It's a Dad's Life: Adam Brophy looks west

We're preparing for our annual, two-week bout of R&R in west Cork. The elder is so excited she is beginning to vibrate.

It's not so much the being by the sea and spending time with her own family that has her all wound up; for the next fortnight she gets to hang with her country cousins who she regards as "cool as milk" (© Tom Dunne, Pet Sounds).

The elder is four, her cousins are six and eight, just the right amount older for a healthy bout of idolatry. We can let them take off knowing they can entertain themselves for hours, allowing us to indulge in as much doing of nothing as possible.

Oh, hang on, forgot about the other kid there for a moment, she still needs some attention. The Missus's parents would argue we tend to do that quite a lot while down there, presuming that they will step into the breach whenever we take our eyes off the ball.

I regard it as a time when they can strengthen the bond with their grandchildren, a time they should grasp hungrily, while we catch up on a year's worth of sleep. Somehow, they never see it in quite the same light.

They have a little commune set up. About 15 years ago they bought a ramshackle old farmhouse on a bit over an acre and converted it and a loft into two self-contained, comfortable houses. They had a long-term view that the extended family could come and stay without getting under their feet, but I don't think they expected us to take them quite so literally and land on their doorstep at every possible opportunity.

But, the thing is, as a holiday destination in Ireland, you can't beat that spot. It's up on an outcrop over the Atlantic, about three miles outside the village of Glandore where the glitterati descend to yacht and compare SUVs.

But it is a stunning place. You have a selection of walks, countless beaches, bars and restaurants, and Clonakilty and Skibereen equidistant should you care to shake your booty on a late night out.

I encourage everyone to make the most of these amenities just so I can be left alone to stick my nose in a book and snooze. That never goes down well with my action-packed in-laws who like to stuff ice down their swimming togs before jumping into the ocean, just to make entry that little bit more memorable.

It's a far cry from my family holidays of old. My mother never even owned a buggy; she tells me she didn't bring us out of the house until we could walk. That attitude to adventure pervaded throughout my growing up, resulting in her children becoming rather sedentary adults.

There is no chance of fermenting in one's own juices with the father-in-law around, the grizzly old goat. If there were bears in west Cork, he would wrestle one before breakfast every morning.

He recently cycled the Wicklow 200 for the second year in a row, a feat that involved climbing 10 severe peaks and covering 200km over the course of about 10 hours on a sunny June day. The stuff of nightmares.

A typical afternoon constitutional for him would involve marching through a few miles of cliff-edge countryside, naming every piece of flora along the way, before stripping to the bone, finding a large rock to launch off, and skinnydipping for Ireland.

Of course, he is the Pied Piper for all kids. I have seen him manoeuvre a dinghy the size of an average bathtub around Glandore harbour with five under-sevens and a teenager on board, everybody singing "it's a pirate's life for me" as he regales them with tales of skulduggery on the high seas.

His massive energy makes me look even more slothful than usual, but I won't be jostling for alpha male position just yet as he is key to my cunning plan. If the kids are happy, everybody's happy, and Grandpappy both entertains them and wears them out.

So, armed with a bag of summer reading, I am well prepared to let the generations directly before and after run riot, as I chill for two weeks.