Another week, another scorcher.

When the paddling pool starts cultivating its own algae bloom after weeks of heat, an emergency trip to the sea is required.

Off to The Dock beach in Kinsale we went, along with what felt like half of Cork - gaggles of mothers minding toddlers, gangs of lads kicking ball, teenagers toasting themselves. A hot, happy medley of Irish humanity, all hoping to enjoy their version of a perfect day at the beach.

It was the first time in my life I waded into Irish water without flinching. No need for the usual self-pep-talk of ‘just get in and get it over with’. A few strides, then down into breaststroke. Blessed coolness.

My internal thermostat, which had been flashing an amber ‘overheating’ warning, finally reset.

Revived, I started noticing the beach behaviour of all the cohorts there and the mini-conflicts and accidents waiting to happen that were unfolding in front of me.

There were the sandcastle builders, industriously ferrying buckets of seawater to their moats. Beavering away oblivious to the pack of young men playing a game of football right next to them, bringing World Cup intensity without World Cup handling skills within touching distance of small children.

They were one wild kick away from clocking a small child in the head. It was hard to watch, and when the ball inevitably struck a little girl full force on the ceann, I........

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