At around this time every year, it’s good to get away for a short break. There’s little happening on the farm so it’s simply a matter of throwing a bag into the little Mazda, installing the lovely Mrs P and we’re off. This year it was up to the alluring Atlantic coast in the northwest.

But while this annual winter trip is obviously meant to be relaxing, its primary purpose is to get me clean and spruced-up for Christmas. It’s not that I like Christmas (I don’t) or that I become a wild party animal, it’s more of an end-of-year body power wash, like you do with the machinery.

There’s a season’s worth of Fuchs grease, Gulf oil, Closamectin and the yellow-staining herbicide Stomp built up on my body which should ideally be removed once a year. The L’Oréal Men Expert Clean Power 48 Hour deodorant was only lasting an hour.

We do have hot water at home and even a big auld bath but it takes a proper power shower, soft water and a litre of Pantene (for non-coloured hair) to get me clean, none of which we have but are found in any decent hotel. Within a couple of days and away from contaminants I’ll be squeaky clean, with the white skin of a baby. Well, almost.

Which reminds me, when we were in school and shampoo was new and only for wimps, there was a fellow from Carlow who swore by Swarfega to wash his hair, but he’s bald now.

Anyhow, we stayed in Donegal town and the next morning after a hearty Ulster fry we headed off on a topless sight-seeing blast up to Marble Hill beach for an Atlantic fix and then zipped across to (London) Derry via Letterkenny.

It was a lovely invigorating open-air drive in the pleasant winter sunshine, Mrs P with her headscarf and shades and me sporting the tinted goggles.

There’s a surprising amount of tillage in Donegal and most of it is along this route. It culminates with the huge An Grianan Estate, which is usually worth a look.

However, a lot of this below sea-level land has been laid down to organic grassland, which isn’t exciting and hardly the purpose for which the land was reclaimed from the sea in the 1960s.

There was lots of potato harvesting going on but one field was so wet it would be ideal for an Apple Data Centre.

Arriving back in the late afternoon to festive Donegal town, Mrs P headed into Magee’s shop and I headed off in search of a barber. Oddly, I opted for a smart-looking barber’s shop.

You see, I’m not used to a smart barbers as the fellow I go to at home has probably the grubbiest barber’s shop in the country. There’s always a big swath of hair on the floor and the wash basin is only a decoration now. It used to be the ash tray. But hey, he’s male, quick and cheap. I like him and feel comfortable there. I get out at €48 a year.

The smart Donegal barber’s shop was spotless. The year before I went to a Turk in Skibbereen, which was a ghastly pampering experience with hot towels, posh basins and cut-throat razors. I became very uneasy there.

The gentlemanly Donegal barber did his best with what hair I’ve got, as I’m an age where it will grow anywhere except on your head. Mrs P hardly knew me and I got more brownie points. And still being mid-week, I didn’t need a little something for the weekend.

Happy Christmas.