Right now we are in the glorious wilderness of some of the last primordial forests in Europe, deep in southern Poland.

Only we aren’t in fact. That was what we were supposed to be doing about now, but the Quest For Tyres means we are actually in Ireland, waiting for a new delivery of tyres to the UK. It is extraordinary that there are NONE available anywhere else in Europe that will fit. There are dozens of other overland vehicle owners going through the same thing right now, wondering if this is a temporary shortage, or whether the tyre manufacturers have just decided not to bother with us any more.

Oh and of course the Quest For Tyres, was but a hiccup in our journey, compared to the rather more dramatic obstacle of Breaking Down In Ireland.

How did we come to be in Ireland? Well we had to go somewhere to wait for the tyres to be delivered and as were were running out of Schengen days (we can only spend 90 out of any 180 days in the EU Schengen area), we decided to explore Schengen-free Ireland. So from Germany we hot-footed it through northern France to Boulogne and the frankly, lovely ferry to Cork.

It’s a new service in an old but spruced-up ship staffed by smiley people and despite the waves crashing against the French coast when we boarded, it was a smooth 24 hour trip to Cork on a ship with hardly anyone in it.

When we emerged from the ferry it was ten pm and it was odd to drive on the wrong side of the road (Arnie’s a leftie) in darkness through tight-fitting country lanes that seemed familiar. We stopped in the empty, secluded car-park by a historic fort in Crosshaven, and so pleasant was the place that we ended up being there for three nights.

Arnie had a succession of excited Irish visitors. The first the following morning was a shy red-headed chap who waved and asked if he could take a photo. “It’s grand so it is…” he said looking wistful. Then a lady with kids in the back of her car: “I came up here special to see what it was. Is it four-wheel drive? Oh that’s what I’m having for meself one day”. And so it went on; P and I trying to be as inconspicious as a 6 ton truck allows you to be and not get in the way of the locals using the car park – while they all wanted to chat. Maybe that’s a cultural difference between the uptight English and the affable Irish. Discuss.

Crosshaven is at the mouth of the entrance to Cork harbour – the second-largest natural harbour in the world, we were told (with some pride) more than once.

It looks out towards islands and grey-walled coastal fortifications and dinky yacht harbours, all nestling in the greenest landscape you have ever seen. Crosshaven high street is lined with independent shops, pubs and restaurants and everyone, without exception, is just hugely friendly and at ease.

We also spent a day exploring Cork which is a quirky sort of place with wallscapes of thoughtful public art.

There’s also a church where anyone can play on the bells (sure the neighbours love that).

It also has a Butter Museum and after running out of Sights fairly quickly, we resorted to that. And it has to be said, if you are at a loose end in Cork, go the Butter Museum.

It starts with free samples of Kerrygold spread on squares of hearty bread. Then there are are rugby-ball sized lumps of ancient butter dug up from bogs (no-one really knows why people buried it in bogs). There are films and exhibits telling you how Ireland became a world leader in butter production (excellent grass and a nudge from the EU).

But it’s also a story of how Ireland shook off centuries of poverty and took its place in modern Europe. The more we travel, the more I realise how shamefully little I know about our immediate neighbours and the Butter Museum is helping to rectify that, one pat at a time.

On the Tuesday morning, Camden Fort Meagher was due to be open and before we left Crosshaven we went to have a look.

We arrived just as a docent was pinning up a sign saying it was closed due to unexpected work by the power company. P wobbled her chin and widened her eyes and the docent took pity on us. John was a volunteer (like all the docents) and clearly itching to tell us about the place regardless of whether it was actually open. He led us in and closed the gate behind us, explaining the history of the old fort which dates back to the 16th century. After some background, John sent us off on our own to explore. And when in western Europe does that ever happen? “This historical monument is actually closed, but sure, you look like you’ll behave so feel free to wander about”.

So we poked about in the deep tunnels and old cells and read about the first torpedoes tested there – real steampunk contraptions steered with long cables from the shore (!). When we returned to the upper ramparts we were met by another docent who wanted to show us the WW1 exhibits. The centerpiece was a model of the battlefront; grass and trees at the edges where the artillery was positioned, ranks of soldiers in front, each meticulously hand-painted then plank-lined trenches looking onto the murderous swamp of no-man’s land. Almost two hundred thousand Irishmen joined the British Army to fight and an Irish front-line chaplain donated photos to the museum depicting the appalling truth of the first mechanised war.

Elsewhere, other modelmakers had been at work too, crafting a scale replica of the fort itself.

It revelled in the tiniest of details, including girlfriends of some of those stationed there, lurking at the perimeter.

We were sad to leave Crosshaven. Sometimes a quiet and friendly carpark with a view is exactly what you need. Kinsale down the coast is a better known tourist spot and is primed for instagram – all splashily coloured houses and coffee shops. Pretty as it is, there was something slightly artificial about it; cruise-ship tourism has clearly had an influence.

Finding places to wild-camp (ie free) is actually quite difficult in Ireland. The land is owned and managed and parking areas are often lined with “no overnight parking” signs or “no campers”, and you can see why. No-one wants an impromptu campsite on their doorstep. We eventually found a spot at the fingertip of a sea inlet with no signs and no restrictions and no-one else. Oystercatchers and terns were patrolling the beach, gulls lined up on a sandbank revealed by the falling tide. A peaceful spot and no reason to worry too much about a faint clicking I noticed from Arnie’s drivetrain just before we turned off.

The next morning though, as we pulled out, the ticking was still there. I pulled into a layby and donned the overalls and crawled about under the truck to see if anything was obviously amiss. It wasn’t and we continued, but something clearly wasn’t right. When we reached Timoleague, we pulled into the car park in front of an ancient friary and called for a tow truck. We’ve not had to do that before and it is a thoroughly deflating experience. But when it appeared a couple of hours later, Owen the driver turned out to be great company on the drive back to an Iveco garage in Cork. Frankly, its no fun watching your home-on-wheels loaded onto a transporter, so his good humour and optimism was a tonic.

We were though, incredibly lucky that it happened in Ireland. In the past two years we’ve been from Morocco to Tunisia, Algeria, the Balkans and Iceland and this could have happened anywhere. That it happened in an English-speaking country, with an experienced Iveco team nearby and friendly help all along the way was a blessing. The ticking was caused by the failure of part of the drivetrain called the transfer case and is a weak spot in some Ivecos of our age.

Another happy coincidence is that ten days later we were due to return to the UK anyway, so we left a little earlier than planned and in the blink of an ellipsis… we have returned. Arnie was fixed under warranty and is now in blooming health. “And what of the tyres?” I hear you ask. Well they’ve been delayed (natch) so we get to enjoy a little Indian summer in Ireland. I’m writing this in o’Sullivan’s – Ireland’s southernmost pub – in Crookhaven. The other side of the bar is noisily watching Connacht beat Saracens.

Through the window the setting sun is painting the harbour gold. Arnie is tucked up in a field behind a farmyard, as will we be once we’ve finished the Murphy’s. All is right with the world (unless you are a Saracen’s fan).