‘Long distance’ in Ireland isn’t really the same as it is in England. When we go for a long drive it doesn’t traditionally mean that we’re covering any great distance, more than we’re going to be going slow over a fairly reasonable distance.

Such was the case on the return from the weekend in Arse End. Only about two hundred miles, but nigh on six hours to do it in. Mainly because the roads (Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-seventeeeeeeeen!) are a bit rubbish and because diesel automatic cars aren’t what you need when you want to overtake on such roads, but that’s not the point…

Anyway, what with said drive being done, I was pooped last evening. And thusly I am still pooped. Please don’t go expecting sense out of me this morning….

On the plus side, the restaurant from Saturday night was pretty damn good. Excellent service, and in a train that was once part of the Orient Express before being part of Winston Churchill’s funeral train? Is all good.

Plus, some of the bestest steak ever… More than made up for the drive, I tells ye.