The golden days don't come so often on the Wild Atlantic way, but when they do, oh. They are the distillation of picture postcards, the sea dancing turquoise with its white frilly knickers on display for the world. The sands are warm toast and butter. the wind runs past you, queen of the sand dunes with the green marram stalks chattering and bowing towards you.
Bella stands in the waves, all lithe backbone, her mermaids tail hidden by the surf.