Well, the muse resides where the muse resides.  The weekend saw me Ibiza bound courtesy of an eye wateringly priced fare to Ryanair.  Browsing the cards in my local bookshop the day before I overheard three people talking behind me:  ‘Oh, they’re dreadful – herding people on like cattle – it’s almost inhuman’.  ‘But they do seem to be quite efficient?’ suggested the only man quietly, standing between the two ladies.  ‘What about the safety aspect?!’ a third lady retorted.  ‘What about that pilot that’s been in the news?’

I couldn’t help it, I had to interject: ‘I fly Ryanair and I find them quite good in terms of punctuality – you just have to behave – he’s got us all trained so well!’  The man chuckled but the lady who spoke last turned away in disgust.

Approaching the airport on the motorway, the first sign I saw to denote this was a massive yellow ‘RYANAIR’ rising tall into the sky – eclipsing any notification of whether we were at Gatwick, Stansted or anywhere else for that matter.

The gate number usually goes up five minutes before it closes however nobody, but nobody messes with this important time.  I hurried towards it, takeaway coffee and croissant in a bag swinging from one arm, wheeling my weekend case (where my handbag already resided) with the other hand.  Two men also moving at a steady pace were in conversation beside me: ‘You know I’ve heard they make the staff buy their own uniform!’ ‘You’re kidding’ said his mate.

We stood obediently in line waiting to board.  All around people were hurriedly stuffing smaller bags into bigger bags.  A man ran past, breathing heavily, to another yellow and blue gate – chancing it I fear. A member of staff walked by holding up what looked like a large homemade sign:  “Priority Boarding 10 euros” it read in big blue biro capitals on a piece of brown cardboard.

Mindful of one of Mr O’Leary’s more colourful quotes: ‘Anyone who thinks Ryanair flights are some sort of bastion of sanctity where you can contemplate your navel is wrong…’ I wondered if I could prove him otherwise.

My initial reverie certainly didn’t last long. The party was already in full swing for many of the gentlemen sitting in front of me wearing T-shirts with ‘Steve’s Stag’ written on them.  The drink was flowing and the decibels were rising.  The trolley came past with perfumes and sundry other items for sale:  ‘Waitress, waitress!’ said one of Steve’s stags, ‘Can we get some more beers here!’.  The demure elderly lady sitting to my right looked at me and smiled: ‘You know I’m so glad they’re charging a decent amount for the drinks on this flight; I visit my son in Slovenia often and they charge such a pittance on that route I’m surprised they make any profit at all’.  I looked at her, askance.

I turned to the in-flight magazine, and giggled at the captions as I turned over the pages of The Getaway Cafe: “There’s no extra charge to turn the page; Stuff made in a real kitchen; Meal Deal (don’t worry; there’s no fuel surcharge); Soft drinks and juices (because the toilets are still free!)” etc etc.

The by now familiar Ryanair trumpet fanfare rang out to announce that we had arrived 15 minutes ahead of schedule whereupon a collective cheer broke out. We walked down the steps into magnificent heat and sunshine.  A bus waited to take us to the terminal building.  My new travelling companion turned to me: ‘And so near to the airport too! Wonderful isn’t it!’

Dunmore East: It’s a bit of a beast.

‘Today we’ll cycle down to the village, pick up some crab sandwiches for a picnic, have coffee with Julie and a look around the house she’s renovating, take a cliff walk, go kayaking (throw a towel and your swimmers over there with the wet suits and I’ll put them in the car), have a dip in the sea and then go to quiz night’, said my generous hostess Annabel.  ‘Oh – and dinner!  What would you like to do?  We can either eat at home – I can stop off at the fish shop and get some Sea Bass – or we could go out – they do great seafood chowder at The Strand?  And, we’ll need to drop in at the art view tonight too at some point’.

Later the next day, pushing the one man kayak down the slipway into the water, I turned to Annabel:  ‘It looks a bit choppy out there, do you think we’ll be okay – I really don’t want to capsize? Also, is this going to fit the two of us: where am I to put my butt?!’  ‘Oh yes, of course we will, just perch on that humped bit and I’ll sit up here on the back. We’re just going to row over there to Wexford – Hookhead more specifically’.  I could just about make out the land mass in the distance.  ‘Really??!!’ I exclaimed. ‘No!’ she laughed.

We rowed to a cove to see the young Terns.  ‘Aren’t they gorgeous? Sometimes I come here and just close my eyes and listen to them’.  I did the same and all we could hear were their cries to one another and the water gently lapping the side of our vessel. To the main beach – we jumped in – wetsuits, swimmers and all.  It was freezing, strange and exhilarating at the same time.  Several attempts to get back into our kayak later, much to the onlookers’ amusement, we headed back to the harbour.

Boundaries pushed and the To-do list ticked off, the last morning found me enjoying conversation with teenagers: ‘So what happens in sailing lessons today?’ I asked a quiet pair over the breakfast table.  ‘It’s Fun Day’ said William staring down into his bowl of cereal, in a tone that suggested he wouldn’t be donning a Hawaiian shirt or ‘pimping up’ his boat for anyone. ‘Next year’ he went on, ‘I’ll be a fully qualified instructor though’.  ‘Oh, great.  So that means you’ll get to call the shots – no more Fun Days on a Friday!’ I said. He smiled; a downward turn of his mouth but a smile nonetheless. Anna looked up – a testament to sensible thought and latent glamour:  ‘It always rains on Fun Day’ she added with a shrug of her shoulders.

I biked down to the Bay Cafe and sat outside with a cappuccino.  Mellow chats surrounded me, and the sun shone down from a blue sky above – almost matched by the colour of the sea in front.  The sun.  In Ireland.  By the sea.  Heaven.