Years as a barman taught me not to engage with someone who has a story too long to go into

We were joined by a Canadian man in his early 30s who was looking up his cousins. The Canadian asked what would be a good time to visit. The cousins said he should call in the evening. The Canadian asked us what time was evening. I told him it was sometime after tea time.

The Canadian’s cousins were strong dairy farmers, 180 cows, so I amended the advice “to visit after cow time”. Like many Canadians, he was too polite to ask any more questions.

The man and his mother got to talking to us. The day was hot and the mother looked a bit like Daisy in Driving Miss Daisy. She wore a broad hat and dark glasses. The mother had been born in Dublin but went to England when she was quite young.

The son was all talk about the glories of the south east. He was right. It was the perfect place on the perfect day. Warm but not hot, and the old Cistercian abbey near the gardens was beautifully restored not too long ago by Heritage Ireland and the OPW.

The son volunteered that they were here in the south east for a reason that was far too complicated to go into. Years of experience as a bar man taught me never to engage with someone who tells a story too long to go into. A man could grow old listening to complicated stories.

I’m sorry now. I’d say the story was good if you had the time, but I was on holiday.

My daughter Lainey, who was in the university since 1952 and is accurate, told the Canadian to call to the farm about 6.30pm. “But then again,” I said, “maybe the cousins want the Canadian to call during milking time to show off the milking machinery.” He was no wiser when he took off for a walk through the woods and riverside trails. It was a place I would love to have got lost in.

The stop-off at Tintern Abbey was on our way back to Waterford from the Hook lighthouse.

The Hook is the oldest working lighthouse in the world. We did the tour with our guide Noel Lynch, who told us the expression ‘by Hook or by Crook’ came from this very spot.

That low type Cromwell was the Putin of his day and he declared he would take Waterford city by Hook or by nearby Crook. Go there the first chance you get. You might even see whales, or Wales, on fine days

The scenery here is gentler and more pastoral than the wilder west. The woods and rolling pastures are timeless. Everywhere we went there were castles and old churches. The living was easy with easy-going ­people.

There is no one more easy-going than Tom and Colette Hannon. Tom is an old school pal from Duagh, but now lives in the heritage town of ­Lismore. He scored the winning goal against us in an under-14 North Kerry championship semi-final. We were hot favourites but were ambushed.

The pitch was full of clumps of fellistrims. You’d need a machete to go on a solo run. The cows were strategically taken off the field just before the game and there was fresh manure everywhere.

Hannon scored the winning goal and we were devastated. My dad was robust on the sideline and had several altercations. One man said to him: “It was no wonder ye were bate, Kane, and all dem dirty books you are writing.”

I spoke at the Immrama Festival of Travel Writing in Lismore last Saturday night. Lismore is another gem of a place. Travel writer and ­Lismore-born Dervla Murphy passed away a few weeks ago.

Dervla was ever and always her own woman who was able to bring her daughter up high mountains in India on her bike and me needing a mechanic to fit the baby seat into the back of the car. Dervla proved women can do everything.

The hospitality in Lismore was nearly too good. It was time for a trip to the seaside to clear the head.

Tramore was busy on the Sunday with big amusement rides dipping suddenly from sky to screams.

There were queues for fish and chips, we had a few potato scallops. As Waterford as the blaah, they are. The spuds are sliced, dipped in a batter and deep fried. Lovely and crispy on the outside with the potato soft and hot inside. Nicer than chips, even.

We sat on the promenade watching the people go by. Some stopped to talk. There was a man taking ­selfies the wrong way round. He rolled his pants up to the knee. Maybe it was the vitamin D but I’d say he had notions of women.

Runners ran by the memorials to those lost at sea and in the air. It was hard to imagine that this tranquil spot is lashed by storms in winter. Older folk walked free without a care in the open air, phlegmatic babies sat in buggies, happy with the drive time from Mam and Dad on their precious day off.

We stayed until the council workers emptied the rubbish bins on the very tidy promenade. Bin collection time is near enough to cow time.

“Well done, lads,” we said in thanks for the Sunday work.

One of the three hard-working men said: “Don’t worry about us – we will be having a pint soon.”

They were happy and carefree. I hope the council have the Sunday squad on quadruple time.

I didn’t get to Harney’s, the perfect pub, in nearby Dunhill, or to the Kilmac sub aqua club who have never taken to the water, not even for a paddle, and seldom if ever miss the Listowel Races. Next time.

We crossed over to Wexford on the car ferry from Passage East on Monday, the best day of the year so far. There was that moment – the one you never forget – as we took in the Suir on the short voyage to Ballyhack.

It was daddy/daughter time. Two old and forever pals, happy and free as could be.