Kathriona Devereux: Footballs, dogs, loud music... my guide to Cork beach etiquette

Another week, another scorcher.

When the paddling pool starts cultivating its own algae bloom after weeks of heat, an emergency trip to the sea is required.

Off to The Dock beach in Kinsale we went, along with what felt like half of Cork - gaggles of mothers minding toddlers, gangs of lads kicking ball, teenagers toasting themselves. A hot, happy medley of Irish humanity, all hoping to enjoy their version of a perfect day at the beach.

It was the first time in my life I waded into Irish water without flinching. No need for the usual self-pep-talk of ‘just get in and get it over with’. A few strides, then down into breaststroke. Blessed coolness.

My internal thermostat, which had been flashing an amber ‘overheating’ warning, finally reset.

Revived, I started noticing the beach behaviour of all the cohorts there and the mini-conflicts and accidents waiting to happen that were unfolding in front of me.

There were the sandcastle builders, industriously ferrying buckets of seawater to their moats. Beavering away oblivious to the pack of young men playing a game of football right next to them, bringing World Cup intensity without World Cup handling skills within touching distance of small children.

They were one wild kick away from clocking a small child in the head. It was hard to watch, and when the ball inevitably struck a little girl full force on the ceann, I wasn’t the only one who let out an involuntary yelp.

The lads apologised and the kid was robust. She relocated to the safety of the picnic blanket, and the lads resumed their high-risk game, putting many of us on edge.

Then there was the bluetooth speaker - a particular pest of any shared public space. You might be at the beach to enjoy the relaxing sound of the surf crashing but someone else wants everyone to listen to his choice of techno house music.

Perched on a rocky outcrop in the middle of The Dock beach, a little troupe of DJs with a massive bluetooth speaker, laptop and mixing desk tech started banging out the tunes.

If it was 2am at a Balearic beachside club, I would have possibly enjoyed it, but trying to keep four children accounted for on a crowded beach over an unwanted soundtrack was not my buzz.

There was admirable ambition behind the DJs’ vision, but jeez, read the room. The room was leaning more Sesame Street, not banging floor-fillers.

Then the gardaí turned up, presumably telling them we all need a bit of ciúnas and the speakers mercifully went silent. Only to start up quieter, in a further away corner, once the guards left.

And then there were the dogs, off-lead, working the picnic blankets for scraps, in unspoken competition with the crows, who have, I’m convinced, learned to identify a bag of Tayto from altitude.

None of this is terrible. It’s just… unrefereed. And it struck me, mid-swim, how different that feels from beaches I’d been on a few weeks earlier, in Spain and France.

On San Sebastián’s famous La Concha urban beach, they have recently introduced ‘no smoking’, ‘no music’ (without headphones) and ‘no dogs’ (for the bathing season of June to September) rules to help curb unwanted behaviour.

On beaches along the French coast, lifeguards patrol with whistles and actually use them. There’s a sense that someone is in charge. Not oppressively so, just enough that a hundred strangers sharing a stretch of sand don’t have to do so through gritted teeth and dirty looks.

And then there’s the infrastructure. On those same French and Spanish beaches, there are showers - proper ones, for rinsing off salt and sand. Some have gone a step further: foot pedestals with taps, specifically for de-sanding your feet as you leave - the luxury of not doing the one-legged sand wiping dance at the boot of the car.

On the continent, there is a belief that a beach is a piece of public infrastructure worth investing in, because people will use it, and using it well requires a bit of plumbing. There are staffed toilet blocks, cloakrooms, showers.

Here, The Dock beach, one of the most popular swimming spots in Kinsale, got portable toilets this summer. Not permanent toilets, not showers, not taps, not a rinse point for the inevitable sand that follows you home and lives in your car for the next six months. A few portable toilets. Which is better than hundreds of people peeing in the sea, but really is very meagre in a town that markets itself on its coastal charm.

Garrettstown, a beach that draws serious crowds on any decent day, has had the same toilet facilities for more than 30 years. If you want to rinse a child, a dog, or your own salt-crusted self, you’re doing it with a bottle of warm water you had the foresight to bring.

I know Ireland’s wild beaches are completely different to the famous urban beach of La Concha (and that’s part of their charm) but it’s a strange kind of neglect, given how we talk about the Wild Atlantic Way, being an island nation, the restorative power of a cold dip - and yet the actual, unglamorous infrastructure that makes our beaches work smoothly- showers, taps, adequate toilets - has been left to fend for itself for decades.

Maybe if we invested a bit more in the basics of a beach, we’d also develop a bit more of a shared culture around using it well?

For now, we’ll keep doing it the Irish way: togging off behind a towel, hopping on one leg to get the sand off, but please, if you want to listen to your own music, do us all a favour and bring your own headphones.