. We managed to see all of that before the rain returned, leaving the afternoon free for ducking in and out of Cardiff's many Victorian arcades, which add quite a bit of character to an otherwise pleasant, but not terribly striking city.

Friday was the next big travel day, this time from Cardiff to Kilquade in Ireland, via the Fishguard to Rosslare (Ros Láir) ferry.

The drive to Fishguard was nice, passing through rolling Welsh hills and valleys. The occasional tractor formed the only annoyance. Again, Lucas was asleep for the entire journey.

The 3.5 hour ferry crossing was very pleasant, with surprisingly good food (albeit served slowly), activities for the children and -- most importantly of all -- calm waters.

On the Irish side, Lucas immediately became fussy and so we had to stop a number of times to sooth him.

We finally pulled into the driveway of Opa Tony and Oma Bernie's house at around 20:45. There was much excitement, so both Eloïse and Lucas ended up going to bed much too late, as, indeed, did their parents.

Meeting my three half-brothers was, of course, a unique experience. Eloïse is already warming to her three new uncles and enjoying the antics of Opa Tony.

The weather here isn't any better than in England and Wales, but, undeterred, we went for a long walk today around the neighbouring town of Greystones (or Na Clocha Liatha, as it's known in Irish) and its south beach.

Greystones is a pleasant little town, about 27 km from Dublin and in possession of most if not all of the things that our travelling party needs to survive: a good coffee shop, tasty baked goods and organic food. It's a good place to start the Irish leg of our tour.

We'll hang out here with the family for a few days before moving on. Nothing is planned for either the stay here or the days following it; we're still playing everything by ear.

Q: Where can you buy curry powder, a bass guitar, a carpet and a pair of rubber wellies, all under one roof?

A: Trago Mills.

Trago's has been around since I was a kid. Nothing has quite the same longevity or timeless appeal as discounted old tat.

Whereas many of the shops along Falmouth's main street have succumbed to the forces of time, Trago's is still going, and going stronger than ever, it would appear.

The weather has kept us from doing any major sightseeing over the last few days, so we've more or less shuttled between Falmouth and Truro, with excursions as far afield as Ponsanooth., Helston and even lovely little Helford.

Tim took us onto Culdrose helicopter base last Friday for an hour on the Merlin simulator. That was a lot of fun.

I managed to land the thing on an aircraft-carrier, but unfortunately only by crashing into its deck. Sarah crashed, too, so we won't be put in charge of one of these things any time soon.

Today is our last day in Cornwall. Tomorrow, we drive back along the route we came in on, to get to the Welsh capital of Cardiff. Strange as it may seem, I've never been to Wales before, so this will actually notch up another country.

After two nights in Cardiff, we'll drive to Fishguard, take the ferry to Rosslare in Ireland and then head north to Kilquade in County Wicklow (Contae Chill Mhantáin).

Our time in Cornwall has been great, in spite of the weather. If we'd been here merely as tourists, it wouldn't have been much fun, but we came mainly to see Fenella and the family, so it hasn't really mattered how bad the weather got (and it's been pretty bad).

It's always thought-provoking to visit this county, the place where I grew up. It's at once familiar, yet now so far removed from my life as to be essentially a strange, new place to visit.

And that's how it feels to be here: strange; genuinely foreign. There's no sense of having come home; just a peculiar feeling of powerful déjà vu; as if I'm looking at buildings and scenes from a vividly recalled dream. None of it feels very real to me; it's just a strange apparition of a life lived long ago.

We've driven past two houses in Falmouth that I used to live in, plus one in Penryn, one in Flushing and one in Truro. We could have gone to another in Redruth, but didn't. There are yet more of my former homes, in Portreath, Threemilestone, Goran Haven and Mevagissey, but I have no idea of the addresses. Eloïse has been very interested in her papa's old homes, bless her.

My family certainly did move around a lot.

The traffic is horrendous these days, especially in Truro. Parking has become difficult, with demand far outstripping supply; and very expensive, too. On top of that, the ticket machines don't accept credit cards and many car parks are of the pay-and-display variety, which means that you almost always end up paying for more time than you actually use. £4.80, I had to pay yesterday for a couple of hours in a multi-storey in Truro. Times have changed.

Most of all, it's odd to retread cobblestones and pavement that I once trod underfoot whilst holding my grandmother's hand, or whilst accompanying my grandfather on an errand. One almost expects them to emerge at any moment from one of the shops, frozen in time, looking just the way they did in the late seventies or early eighties.

Yes, being here really prickles the senses in ways that are not quite predictable or communicable. It'll obv