Julie Jay: After dinner is the perfect time to enjoy an Irish beach with your kids

If I’m going to the beach, I need at least two hours’ notice — and I’m not just talking about getting on top of my bikini line.

Buckets, spades, shark towels, snacks, folding chairs, tents, and suncream.

It’s a lot of luggage for just 60 minutes of supposed fun in the sun.

Still, if I leave even one seemingly inconsequential item behind — a broken spade, a plastic solider long since retired and not played with since 2021 — it’s game over for those of us pretending to have a good time as we dust sand off our custard creams.

Still, it’s hard to deny how magical the beach is for kids.

The beach we frequent most often has a very clever toy library, which we love perusing.

However, on our last library haul, my little fella did procure a pair of prescription glasses there — which we promptly returned.

(If your child has recently been walking into things more often than usual, you can find them on the bottom right-hand corner of the box, next to the water gun that I’ve been trying to get rid of for going on six months now.) How do you know your best friend secretly hates you?

They buy a water gun for your three-year-old and show them how to fill it up minus your assistance, meaning you are at their mercy for the entire day as you duck and dive water attacks.

If any guards need a backup for future social order fracas, please know I have a three-year-old currently out of summer camp and I am more than willing to operate the water cannon on your behalf.

Beaches are tricky because there are many hazards, none more so than the sea.

I have an utter phobia of kids going in beyond their ankles.

I love a sea swim, but nothing that involves being unable to touch the sand with my toes. It is less swimming and more crawling along in the shallow end.

Of course, as he has gotten older, my little fella has become increasingly curious about the sea, and my hand has to grip his a little tighter as he ventures out to his belly button.

As much as you want them to share in the joy of the sea, you also want them to be slightly terrified — but not so terrified as to not enjoy it.

You get the conundrum.

I tend to encourage my three-year-old to stick to the sandcastles, but he quickly tires of this when he meets a friend and the two start playing a game called ‘throw the big rock’ — an endeavour as perilous as it sounds.

It isn’t long before my guy throws a rock and it lands on his friend’s leg, whose response is one of distress but also impressively measured.

Tears come thick and fast, not from the victim of this crime but the perpetrator, as my eldest cries about his friend getting in the way of his rock.

What can I say? It’s all fair in love and rock throwing.

Luckily, my guy and his buddy make up before it’s time to go home.

However, the emotional toll has already been exacted.

Exhausted, depleted, and confused, my three-year-old has a bit of a conniption as I insist it’s time to go home.

Usually, I can talk him down. However, in this case, it’s a matter of taking him under one arm and carrying the many beach bags, folding chair, and water cooler under the other.

When we get to the car, we hug and take a moment, and all is good again — but I swear ‘never again’.

By never again, I mean the next day because a day not spent cajoling your children to walk to the car is a day wasted.

One thing I have changed about our beach days is that we go later in the day. At the risk of sounding like a Healy-Rae, I like to have the dinner as early as possible to get it out of the way.

On more than one occasion, I’ve been tempted to put the spuds on at the beginning of Today With Claire Byrne on the radio, but had to stop because my husband somehow managed to occupy three hobs to boil one egg.

I'm slow to call it a 'hack', because anyone who knows me knows I have no idea how to manage the admin life entails, but I think an evening trip to the beach is a game-changer.

Firstly, the UV factor is a bit less.

Convincing the kids it’s time to go home is also never a problem, because the sun going down signals the jig is up and that tomorrow is another day.

There is something particularly blissful about beaches in the evening: the odds of somebody encroaching onto your personal space with an obnoxiously large beach tent or windbreaker are slim to none.

Anytime before 3pm and you’re risking having to lodge an objection with the planning permission office to ensure it’s not a total solar eclipse when somebody rocks up with what is basically a marquee.

There’s also the added bonus that parents can get a bit of a second wind.

Another day is almost in the bag, and we’re getting use out of the Vincent de Paul wetsuit we bought at a bargain basement price that morning — which we’re hoping nobody peed in.

As I survey my three-year-old making the sandcastle of his dreams at dusk, it’s hard not to feel incredibly lucky to sit together.

Besides, custard creams taste better with a bit of sand and it’s all the better when we’re not thinking about what to cook for the fecking dinner.