‘I’m determined to find that happy medium between doing nothing and doing absolutely nothing’

Ah yes, all very well, I hear you say, but what about 40-degree temperatures in July and August? Does that not put a dent in your dolce vita? It is a good question, especially in this world of climate self-destruction.

Many of us ex-pats have an option. We are in the fortunate position to be able to plan to spend some time in Ireland during the inferno.

Ferries from Palermo, Naples and Citta Vecchia (north of Rome) provide a range of options to my Ducati motorbike as it sails north or west towards Genoa, Marseilles or Barcelona.

A week of adventure in the saddle and we’re sipping a Guinness on the Ring of Kerry. We can spend a couple of weeks visiting anyone who will host us in Ireland and then it’s time to vagabondare as we roam on a different route back to the beautiful warmth of southern Italy for September, October and November, at least.

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We Irish know we hail from a beautiful place, and so, the urge to marry an escape from very high temperatures, with some time among loved ones in our former home, is not a decision in need of a lot of wrestling. It might even be called a temperate response to the boil-in-the-bag economics of bigger dividends and mañana solutions to our burgeoning climate catastrophe.

Others are not in such a fortunate position, but find a plethora of ways of surviving the two months in sweltering Sicily. And then, the natives have their own ways of coping.

There’s a lot of human ingenuity which helps, but doesn’t stop people feeling that it’s getting too hot, too fast and that we urgently need to change.

After 35 years of teaching and oiling the wheels of the rollercoaster that rolls around the principal’s office, I had a momentous decision to make. Would I cut and run after the 3½ decades, on a reduced pension, or battle on for another five years and retire with the full pot of gold?

For some teachers, there’s addition and subtraction, multiplication and division to be done. Seven years ago in June 2016 when I came to that point, I didn’t tot a single figure. The words of Mark Twain meandered around my head as he invited me to throw off the bowlines, to set sail from safe harbours and to catch the trade winds.

The reduced pension would pay for the French wine, the Spanish paella or the Italian gelato. It was my time again to explore, to dream and to discover. The momentous decision was made.

The moment I retired, I packed a bag and the excursions started.

Within two years, I had visited all the long-lost relatives I never knew. In September 2019, I went to Rome for a month to do an English grammar course. Having taught English grammar for more than 30 years, I discovered a chronic need to relearn it, but this time in Rome.

I knew I was really scraping the pot. In some bizarre way, I hoped that all of this travel would soothe the itchy feet that had me running in all directions. The effect, however, was the opposite.

The more I travelled, the more the itchy feet became infected. That orange ball in the sky and those open roads were exercising their lunar pull. There was only one escape, I thought – buy a one-way ticket and take off for a sunny winter somewhere.

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By 2021, my four children had all arrived in their 20s and were fleeing the coop. Oisín was in Vancouver, Fionn was in Cambodia and Éabha was in France. The only one left in Ireland, Sadhbh, said to me: “Dad, would ya just go?” I wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled by her support or devastated that she wanted me gone.

In 2021, I jumped on my Ducati motorcycle, rode out the gap past Knocknagoshel and headed for the ferry to Cherbourg.

The Irish Sea, the English Channel, the length of both France and Italy, the mighty Alps and the magnificent Apennines all stood between me and my sunny winter in southern Italy.

Lecce was chosen because I liked its description as “the Florence of the south”. I found a professor to teach me Italian. She said Lecce was so inspiring I’d be fluent in two weeks. If she had said two years, she’d still have been lying, but I’m trying.

I found a lovely apartment and for a price that should make an Irish Government minister utterly ashamed.

After six months here, I thought, this is deadly. After nine months, I thought “give us another pint of that”, and thus began my second winter.

After 15 months, I made the fatal mistake of agreeing to go to a tango evening. I approached La Bella Siciliana (Silvia) with all the elegance of a bag of spuds being dragged out of a barn backwards.

She found the way I stood on her feet while dancing “un po diverso” (a bit different). Having been trampled on for a few weeks, she eventually agreed to have coffee with me and, within six months, she had effortlessly run off with both my heart and the keys of my Ducati.

Life in Lecce in the south of Italy is incredibly normal, except with a lot more sunshine.

Be careful if you come to southern Italy. It’s the kind of place you can get stuck. The Aperol Spritz sorts your thirst and the tomatoes sort your appetite

I’m desperately trying to retire and do almost nothing, except bask in the sun. There is rather a lot of that this year. Lots of people in Lecce want to learn English, and many of them know I’m as idle as sin and so refusing to teach them is not an option.

I also teach Irish online to people from all corners of the planet almost on a weekly basis. The irony of teaching Irish from the heel of Italy to people from everywhere from California to Prague to Ballyjamesduff is not lost on me.

I wouldn’t exactly describe this as being “flat-out” workwise, but I’m determined to find that happy medium between doing nothing and doing absolutely nothing.

“Vagabondare” is one of my favourite Italian words. It means to travel in a wandering kind of way. I mention this for those with wandering on their minds.

Be careful if you come to southern Italy. It’s the kind of place you can get stuck. The Aperol Spritz sorts your thirst and the tomatoes sort your appetite.

The pace of life is so slow one isn’t sure if the Italian words for “forwards” and “backwards” are the same. And, the tango, as we say in Kerry, well it can be a bit shhhteamy.

• Tomás Ó Dúlaing retired from his position as principal of Griffeen Valley Educate Together National School, Lucan and now tries to do as little as possible in Lecce in the south of Italy
• If you live overseas and would like to share your experience with Irish Times Abroad, email abroad@irishtimes.com with a little information about you and what you do