Wexford, Enniscorthy, Gorey. Only a few miles more, and once again I should be driving over familiar roads. Arklow, Rathdrum, Wicklow. Only an hour from home after 13 days' travel. Newtownmountkennedy - and the protesting yells from motorists by whom the Fire-engine had passed on two wheels served only to heighten my excitement. Delgany, Greystones - and all at once everything fell flat.

Had I ever waited three hours for the dynamo; had I ever struggled at the border; had I ever been overcome by Stormont; had I ever indulged myself at Bundoran and the Point? Had I, in fact, ever left Greystones on that Sunday evening?

I looked at the mileage dial on the speedometer. It read 41,641. At Greystones on that Sunday evening it had shown 40,558. In a second I had covered 1,083 miles. As if no such triumph lay behind her, the Fire-engine purred along the Bray road, with a good squirt of dust in the eye for all the common motor cars out merely in search of pleasure.

The time has come to betray her incognito. The Fire-engine is a Hillman Minx, 1932, sports four-seater, and you could, and probably will, offer me hundreds of pounds in exchange for her. Make it thousands, and the offer will be spurned.

We swished down the hill into Donnybrook, and the Great Trek was over. I went and had a drink in the home-from-home, and the guardian of the home-from-home said "Good evening" as if nothing had happened. An acquaintance hurried past with a brief nod. It was true. Civilisation had survived in my absence. I bought an evening paper and looked through it gloomily, smoking a cigarette.

I was thinking of being lost in the hills above the mouth of the Shannon; of the wild drive through Donegal; of the wilder nights in Rosses Point. I was sorry it was over.

Truthfully, there is no better fortnight's holiday than this. Here is what you must do. Leave Dublin for Baltray at about mid-day. Lunch, play golf, and drive on to Newcastle. Stay the night in Newcastle's huge hotel. Start your game at 10 the next morning; have lunch and drive on to Craigavad. You will be finished in time to be made ready amid Craigavad's luxurious appointments for dinner in Belfast. Have dinner in Belfast and, as it is certain that you will forget yourself a bit in the big city, you'd better stay in it for the night. Leave Belfast as near 8.30 in the morning as possible, and try orange juice with breakfast (if any).

You will be in Portrush some time around 10.30. Lunch, and leave for Bundoran, but for the love of heaven watch out for the place in Donegal where they offer you water instead of a drink. After Belfast and the long drive your sense of right, wrong, and resistance will be weakened and you may as well let them pour you a brine bubble bath. It is improbable that you could feel worse than you do at the moment, so there is no real danger of injury. Dine - and you certainly will dine - and then go to bed if you (incredibly) don't want a repetition of the night before.

Have breakfast, surveying the scene of the day's activities, and it's perfectly simple, and sensible, to have one before you start. Have lunch - and what a lunch - and play another round of golf. You may as well keep out of the perilous atmosphere of the Point for as long as possible. After the game steady yourself very carefully for what is to come, and leave for Ewing's Hotel by the Sligo Golf Club. This, although it is infinitely improbable that you will know it, is Thursday evening, and, if you find anything like I found, I shall leave you there until Sunday afternoon. On Sunday afternoon fight your way with all the ferocity at your command out of Sligo - the fourth day is the worst - and drive on to Galway. Galway may be troublesome if caution is not exercised, but I'll presume you have reached the golf club by at least 11 in the morning. Play 18 holes, lunch, and hurry on for the Pernod and the plumbing in the Falls Hotel, Ennistymon. The last of the Arabian nights may here be enjoyed. Play golf at Lahinch the next morning, lunch at the Falls and start for Ballybunion.

Now you may have two days before you in which to make spiritual and mental repairs. Play in the morning at Ballybunion and arrive in Cork in time for dinner that night. Little Island in the morning and on to Rosslare, but let me warn you that you don't, and very few people ever can, want to go to Rosslare Harbour - Rosslare Strand is your objective. Play 18 holes in the morning, and the last lap begins. You should be in Dublin in perfect time to find somebody to listen to every single thing you have done before they have to dash away to dinner.

In this fortnight you will play over championship golf courses without having to queue up on the first tee and, if you have no experience of golf in Ireland you'll think they are giving you preferential rates because they like your face. You will stay in hotels that explode for ever the myth of bacon and cabbage and a pot of scald, though in the bills you receive it will appear that only these commodities have been charged for.

And lastly, you will set eyes on scenery that I have refused to picture because no one would believe me. All the courses I have described are laid by the shores of rivers, bays and lagoons. Long silver beaches stretch for miles and on the West coast the Atlantic is a tropic blue. Heather-clothed hills lie in the distance, and in Donegal there are strange, square mountains.

And the people you will meet, like the man with the smallest spectacles in the world, who brought me 15 miles out of my way to oblige himself, and the women of Galway in scarlet petticoats, and the men in wide-brimmed black hats! The cattle-drovers, who leave their beasts in the middle of the road, and lie down by the hedges to watch you hew a passage through the herd!

The cigarette was finished and the evening paper had lost its attraction. Striving to prolong the fascination of those 13 days I tried to recall the highlights. They came easily. The joy of hitting a golf ball again on the first tee at Baltray after the miserable hours in the garage. Nine o'clock on a warm, hazy morning with Newcastle's 18 holes before me. The vast drive and the brassie shot that hit the stick on the last hole at Craigavad; and the excitement of seeing Portrush again from the high road above it. The embarrassing (but not for long) hospitality of Bundoran, and stepping out onto the golf course almost from your bedroom.

The sensation of coming into Ewing's Hotel from out of the night, and seeing everybody I have ever played golf with in Dublin there assembled. The thought of a weekend's not too serious, but yet skilful, golf among this crowd of cheerful revellers, and the ever-repeated cry of "H'ya Jem - two glasses, please. . . ."

"H'ya Jem - two glasses, please." I came out of my reverie with a start. It was, indeed, one of those I had left at Rosses Point nearly a week ago; and now till the end of time we reviewed what could be recalled of the West of Ireland championship 1936. But, curiously, my ancient antipathy to the word "Jem" had returned.

(Series concluded)